A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

‘That is because Harling is doing this on a much grander scale than everyone else,’ said Bartholomew, pacing again. ‘He told me his interests extended beyond smuggling clothes and fruit. God knows what he is bringing into the country. Weapons, perhaps. Or livestock?’

  ‘I have seen Master Harling out after curfew,’ said Cynric, looking up from his sewing, ‘visiting Mortimer’s house.’

  ‘The room in which I tended Mortimer when he was sick was very masculine,’ pondered Bartholomew. ‘I wonder whether Katherine had her own chamber, and whether Harling was visiting her as his mistress.’

  Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘That is something of a stab in the dark. Why could Harling not have been visiting Mortimer? We know the baker was involved in smuggling because he gave you those gloves.’

  And one of the gloves was with Harling at that very moment, thought Bartholomew with a shudder, probably clutched in his dead hand. ‘Because we know Harling imported the poisoned wine, and that Katherine and Edward stored it for him in Mortimer’s cellars. That is the connection between them.’

  ‘But it would be a little risky, would you not say?’ said Michael, slowly drinking his wine. ‘Making a cuckold of Mortimer in his own house?’

  ‘Well, what else would Harling be doing there in the depths of the night?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Counting the bottles of poisoned wine stored in the cellars?’ suggested Michael. ‘Discussing plans as to how they were to retrieve them after they were stolen by Sacks?’

  ‘Well, it is irrelevant, anyway, since Katherine is dead,’ said Bartholomew, looking for his cloak. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw the clods of mud adhering to it, and determined to pay Paul for it next time they met. ‘But now, we must do all we can to ensure the safety of Matilde and Dame Pelagia. As long as Harling’s companions are at large, they will not be secure. And, since you say we can not help Deynman until a smuggler reveals where he is hidden, I am going to the castle to tell Dick Tulyet about Harling.’

  He and Michael, with Cynric moving in and out of the shadows behind them, set off in the darkness towards the castle. Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force, and they were challenged three times before they reached their goal. Cynric muttered that he thought there was someone following them, but said he could not be sure. Bartholomew peered back down the dark street, but it appeared deserted and he could see nothing amiss.

  He jumped as a soft slithering sound came from behind him, anticipating an attack, but it was only an old dog scavenging in a pile of offal that was blocking the drains in a dark runnel off the main road. There were other shadows around the offal, too, beggars trying to scrape together enough to make a stew over their fire in the shelter of the Great Bridge.

  For the first time since the riots of the previous summer, the portcullis was down on the castle barbican. With a good deal of clanking and rattling, the guards raised it part way so that Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael could duck under it, which they did quickly, not trusting the strength of the ancient mechanism. It was common knowledge in the town that the chains that raised the portcullis were unreliable – chains were one of many items unavailable since the plague – and that every time it was used was potentially the last. It was also well known that Tulyet was so doubtful about the safety of the mechanism that he always used the sally-port at the rear of the castle when the portcullis was down.

  Bartholomew and Michael walked through the barbican towards the castle’s main gate, and were challenged by two more guards whose crossbows were wound and ready. After some intense questioning, the wicket-gate was unbarred and a torch thrust into their faces so the sergeant could be certain they were who they claimed. He escorted them across the bailey to the black mass of the keep.

  Lights burned in Tulyet’s office and they found him deep in discussion with several of his sergeants. While the sergeants listened, grimly satisfied to hear that the University was responsible for the outlaws, Bartholomew told him about his encounter with Harling.

  ‘Damn it, Matt!’ said the Sheriff irritably. ‘It would have been useful to have him alive.’

  ‘I am sorry!’ retorted Bartholomew, indignant. ‘I will try to do better next time.’

  With a sigh, Tulyet relented. ‘My apologies. But this is a frustrating business – every time I think I have a lead, it fizzles out to nothing. But I have an idea. I will have these outlaws yet – the merchants and Fenmen are nothing. I want the third group of villains – the burglars, highwaymen and peddlers of poisoned wine. I might have known the University was behind all this!’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Michael. ‘Just because Harling had turned sour, it does not prove that the rest of the University is rotten.’

  ‘Does it not? That is not how it appears to me,’ said Tulyet hotly, his frustration and exhaustion making him uncharacteristically argumentative. ‘During the last few days I have seen a Fellow arranging his suicide so that his rival is blamed, using a youngster with a pathetic notion of vengeance to fulfil his plot. And I have seen supposedly upright scholars – some of them friars and monks – indulging in the evasion of the King’s taxes. And now I am informed that the Vice-Chancellor himself tried to throw a colleague into the mill race. Your place of learning is a den of corruption, Brother.’

  ‘No more so than your town,’ retorted Michael angrily. ‘And all the cases you mention are incidences of people acting independently of the University. Grene’s fatal illness must have unbalanced his mind; Rob Thorpe was not a member of the University; the scholars indulging in smuggling – as you observed yourself – were doing so for selfless reasons and gave the money to the sick and poor or to effect much-needed repairs on crumbling buildings; and Harling …’ He hesitated uncertainly.

  ‘And Harling?’ queried Tulyet, raising his eyebrows. ‘I suppose he tried to murder Matt to protect the population from his heretical medicine? Or to save them from the unpleasant experience of being examined by his notoriously cold hands?’

  ‘Harling was another matter,’ said Michael, shaking his jowls impatiently. ‘If you want lies and deceit, look to the merchants. Oswald Stanmore–’

  ‘We have no time to waste on this,’ interrupted Bartholomew quickly, before the row could develop any further in that direction. ‘We need to help Deynman.’

  Tulyet took a deep breath and closed his eyes to bring his temper under control. ‘I can think of something we could try to move matters on a little.’

  Bartholomew detected a distinct lack of conviction in his voice, and sensed that whatever Tulyet was about to suggest would be something he would not like. ‘Will it help Deynman?’

  ‘It might,’ said Tulyet. ‘If it works.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘You could go to visit this informant of yours, the elderly nun,’ said Tulyet. ‘Harling said his companions would discover her whereabouts, so they are doubtless watching you to see where you go. So visit her. Go furtively – take Cynric, he will know what to do. When Harling’s men come for the old lady, we will be waiting for them.’

  ‘You mean use Dame Pelagia as bait?’ asked Michael, shocked.

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’ asked Tulyet.

  Tulyet needed time to organise his men into the correct positions, and instructed that Bartholomew and Michael should wait in his office until he gave the order that they might leave. Bartholomew paced restlessly, his thoughts leaping between fear for Deynman and concern for Matilde. Michael was silent, and Bartholomew suspected he was as anxious for his grandmother as Bartholomew was for his student and friend. While they waited, Cynric brought a message from Michael’s beadles saying that Harling’s body was nowhere to be found.

  Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘He escaped,’ he whispered in horror. ‘He still roams free.’

  ‘It is unlikely that he escaped the mill race in full flood,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘He is probably crushed under the wheel and his corpse has not yet surfaced.’

&nbs
p; ‘I will look at first light,’ said Cynric. ‘If his body is there, I will find it.’

  ‘You will not find it, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He escaped – I am sure of it.’

  ‘Well, it does not matter if he did,’ said Michael practically. ‘My beadles will track him down, and he is scarcely in a position to do us any more harm now that we know how he spends his spare time, and all his attention will be focused on leaving Cambridge with his ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘I do not like this plan, Michael,’ said Bartholomew yet again. ‘What if something goes wrong? Matilde might come to harm.’

  ‘So might my grandmother,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘But we have no choice. Dick Tulyet and his men will be on hand the instant these men make their appearance. And, as I see it, it is the only way you will get Deynman back.’ He pondered. ‘I cannot think why you are so keen to rescue that dimwit – he will cost the College a fortune in bribes when he takes his final examinations. What a pity Harling was involved in all this – he offered to see the boy through his disputations and thus save Michaelhouse a veritable treasure trove.’

  Bartholomew did not reply and Michael let the matter drop. They waited until a soldier came to say that enough time had passed to allow Tulyet to spring his trap, and then left the castle to walk down the hill. A chill wind blew from the north, catching some dirt and swirling it around in an eddy. Bartholomew shivered, partly from the cold, but mostly from apprehension for what they were about to do.

  ‘Someone is following us again,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I can hear him.’

  Bartholomew felt his stomach lurch. At every step, he anticipated the searing pain of a crossbow bolt between his shoulder blades, or an attack from the shadows at the side of the road. He glanced around nervously.

  ‘As long as the outlaws consider there is a chance that we will lead them to what we want, they will not harm us,’ said Michael, noting his friend’s unease.

  ‘They tried to harm you,’ Bartholomew said, referring to Michael’s encounter with the knifeman.

  ‘That was before the business with Harling,’ Michael whispered back. ‘They have obviously reconsidered, and realise we are more useful alive than dead as long as Dame Pelagia is at large.’

  ‘Well that is comforting,’ muttered Bartholomew. He glanced at the fat monk striding at his side. ‘You seem calm. Are you not afraid?’

  ‘Terrified,’ came the answer. ‘But we are nearing the end of all this, Matt. In a short while, it will all be over. My grandmother, Deynman and Matilde will be safe.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew unconvinced.

  They reached the point where the High Street forked off from Bridge Street, and stopped. Cynric went on ahead and beckoned them forward, raising his hand to caution silence. Bartholomew glanced behind him, and hoped those following them would fall for their elaborate performance. He and Michael eased in and out of the shadows, allowing Cynric to decide the balance between making their precautions appear convincing, and yet ensuring the men following them did not lose them. Eventually, they reached Matilde’s house, and Bartholomew knocked softly on the door, glancing around furtively. Soft yellow light was visible through the shutters on the upper window, and Bartholomew realised with a shock that Matilde might be entertaining one of her customers. He backed away, reluctant to see who it might be.

  ‘Who is there?’ came Matilde’s voice through the closed door. ‘What do you want?’

  Bartholomew’s voice stuck in his throat. Michael shot him a look of exasperation.

  ‘It is Brother Michael,’ he called softly. ‘And your friend, Matthew.’

  The door opened a crack to verify he was telling the truth, and then he and Bartholomew were ushered inside. Cynric was nowhere to be seen. Matilde was wearing a nightshift of soft, white linen, and her long hair flowed loose down her back. Her feet were bare, and she held a candle that shed a flickering light around the neat little room.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked, looking from Michael to Bartholomew and sensing their agitation. ‘Have you come for Dame Pelagia? She is upstairs.’

  ‘The Sheriff’s soldiers are outside,’ said Michael, pushing past her quickly and closing the door behind them. ‘And we were followed here by men we believe to be the outlaws he has been hunting.’

  ‘You mean you have deliberately led them to my house?’ asked Matilde, grasping the situation quickly. ‘Into an ambush where they will be caught?’

  ‘They have Deynman,’ Bartholomew blurted out. ‘This seemed the best way to get him back.’

  Matilde regarded him with eyes that were dark in the dim candlelight. ‘I see. So what do you want to do? Are we supposed to pretend to sneak away or remain here and wait for them to come?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Michael. He looked Matilde’s slender form up and down with blatant admiration. ‘You should find something warmer to wear, my child.’

  Matilde’s face creased into merriment. ‘Thank you for your concern, Brother,’ she said with mock demureness. She slipped away up the stairs, leaving Michael and Bartholomew alone.

  ‘Please do not flirt with her, Michael,’ said Bartholomew primly. ‘It is unbecoming behaviour for a monk.’

  ‘You do it, then,’ said Michael, unabashed by the reminder of his vows of chastity. ‘That is what she really wants.’

  Bartholomew shook his head in exasperation and went to peer through a slit in the window shutter. The street outside seemed to be deserted. Bartholomew felt his heart begin to thump hard against his ribs. What if Tulyet and his men had misunderstood their description of the location of Matilde’s house and were somewhere else? What if Tulyet’s party had themselves been ambushed as they left the castle by the sally-port? What if the outlaws did not come for Dame Pelagia at all, but shot fire arrows to burn the house down and kill them as they emerged choking into the street? He felt an unpleasant clamminess at the small of his back, and was aware that his hands were shaking.

  ‘I will watch here,’ said Michael. ‘Go and see that Dame Pelagia is awake.’

  ‘She is your grandmother,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to mount the stairs to Matilde’s bedchamber. ‘You go.’

  ‘She is a nun,’ said Michael, imitating the prim voice Bartholomew had used to him. ‘But you are a physician. She will not mind you seeing her in a state of undress.’

  ‘But Matilde might,’ said Bartholomew.

  Michael regarded him in disbelief. ‘She is a prostitute, Matt! That is what they do! Hurry up. These outlaws might be here at any moment and we might have to flee.’

  Bartholomew climbed the flight of wooden stairs, coughing noisily to let them know he was coming.

  ‘Is Dame Pelagia dressed?’ he asked, entering the bedchamber and fixing his eyes steadily on the floor.

  ‘We both are, Matt,’ said Matilde. She looked at him with mischief glittering in her eyes. ‘For a physician, you are very coy. You may look up. There is nothing here that might embarrass you.’

  Bartholomew saw that Matilde had exchanged the nightshift for a long woollen dress and her feet were no longer bare. She had also bundled her luxuriant hair into a cap and was helping Dame Pelagia to put her shoes on.

  ‘You have taken your time in coming to me,’ said Dame Pelagia, somewhat reprovingly. ‘I was beginning to think I might have to go to the Sheriff and the Bishop myself with the information I have gathered. I would have done, in fact, had I not been afraid that independent action might endanger Matilde, or that it might have interfered with some secret plan of Michael’s.’

  ‘And the Lord knows he has plenty of those,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘Have you two fallen out?’ asked Matilde, regarding him with concern.

  ‘We had a misunderstanding over this information about the smugglers Dame Pelagia has,’ replied Bartholomew shortly.

  ‘I suppose he told you he had passed it to the Sheriff when he had not,’ said Dame Pelagia, fixing her bright green eyes on him astutely. She gave the
physician a sudden grin, revealing sharp brown teeth. ‘I suspected Michael had some plot in action when he did not return immediately with Sheriff Tulyet as he said he would. This smuggling is such a sensitive business and involves such cunning people, that I simply assumed Michael needed time to spring a trap before the Sheriff was made aware of the identities of those involved. The secular law can be very crude, you know.’

  ‘Michael told me he gave Dick Tulyet some other names – ones discovered by my sister from a student she was helping,’ said Bartholomew, still not certain that Michael had been completely honest.

  ‘That was clever of him,’ said Dame Pelagia admiringly. ‘In that way he could provide the Sheriff with enough information to keep him happy, but did not need to visit me to reveal my whereabouts to anyone watching him.’

  ‘But you had plenty of time to talk on that long journey from Denny,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘Did you tell him nothing then?’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘First of all, poor Michael needed all his breath for walking – he is not fit and spry like me – and second, it would have been extremely foolish to discuss such matters on the open road. Who knows who might have overheard?’

  ‘So you told him nothing?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘I was expecting him to come back to talk to me as soon as he had completed reporting the attack to the Vice-Chancellor,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘I did not think he would take days to return.’

  ‘But you knew Harling was behind all this?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘And you let Michael go to report to him, knowing that he might be signing his own death warrant? Someone tried to knife him that morning, you know.’

  ‘I did not know,’ said Dame Pelagia sharply. ‘And I did not know the villain was Harling, either. I knew Katherine Mortimer was involved, along with her pathetic son, Edward. My information, for what it was worth, was simply that: that the Sheriff should devise a plot to use Edward and Katherine to uncover the identity of these outlaws. I knew the real genius behind all this was some influential official, but I had not managed to discover who. I would have stayed longer at Denny to try to find out, but Michael was insistent I left with him that night. And, to be honest, Matthew, I have grown weary of subterfuge.’