‘Yes, but I still have questions,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Clippesby saw Ayera talking with the villainous Willelmus during the attack on the castle—’
‘Of course I spoke to him,’ said Ayera impatiently. ‘I needed to know what intelligence he had passed to the robbers. I did my best to win their confidence, but they never did trust me fully – especially after the first raid, when my premature battle cry gave the defenders time to grab their bows.’
‘You should have told me all this,’ said Michael accusingly to Pelagia. ‘Here is a terrible plot unfolding in my town, and you chose to keep me in the dark.’
Pelagia laid a conciliatory hand on his arm. ‘I did not know until a few hours ago that the four scholars in the library pond were connected with my mission here – or that Walkelate was the arch-villain. Meanwhile, you had several suspicious deaths to unravel, and two factions of querulous academics to hold apart. I admire your skills greatly, but you are only one man.’
‘You do?’ asked Michael, the wind taken out of his sails. Praise from Pelagia was not dispensed very often.
She smiled briefly, then became businesslike. ‘It seems that all our cases have converged – my French spy, the lunatic scholar-inventors whom Ayera has been monitoring, and Michael’s Newe Inn deaths – so it makes sense to join forces.’
‘What French spy?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
A frown of impatience crossed Pelagia’s face. ‘The one I have been tracking for the past few months, and who I now know is commanding these raiders. There is no time for more detailed explanations. Now tell me what you have learned.’
Michael obliged, painting a succinct but detailed account of Walkelate’s dealings.
‘His Majesty has known for weeks that a few Cambridge scholars have turned their talents to designing weapons,’ said Pelagia, when he had finished.
Michael gaped at her yet again. ‘How? I did not!’
‘Because he had heard that a group of Oxford men had come here and bragged about their achievements, and he guessed that Cambridge would aim to outdo them. He asked me to monitor the situation, but an elderly woman is not the best person to infiltrate a community of male scholars, so I sent my trusty assistant to do it for me.’
‘Langelee enrolled me as a Fellow in January.’ Ayera took up the tale. ‘The cover has worked brilliantly, because no one suspects that a University geometrician – one of their own Regents – is a government spy. Then, about two months ago, I heard whispers that some scholars were devising a new and deadly weapon …’
‘He also heard tales that strangers were gathering in the marshes, recruiting men who were willing to risk their lives for quick gold,’ added Pelagia. ‘Ayce, Coslaye …’
‘I sent for Dame Pelagia at that point,’ said Ayera. ‘And I warned the King. But she was busy with her French spy, and it took some time for my message to reach her. She only arrived here a few days ago.’
‘We had better discuss this later,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in averting a catastrophe than satisfying his curiosity. ‘Something terrible is going to happen – and soon.’
‘You are quite right,’ agreed Pelagia. ‘Ayera learned last night that the robbers plan to make another assault on the taxes. This will achieve two things: first, provide a diversion so that Walkelate can hand over his ribauldequin and wildfire; and second, allow them to recoup their losses – this whole operation has been very expensive.’
‘Do they still believe the taxes are in the castle?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘Or will they assault King’s Hall again?’
Ayera grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, Walkelate was party to a conversation in the stationers’ shop, during which the Senior Proctor denounced the rumour about the taxes being moved as a ruse. The robbers now know that they are in the castle, which is a pity. It was better when they thought they might have to search eight Colleges, forty hostels and half a dozen convents.’
‘We must warn Tulyet,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael winced. ‘He needs to prepare.’
‘He is as ready as he ever will be, and the town can be taxed again should he fail to repel these rogues,’ said Pelagia, coldly professional. ‘It is far more important to ensure that Walkelate’s invention does not fall into French hands. Forget the castle, and concentrate on him.’
‘But the taxes include a ribauldequin,’ argued Bartholomew, ‘which is in the castle chapel.’
‘It is true,’ Ayera told her. ‘I was told not an hour ago that we mercenaries will be given a hefty bonus if we acquire it in addition to Tulyet’s chests of money.’
‘Yes, but Walkelate made two ribauldequins, not one,’ said Pelagia. ‘And it is the hidden one that can deploy wildfire – Tulyet’s is just like any other.’ She nodded to the ledgers that Langelee was still rifling through. ‘Have you discovered anything in those to tell us where it might be?’
‘It is not in King’s Hall,’ said Ayera, when Langelee shook his head. ‘I searched it thoroughly.’
‘It must be in the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Walkelate spends every waking moment there, so it stands to reason that he has been doing more than overseeing the construction of shelves. We should go there now and search for it. All of us, together.’
‘It is as sensible a notion as any,’ said Pelagia, indicating that he should lead the way.
Pelagia lagged behind as they ran to Newe Inn, reminding Bartholomew that while she seemed an unstoppable force, she was actually an elderly lady who could hardly be expected to keep pace with men less than half her age. Ayera fell back to walk with her, but she waved him on with an impatient flick of her hand. When he ran to catch up with the others, Bartholomew noticed that he was limping.
‘Yes,’ the geometrician said, seeing what he was thinking. ‘I was injured during the raid on the castle. I had to fight Tulyet’s men, or my cover would have been lost.’
‘Speaking of Tulyet, Holm and my beadle will have reached him by now,’ said Michael. ‘After he has cancelled the pageant, he will almost certainly aim straight for Cholles Lane, because he will want more detailed answers from us. We shall soon have help in confounding these villains.’
‘If he does, he leaves the castle vulnerable,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘And Dame Pelagia just said that grabbing the taxes is the diversion Walkelate needs to pass his weapon to the French.’
‘He has not cancelled the pageant,’ said Ayera, gesturing around him at the empty streets, and cocking his head at a distant cheer. ‘The warning must have arrived too late.’
With despair, Bartholomew saw he was right. The town was virtually deserted: everyone had gone to the Guild Hall to watch the start of the ceremonies. A few drunkards lounged outside an alehouse, and two dirty boys slunk along carrying a trussed goat between them, but there was no other sign of life.
‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘It is a perfect opportunity for a hostile force to wade across the river or the King’s Ditch – both are low, because of the recent dry weather. And Dick said the ditch is so full of silt that it is possible to walk—’
‘Hurry!’ interrupted Langelee urgently. ‘We must find and destroy this infernal machine, no matter what the cost to ourselves.’
He and Ayera drew their swords when they reached the library, and he indicated that Bartholomew and Michael should arm themselves, too. A heavy stick appeared in the monk’s beefy paw, while Bartholomew had his childbirth forceps in one hand and Michael’s dagger in the other. Treading with silent grace, Ayera led the way up the spiral staircase, turning to glare when Michael trod on a creaking floorboard.
They arrived upstairs and peered around the door to see Walkelate in the larger of the two rooms. A number of men were there with him. All wore armour, and they were unquestionably the raiders. One was limping from what appeared to be a wound in his thigh. They were cloaked and hooded, and Bartholomew knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that they were the men who had ambushed him. Mentally, he cursed Rougham again for caving in to thei
r threats, but then supposed it was irrelevant if Walkelate had discovered the formula independently, anyway.
‘There is no need to incinerate the castle, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘The pageant will provide a perfectly adequate diversion for you to leave Cambridge with the weapon.’
‘Unfortunately, the tales of our imminent arrival have made the Sheriff overly vigilant,’ replied Rougé. His French was flawless, indicating that he was a native speaker. Bartholomew gaped when the man turned, and he saw his face. ‘So bombarding the castle with fire-arrows is necessary to keep him busy. We cannot let him foil us – too much is at stake. Besides, I want the tax money.’
‘We cannot tackle all these soldiers alone,’ whispered Michael, drawing back a little to speak. ‘I am no coward, but I see no point in suicide.’
‘But you just said that Tulyet will be on his way,’ Langelee whispered back. ‘I am sure we can keep these paltry villains busy until he arrives. Eh, Ayera?’
‘He will not come if he is being barraged with burning arrows,’ hissed Michael, although Ayera raised his sword in a salute and grinned rather diabolically. ‘Come away. We cannot achieve anything by staying here.’
‘We will listen, then,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But if I say we must attack, you had better be ready. You, too, Bartholomew. The experience you gained fighting at Poitiers will be vital today.’
Bartholomew was horrified, knowing his meagre abilities would not match up to the Master’s expectations, but Langelee waved him to silence when he started to object, and eased forward again.
‘No one believes you will strike today, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘I enlisted Weasenham’s unwitting help – I got him to tell everyone that you are licking your wounds and will not be back. Even Oswald Stanmore believes it, and he is less gullible than most. My ploy worked.’
‘Why does he call him Rougé?’ whispered Michael. ‘That is Bonabes the Exemplarius.’
‘Bonabes is French,’ said Ayera in a low, disgusted voice. ‘And I can tell by the way he carries himself that he is a skilled warrior. Moreover, his weapons are of excellent quality, and well honed.’
Even Bartholomew could see that. He recalled the incident at the castle, when Bonabes had claimed to be out of practice when Holm had insisted that he wore an ancient sword to protect them. The Exemplarius was an accomplished liar, because he had been convincing.
‘The merchants might believe you,’ Bonabes was saying. His amiable demeanour had been replaced by something hard and ruthless. ‘But Tulyet does not.’
‘It does not matter what Tulyet thinks,’ said Walkelate impatiently. ‘My carpenter Frevill has used his family connections to ensure that the Guild of Corpus Christi has ignored Tulyet’s worries, leaving him effectively isolated. Besides, he is hopelessly confused. I was rather clever to start the rumour that your little army hails from inside the town, because he does not know where to look for his enemies and—’
‘Rumours!’ spat Bonabes in distaste. ‘There have been so many of them that even I have wondered which were truth and which were lies. But never mind this. Is the weapon ready?’
‘It is in the cista,’ replied Walkelate. He smirked. ‘All manner of folk have used it as a table and workbench, but no one has thought to look inside. What a shock they would have had if they did! I always say that the best hiding places are those in plain sight.’
‘Yet it is an obvious feature, and people will ask where it has gone once we take it. How will you explain its disappearance without incriminating yourself?’
Walkelate’s smile was smug. ‘I shall set a small fire in the corner of this room – not enough to cause serious harm but enough to mask the departure of the cista. I shall say it was started by a stray fire-arrow. After all, we had better sustain some damage in this raid, or folk will be suspicious.’
‘A fire?’ asked Bonabes, startled. ‘With all this wood? Is that wise?’
‘I can control a small blaze,’ said Walkelate haughtily. ‘I am a skilled experimenter.’
‘Show me the weapon again,’ said Bonabes, shrugging to show he did not care what happened to the library. ‘I want to see it one more time.’
Walkelate opened the cista, and by craning forward, Bartholomew could just make out a compact machine with several barrels. It looked like the Poitiers ribauldequins, but Walkelate’s had bulbous mouths, presumably to allow the wildfire to splatter in a wider arc. There was a waft of something unpleasant, too.
‘This pot contains a sample of my other creation,’ said the architect, handing it to Bonabes. ‘I told you there was no need to bother with the physicians. Not only have I reinvented wildfire, but my recipe is far superior.’
‘And you did it alone?’ asked Bonabes. ‘We cannot afford witnesses.’
‘I had to enlist associates, but none are alive to tell the tale.’
Bonabes regarded him narrowly, and his voice turned soft and a little dangerous. ‘Do these dead associates include the London brothers and Northwood? I was fond of them.’
‘They were talented alchemists, and I needed their expertise,’ said Walkelate sharply. His expression became sly. ‘Their deaths were not my fault, anyway – any more than Adam was yours.’
Bonabes flinched, indicating that his affection for the boy-scribe he claimed to have loved like a son had been genuine. He turned his attention to the pot. ‘It took you long enough. Weeks. And even then, you only succeeded after I forced Rougham to name rock oil as the missing ingredient, and procured you some from Weasenham.’
Walkelate regarded him coolly. ‘You told me it was important not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, so of course I took longer than if I had been granted a free hand. Besides, I did better than you – you have come nowhere near a solution for making paper. And anyway, I was not aware that you were in a hurry.’
‘Of course I am in a hurry,’ snapped Bonabes. ‘Not only is France desperate for a miracle, but working for Weasenham has been torture. It was agony, pretending to be subservient to such a man. The only saving grace is Ruth, and I am coming back for her when this is over.’
‘I still do not understand why you hired all those mercenaries,’ said Walkelate after a moment. ‘Our business could have been managed much better without them.’
‘It could not. Pelagia’s spies would have discovered us in an instant without the confusion they provided. They were an absolute necessity. Moreover, I have enjoyed myself, doing to your town what Englishmen have been doing to France for the past three decades. Now your people know what it is like to live in constant fear.’
Bartholomew grabbed Langelee’s arm. The Master, patriotic soul that he was, was finding the discussion hard to stomach. Meanwhile, Bonabes nodded to his men, who sealed the cista, then lifted it, straining under its weight.
‘France owes you a debt of gratitude, Walkelate,’ he said with a smile that was neither friendly nor sincere. Bartholomew suspected the architect would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his labours. ‘This may turn the tide of the war.’
‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Walkelate. ‘I want your money. I spent funds I do not have perfecting my library, and I cannot allow it to be tainted with the reek of debt.’
At that point, Langelee wrenched away from Bartholomew and exploded into the room, sword at the ready. Ayera rolled his eyes, but went to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder.
‘This diabolical weapon is not going to France,’ Langelee snarled. ‘Your game is over.’
The men holding the cista dropped it in alarm, and fumbled for their weapons as Langelee tore towards them with a battle cry that hurt the ears. Ayera dropped into a defensive stance as several mercenaries advanced on him, while Michael waved the cudgel around his head. Bartholomew gripped his childbirth forceps more tightly, although he did not hold much hope of besting trained warriors, and as far as he was concerned, Langelee had just signed their death warrants.
But it was no time to apportion blame, because Walkelate�
�s fine library was full of the sounds of a frantic skirmish. Langelee was yelling furiously, and the clash of his sword against his opponents’ was ear-splitting as he laid about him with wild abandon. Ayera fought more steadily and rationally, and two raiders quickly fell under his scientific blade.
Bartholomew and Michael were less adept, although the physician managed to knock one man senseless, and break the fingers of another. But the odds were too heavily stacked against them, and it was not long before both were pinned against the wall with knives at their throats.
His stomach lurched when he saw blood spurting from a wound in Ayera’s neck. Horrified, he tried go to his colleague’s aid, but his captor dealt him a stinging blow that made him see stars. By the time his vision cleared, Ayera was dead and Langelee was a prisoner, too, breathing hard and glowering furiously at the three soldiers who kept him in place with the tips of their swords.
‘You will not get away with this,’ the Master snarled. ‘Dame Pelagia knows all about you and your plans.’
‘You should have killed her when she fell into your hands, Rougé,’ said Walkelate angrily. ‘As I recommended. But no, you insisted on taking her to the marshes. And what happened? She escaped, and will continue to be a danger to us.’
Bonabes only indicated that his men were to lift the cista, but one of its handles had been broken in the scuffle, and he fretted impatiently while they fashioned a replacement with a belt.
‘Why does he call you Rougé?’ asked Michael. He sounded calm, although Bartholomew was in an agony of tension, appalled by what had happened to Ayera – and by what might befall their country now the ill-advised attack had failed.
‘I am Bonabes, Sire de Rougé et de Derval,’ replied Bonabes haughtily. ‘Vicomte de la Guerche and Châtelain de Pontcallec. And a loyal subject of His Majesty King Jean of France.’
‘But the Sire de Rougé was taken prisoner after the Battle of Poitiers,’ said Langelee in confusion. ‘And is locked in the Tower of London until a ransom can be paid.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 38