‘No? There have been numerous reports of armed men sneaking around after dark, while several people have vanished or been murdered. How could Tulyet not see that all this pointed to something sinister? Is that your colleague Ayera striding towards us? What does he want?’
‘Michael said you would be here, tending the injured,’ said Ayera to Bartholomew as he approached. ‘So I came to see whether I could help.’
Bartholomew shook his head, although he was touched that his colleague should have made the effort to ask. No one else had bothered, except Michael. ‘But thank you.’
Ayera sighed. ‘What a dreadful business! Langelee posted student-guards all around Michaelhouse’s walls last night, and he and I were up all night supervising them. How is Tulyet’s hunt proceeding? Is there any news?’
‘No, but he rode out again this morning, while it was still dark.’
‘Rather him than me. Tracking men who do not want to be found is nigh on impossible in the Fens. I see he has tightened his defences here, though. It was not easy to get in this morning.’
‘But too late,’ said Dunning acidly. ‘It is like bolting a door after the horse has fled.’
‘It is not too late for next time,’ Bartholomew pointed out shortly.
Dunning stared at him. ‘There will not be a next time! The raiders were repelled, and they will not come again. I doubt such cunning fellows are stupid.’
‘No,’ agreed Ayera. ‘But Tulyet did well yesterday, given the unexpectedness of the assault. A number of his men were killed or wounded, but soldiers are expendable and it is the castle that is important. And Tulyet still holds it.’
Bartholomew supposed it was true from a military perspective, but was uncomfortable with the remark even so. ‘Tulyet would not agree,’ he said. ‘He is protective towards his people.’
‘An unwise trait in a commander,’ said Ayera. ‘He must learn indifference. Incidentally, do you know how many of the enemy were dispatched by his warriors?’
‘I heard five,’ replied Dunning. ‘Four outright, and one by his own comrades when they saw they were going to have to leave him. These men are extremely ruthless.’
Bartholomew thought about Tulyet and Cynric in the marshes, and hoped they were safe.
The sun was only just beginning to show its face when he and Ayera left the castle and began to walk down the hill together. Bells were ringing everywhere, because it was Trinity Sunday, and an important day in the Church’s calendar. St Clement’s was full of white flowers for the occasion, and their sweet scent wafted out as they passed it. Ayera inhaled deeply.
‘I have always liked flowers. They are one of life’s great pleasures.’
Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. It was not the sort of sentiment he would have expected from the manly geometrician, especially after his comment about the expendability of soldiers.
‘Many are poisonous,’ Ayera went on gleefully, indicating that he did not have a sensitive side after all. ‘Although they present a pretty face to the world. There is much to admire in flowers.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond to such a declaration.
‘Were there any by Newe Inn’s pond? It might explain what happened to those four dead scholars. Michael said there was no obvious cause of death, you see, so I have been mulling over possible explanations for him.’
‘I did not notice. Besides, toxic plants are unlikely to kill four men simultaneously.’
‘Why not? It has happened before – when Langelee was living in York, several guests died at his dinner table. The culprit was found to be lily of the valley, which the cook had mistaken for wild garlic and had made into a soup.’
‘His guests died, but he did not?’ Bartholomew vaguely recalled Langelee telling him the same tale when they had travelled to York together a few weeks before, but the details eluded him.
Ayera nodded. ‘He had decided to forgo the broth, to save himself for the meat that was to follow. So he survived, but all his visitors perished horribly.’
Bartholomew stared at him, a sudden vivid recollection of the garden flashing into his mind. ‘Actually, there were lilies of the valley by the pond. I picked some.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Ayera with a shrug. ‘I have solved the case.’
‘But there is nothing to say that Northwood and the others ate them. And even if they did, they would not have been overcome at the same time.’
Ayera shrugged a second time. ‘Oh, well, it was just an idea. Let us talk of happier matters, then. What do you think these raiders wanted from the castle?’
‘The tax money,’ replied Bartholomew, not convinced that this constituted a ‘happier matter’.
Ayera considered his reply. ‘Yet it is going to be transported to London in a week. If I were a thief, I would have waited until it was on the road, not attempted to snatch it from a fortress.’
It was a valid point.
When Langelee saw the dried blood that stained Bartholomew’s skin, hair and clothes, he ordered him to the lavatorium, a shed-like structure built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself. Gratefully, he scoured away the gore, donned fresh shirt, leggings and tabard, and went to hand the soiled ones to Agatha the laundress.
Women were not usually permitted inside Colleges, although laundresses were exempted if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to tempt scholars into an amour. Agatha fitted the bill perfectly, because not even the most desperate of men was likely to mount an assault on her – her ferocious temper was legendary, and she had a powerful physique to go with it. She regarded the stained clothes Bartholomew handed her with a dangerous expression.
‘Have you been committing surgery again? You know you are not supposed to do that.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. There was no point arguing, because Agatha was not a lady to lose confrontations.
‘I shall overlook it this time,’ she went on. ‘But only because one of my nephews was among the casualties, and he said he would have died had you not been to hand.’
Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised to learn that Agatha had kin at the castle. She was related to at least half of Cambridge. ‘Which one is he?’
‘Robin, who had an arrow through his neck. It is a pity that Holm is so useless, because people will say you are a warlock as long as you flout tradition and perform the procedures that he should be doing. And one day it will see you banished from here. Or worse. I should not like that, and neither would your patients.’
‘The Senior Proctor will never let that happen,’ said Michael, hearing her last words as he came to join them. ‘Of course, Matt will lose my protection when I am appointed to an abbacy or a bishopric and I move to another town. And it is only a matter of time before important people recognise my worth, so I do not anticipate being here much longer.’
‘Modestly put, Brother,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘Perhaps that is why your grandmother is here: to size you up for promotion.’
‘No, she would have told me,’ said Michael, quite seriously. ‘She is here for something much more grave, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is to do with the raid on the castle.’
‘You think she led an armed invasion?’ asked Bartholomew. He would not put it past her.
‘Do not be ridiculous! I meant she might be here because she heard some rumour of trouble in the offing, and came to prevent it.’
‘Then she did not do a very good job,’ said Agatha. ‘Incidentally, Robin thought he recognised one of those brigands last night. He said it was Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel.’
‘Then he is mistaken,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Coslaye is still mending from the head injury he suffered at the Convocation, and would not be strong enough to fight.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Agatha, while Bartholomew nodded in agreement: Coslaye had made a complete recovery. ‘And he is a rough-tempered brute, obsessed with battles.’
Agatha inclined her head, and sailed majestically towards the gate.
‘As soon as we have completed our duties at church, we had better visit Coslaye,’ said Michael, walking across the yard to where their colleagues were gathering. The service would be later than usual because it was Sunday.
Bartholomew blinked. ‘You think there might be truth in Robin’s claim?’
‘Of course not, but Robin will need to be convinced that he is wrong before we can trust him to stop gossiping, and the best way to do that will be to tell him Coslaye’s alibi.’
‘If he has one,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The raid was before dawn, when most people were asleep. His students may not be able to prove that he did not wake up and slip out.’
‘We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Michael fell into step at Bartholomew’s side as Langelee led the procession out of the College and up the lane. ‘Meadowman and I spent much of last night in Newe Inn’s garden, monitoring the pond. Just when I was beginning to think we were wasting our time, the gate opened, and we had a visitor.’
‘And?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the monk paused.
‘And he began poking about its rim with a stick. I charged forward to grab him, but Meadowman and I fell over each other in the dark, and the fellow escaped. However, the incident tells me that the pool definitely warrants further investigation.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Dredge it again?’
Michael nodded. ‘More thoroughly this time. Hopefully, when we find what that fellow came for, we will understand what caused four of our scholars to die.’
‘Do you have any idea who this visitor was?’
‘None. He was cloaked and hooded – obviously a disguise, because the weather is mild.’
‘Was there anything distinctive about his cloak? Or his gait?’
‘I thought he was limping, but could not be sure.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Do you think he was one of the men who attacked me?’
‘Why would he be? They wanted your formula for wildfire, so why would one go to Newe Inn’s garden? It is not likely to be there!’
Bartholomew fiddled with a frayed seam on his sleeve as he thought. ‘We believe Northwood, Vale and the London brothers were competing with my medical colleagues to develop a clean-burning lamp. We are always being told that this invention will be worth a lot of money, so perhaps these mysterious men are interested in any new discoveries.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And then, when Northwood and the others declined to share the fruits of their labours, these men killed them. Or perhaps they did talk – for a price – and as they drank a victory toast with their new partners, they were poisoned.’
‘The men who accosted me did not offer to pay for information,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They made it perfectly clear that they were going to take what they wanted by force. But perhaps you should discuss this with your grandmother. I doubt it was coincidence that she was to hand when those men tackled me, and I have a feeling that she knows exactly who they are.’
But Michael shook his head. ‘You are wrong, Matt – it was coincidence. I dined with her yesterday, and she confided that she is here to hunt down a dangerous French spy.’
‘So she did lie about being here to see you,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised.
Michael smiled suddenly. ‘She is an incredible woman, though, do you not think? I wish I had known her in her prime, when she won knife-throwing competitions against the King’s best warriors, and was the most feared spy the French had ever known.’
She was more than impressive enough for Bartholomew in her dotage, and the thought of her young, strong and lithe was deeply unsettling. He changed the subject to the attack on the castle.
‘Mercenaries were hired, but the one who was captured refuses to talk. His son, John Ayce, was murdered, apparently, and he still grieves. He does not care what happens to him.’
‘I remember that case,’ mused Michael. ‘Young Ayce sold eggs to the castle, but he was a brute, and his father was the only one who mourned him. His killer – one William Hildersham – escaped while being transported to the Bishop’s prison in Ely. I recall being pleased when I heard.’
‘Why?’ It was unlike the monk to condone murderers evading justice.
‘Ayce was a bullying brawler who had terrorised and even injured other scholars. Hildersham claimed self-defence, and the University believed him. We all thought Ayce had been given his just deserts.’
‘Yet the secular jury found Hildersham guilty. There must have been some reason why—’
‘Secular juries always find against us, you know that. Their verdict meant nothing.’
‘Ayce’s father does not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is bitter and angry.’
‘No parent likes to see his offspring stabbed, no matter what the circumstances. But it happened years ago, and cannot matter now.’
‘On the contrary, Brother. It led Ayce to join the force that tackled the castle.’
Michael sighed. ‘Cambridge was like a town under siege last night, its streets thick with soldiers. I rousted out all my beadles, too. I do not want these villains attacking the University.’
‘You think they might?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.
Michael shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but precautions never go amiss.’
It was peaceful in St Michael’s Church that morning. Sunlight filtered through the east window, and its thick walls muted the rattle of hoofs and iron-shod wheels on the cobbled streets outside. A dove cooed in the rafters, and the only other sound was Suttone chanting mass. Someone, probably William, had swept the church the previous day, and had put flowers on the windowsills, so their sweet scent mingled with the more pungent aroma of incense.
Afterwards, Michael requested that he and Bartholomew be excused from breakfast, slyly not mentioning that there might not be any if Agatha was still at the castle with her nephew.
‘Why?’ asked Langelee. ‘Have you learned who tried to dash out Coslaye’s brains at the Convocation at last?’
‘No,’ replied Michael with a grimace. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then I suppose it must be your investigation into the four dead scholars,’ surmised the Master. ‘The only one I knew was Northwood. He often stopped for a chat when our paths crossed, especially during the last two months or so. In fact, he was a bit of a nuisance, because I did not always have time for him.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael in surprise. Bartholomew agreed: Northwood’s intolerance of slow minds made Langelee an unlikely associate.
‘He was interested in my work for the Archbishop,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘I told him a good many tales that I have never dared share with anyone else here. In fact, I probably would not have shared them with him, either, had he not plied me with claret.’
‘What sort of tales?’ asked Michael in alarm. He did not want his College’s reputation sullied by the Master’s drunken ramblings.
Langelee laughed, and waved a stubby finger. ‘Now Northwood is dead, my secrets are my own again, and I shall not make the mistake of another indiscretion. Suffice to say that they entailed my experiences in battle, my knowledge of poisons and my skills as a burglar.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, as Langelee went to lead his scholars back to Michaelhouse. ‘When he makes remarks like that, it makes me wonder whether he is the right man to be Head of House.’
‘He confessed a lot worse when we were in York a few weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am content with his rule. He is better at it than the rest of us would be.’
‘You only think so because he gives you licence to practise medicine however you see
fit, and rarely condemns you for indulging in surgery. But it is too early to go to Batayl Hostel – they will still be at their devotions. We shall have breakfast in the Brazen George first.’
Although scholars were forbidden from frequenting taverns, which tended to be full of ale-swilling townsmen spoiling for a fight, Michael had always maintained that this particular stricture did not apply to the Senior Proctor, and he visited the Brazen George – a pleasant establishment on the High Street – so often that there was a chamber at the rear of the premises set aside for his exclusive use. It was a pretty room, overlooking a courtyard where the morning sunshine slanted across the herb beds, and where contented chickens scratched around a picturesque well. He ordered a substantial repast, which included cold meat, new bread and a dish of coddled eggs.
‘But no cabbage,’ he called after the departing taverner. ‘I cannot abide anything green. It upsets my stomach, and keeps me in the latrines.’
‘Only if you eat too much of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every medicus who has ever written about food says that a balanced diet, with moderate amounts of meat, bread and vegetables is—’
‘They were writing for the benefit of the general populace,’ interrupted Michael haughtily. ‘They cannot know about my innards. And these so-called balanced diets are a nonsense, anyway. How can they be balanced, when they include vegetables? Greenery is for slugs and caterpillars, not men with healthy appetites.’
Bartholomew knew better than to argue, and his attention was soon distracted from the discussion anyway – by the number of dishes that Landlord Lister brought to the table.
‘God’s blood, Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and whose army will be eating this?’
‘It is only a mouthful,’ said Michael comfortably, tying a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. ‘Barely enough to keep a sparrow alive.’
‘It was a bad business at the castle yesterday,’ said Landlord Lister conversationally, as he brought a large platter of roasted beef. ‘I heard the raiders were after the taxes. Thank God they did not get them, or we would all have had to pay again.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19