A Deadly Brew

Chapter 11

Bartholomew saw Harling’s knife flash above his head, and twisted sideways so that it plunged harmlessly into the mud. He grabbed Harling’s wrist as the Vice-Chancellor raised his arm to try again, flinching away when he saw the knife begin to descend a second time, inching inexorably towards him as Harling leaned all of his weight behind it. Bartholomew suddenly pulled downwards and to one side, so that Harling was thrown off balance and the weapon went cartwheeling away to land somewhere out of sight.

Immediately, Harling leapt at him again, hands clawing at his clothes as he tried to haul the physician towards the churning river. Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Bartholomew could do little more than fend off the blows, trying to prevent the enraged Vice-Chancellor from gaining a good hand-hold. His feet skidded in the thick, cloying mud near the water’s edge as he felt himself being dragged towards it. Not far away, the great mill wheel pounded and thumped through the racing river, the hiss of the fast-flowing current almost drowned out by the creak and groan of the protesting wood. And then Bartholomew realised exactly what Harling intended to do with him.

He knew the miller would not run the wheel while the river was flooded, and could think only that Harling had managed to start it before he had captured his prey in the churchyard outside Peterhouse: even if Bartholomew were stabbed, the wheel would destroy any evidence that his death was anything other than an appalling accident.

They were at the water’s edge, so close that Bartholomew could feel the breeze of it passing almost underneath his head. Another few inches and he would be under, helpless while Harling held him below the surface until he drowned. With a strength made great by fear, he struggled with all his might, succeeding in partly dislodging Harling’s grip on his cloak so that he was able to rise to his feet. Harling reacted quickly, hooking a foot behind Bartholomew’s legs, so that the physician fell flat on his back. Before he could move, Harling had pounced, and sat astride him, seizing two handfuls of his hair to force his head down towards the water.

Bartholomew felt icy fingers of river touch the back of his scalp and struggled for all he was worth. But Harling was strong, and Bartholomew felt himself beginning to weaken. Above him, he could see the grin of tense concentration on Harling’s face as he leaned forward, intending to use the weight of his body to press Bartholomew under the water. With all his remaining strength, the physician brought both knees up as hard as he could, at the same time grabbing Harling’s tabard and pulling on it. With a yelp of surprise, Harling, his balance already precarious, sailed clean over Bartholomew’s head and landed with a splash in the river.

For a moment, Bartholomew could do nothing but stare up at the dirty grey clouds that gathered overhead, but then he forced himself to sit up. At first, he thought the Vice-Chancellor must have already been swept away to be crushed under the great wheel, but then he glimpsed something white, and he saw Harling gripping the long grass at the side of the river, looking up at Bartholomew in a mute appeal for help. Revolted, Bartholomew gazed back at the man who had admitted to killing poor, helpless Philius, and who had unleashed the vile substance on the town that had provoked such bitter accusations and treachery.

‘For God’s sake!’ Harling cried piteously, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. ‘Help me!’

‘Where is Gray?’ asked Bartholomew, edging nearer, aware that their struggles had weakened the bank, and that it might collapse at any moment and send them both away down the river towards the waterwheel and certain death.

‘Help me and I will tell you,’ pleaded Harling. ‘Please hurry!’ Terrified, he stretched one hand towards Bartholomew, clinging to the grass with the other.

Bartholomew stared at it. ‘Where is Gray?’ he demanded again, aware that Harling’s left hand was sliding slowly, but inexorably, down the stems as the river tugged at him.

‘I will tell you when I am out,’ Harling shouted desperately. ‘If you do not help me, you will never find him, and he will die. Hurry, for God’s sake!’

Moving closer to the edge, Bartholomew crouched down and reached out until Harling could grip his outstretched hand. And then the Vice-Chancellor pulled as hard as he could. Tumbling forwards, Bartholomew snatched at the weeds on the bank, trying to tear his arm from Harling’s murderous hold. He grabbed a fistful of stalks, but heard them tearing from the ground as Harling braced both feet against the bank and yanked as hard as he could on Bartholomew’s hand.

And then Bartholomew’s glove began to slip loose. He saw Harling’s look of horror, as first one finger, and then another, came free. Then the rest flew off with a rush, and Bartholomew caught a fleeting glimpse of Harling’s disbelieving face before the Vice-Chancellor was swept away by the current. Bartholomew fell backwards onto the bank, trying to shut out the sound of the thumping waterwheel, and hoping he imagined the slight change in its tempo and pitch at about the time Harling would have reached it.

Shaking almost uncontrollably, he sat up and scanned the river for Harling, but the Vice-Chancellor was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew did not feel able to look for the body he knew he would find squashed and battered further downstream: it would not be the first time he had seen a corpse crushed by the waterwheel, and he knew it would not be a pleasant sight. In sudden disgust, he tore off his other glove, and threw that in the river, too.

Thinking of nothing but of finding Gray, he snatched up his damaged bag, and began to run along the river path towards Michaelhouse. Dusk was falling when he reached the College, and he made straight for the student’s room. He flung open the door and sagged against the wall in relief when the astonished faces of Gray and Bulbeck looked up at him. Gray leapt to his feet when he saw the dishevelled, muddy state of his teacher.

‘What happened to you?’ he exclaimed, drawing Bartholomew inside and closing the door. ‘You look as though you have been rolling around in the mud near the river!’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, but Gray was already tipping some dirty clothes from a stool so that Bartholomew could sit down, and he supposed Gray’s remark was a chance one. He sank down on the stool, while Bulbeck regarded him dubiously from his bed. Gray handed the physician a cup of warm milk, and Bartholomew had drunk most of it before he realised it was probably something Agatha had sent to aid Bulbeck’s recovery.

‘You are unharmed, Sam?’ he asked Gray anxiously. ‘Nothing has happened to you?’

‘I am fine,’ said Gray, but then exchanged an unreadable glance with Bulbeck.

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, a cold, uneasy feeling fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

‘I went out to buy a candle,’ began Gray. ‘Deynman stayed here to take care of Tom.’ He exchanged another uncertain look with Bulbeck.

‘Where is Deynman now?’ said Bartholomew, sitting bolt upright and looking around the room as though he imagined Deynman might appear from under the bed or out of the chest.

‘A message came for me to attend one of the people with winter fever,’ said Gray, ‘but since I was out, Deynman wanted to go in my place.’

‘I tried to stop him,’ said Bulbeck. ‘But he insisted, even though you have instructed that he is not to attend patients without you.’

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘Where is he? Did he not come back?’

The two students shook their heads. ‘He has been gone for ages,’ said Gray. ‘The curfew bell will ring soon and we are worried about him.’

‘Oh no!’ groaned Bartholomew. He closed his eyes in despair. Gray was safe, but Harling had Deynman instead, and Harling’s companions would surely kill him in retaliation for Bartholomew’s refusal to reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia. But, then, perhaps they would not even know where Harling had secreted him, and with Harling dead, Deynman might never be found – just as Harling had claimed. He fought to bring his appalled imaginings under control.

‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Whatever happens, do not leave Michaelhouse. If anyone asks you to run an errand, say Tom is too ill to be left. Do you promise?’

The two students nodded. ‘But where is Rob?’ asked Gray. ‘What has happened to him?’

‘I will try to find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Will you give me your word that you will stay here?’

Gray nodded impatiently. ‘We have already said we will. Do not worry about us, just find Rob. He owes me three silver pennies.’

Bartholomew’s only thought was to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel first and then his office at St Mary’s Church. He set off across the yard at a run, and almost collided with Michael and two beadles, returning from Valence Marie. Michael caught him by the arm as he made to rush past.

‘Matt!’ he exclaimed. He looked his friend up and down in horror. ‘What has happened to you? We were only gone a short while. How have you managed to end up in such a mess?’

‘Harling has Deynman,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, trying to tear himself free of Michael. ‘I must find him.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Michael. ‘Harling?’

‘Harling has been smuggling,’ said Bartholomew impatiently, desperate to begin his search for Deynman. ‘He kidnapped Rob, and said he would kill him if I did not reveal the whereabouts of Dame Pelagia.’

Michael’s eyes went round with shock. ‘Matt! You did not tell him?’

‘Of course I did not!’ snapped Bartholomew.

‘Are you sure Deynman has gone with Harling, and is not just off in a tavern somewhere?’ asked Cynric, emerging from some shadows where he had apparently been listening. ‘It would not be the first time.’

‘No, I am not sure. But he is not in his room, and Gray and Bulbeck are worried about him, so I can only assume Harling captured him.’

‘Harling!’ said Michael, with a glint of amusement in his green eyes. ‘No wonder he discouraged me from having dealings with the Sheriff, and gave you his permission not to help me with my inquiries. Crafty old devil!’

‘This is not a game!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deynman might be in danger. He might even be dead. And meanwhile, Harling’s companions are out searching for Dame Pelagia, so do not look so complacent.’

Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘I apologise, Matt. Now, you cannot go out looking like that. I assume you mean to search Harling’s room at Physwick Hostel or his office at the church? Well you will not get past the porters dressed like a beggar. Put on a clean tabard and wipe the filth from your face. And while you do so, you can tell me what happened.’

Bartholomew shot a despairing look at the gate, but Cynric blocked his path. ‘Brother Michael is right, boy,’ he said gently. ‘No porter would open the gates for you while you are so covered in filth.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew went to his room and stripped off his dirty tabard and cloak. While he scrubbed the thick, peaty mud from his face and hair, and Cynric sat cross-legged on the floor and mended his bag, Bartholomew told them what had happened. Michael immediately summoned his two beadles, drinking ale in the kitchen with Agatha, and ordered them to make a search of the river near the King’s Mill for Harling’s body.

‘Harling could never have survived going down the mill race,’ said Cynric. ‘He is dead. And if he is dead, he cannot harm Deynman.’

‘But he is not so foolish as to keep a student locked in his hostel or his office,’ mused Michael. ‘He could not possibly keep such a thing secret. We will have to look elsewhere for Deynman.’

‘Such as where?’ asked Bartholomew helplessly, not having the faintest idea where to begin.

‘Such as one of the smugglers’ haunts,’ said Michael. ‘But to find out where those are, we will need to question the smugglers.’

‘Harling claimed you had not given Tulyet the names of the smugglers Dame Pelagia knew,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at Michael as he scrubbed at his wet hair with a piece of linen.

Michael shrugged and stared out of the window. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched.

‘I assured him you went with Cynric out of the back door of All Saints’ Hostel, so that no one would know where you were going,’ he said, staring hard at Michael. ‘And that you learned the names of the smugglers from Dame Pelagia, and passed them to Tulyet.’

Cynric looked uncomfortable. ‘All Saints’ does not have a back door, boy,’ he said. ‘When was this supposed to have happened?’

Bartholomew gazed at Michael accusingly. ‘You said you had been to get the smugglers’ names from your grandmother!’ he said in a low voice.

Michael gnawed at his lower lip nervously. ‘I can explain that. It is not how it appears.’

‘You lied to me,’ whispered Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Just like Harling said you did.’

‘I was afraid for her!’ shouted Michael angrily, as he leapt to his feet in Bartholomew’s room, driven to rage by the physician’s accusations of dishonesty. ‘And for Matilde, too, if you want the truth. I knew we were being followed and so did Cynric, and I was not sure we would be able to throw them off. The last thing I wanted to do was to lead these men straight to my grandmother and your woman!’

‘I am not questioning that!’ Bartholomew yelled back. ‘I am questioning why you lied to me. I would have understood perfectly if you had explained why you did not go to Matilde’s house. Why did you feel the need to lie?’

‘Because I already knew the names of some of these smugglers, and I did not want to tell you how I came by them,’ said Michael, more quietly.

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew coldly, pulling on the tabard Cynric handed him. ‘So I am good enough company when it comes to examining bodies for you and being attacked in the Fens, but I am not to be trusted with anything more sensitive!’

‘That is not true, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I would trust you with my life and well you know it. The reason I did not tell you the truth was that …’ His voice petered off into silence.

‘Well?’ demanded Bartholomew, hunting around in the semi-darkness for his boots. Cynric had fetched a candle from Michael’s room and so there was a little light. ‘What is this great reason?’

‘That the information came from Edith,’ said Michael softly.

Bartholomew’s boot fell from his hands and he swung round to face Michael in amazement. ‘Now I have heard everything! What would Edith know about smuggling? If you must prevaricate, Michael, at least think of something convincing to say.’

‘Why do you think I have kept it from you?’ snapped Michael. ‘I knew your reaction would be just what it is – furious disbelief. And it was safer for Edith that only I knew. Even Oswald is ignorant of the matter. And you are right – if I were going to deceive you, I would come up with a better story than this. However, it happens to be the truth.’

Bartholomew sat on the bed and watched Michael warily. ‘Tell me, then,’ he said. ‘How did you persuade Edith to act as your spy?’

‘I did not persuade her,’ said Michael huffily. ‘Her involvement was her own choice, not mine.’ He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. ‘As we have said, ad nauseam, since all this started, smuggling has always been rife in these parts. Therefore it was no great surprise when the Fenmen grew increasingly bold and began selling their goods more openly in the town this year because the waterways have remained ice-free. At first, neither University nor town saw harm in it. Why should people not have small luxuries from time to time?’

‘Most laudable, Brother,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘It is always wise to tempt people to buy foods they have no idea how to prepare – like Constantine Mortimer and his lemons. We are lucky no one has become seriously ill. But what of Edith? And hurry up. I have to go out.’

Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘This year, the Fen smugglers have been especially successful. Because they have become wealthy, some of them have become brazen. A few have been exceptionally indiscreet and have been bragging about their escapades, and that is where Edith comes in.’

‘Go on,’ said Bartholomew, emptying the rank river water from his boots out of the window.

‘From time to time, as Senior Proctor, I have to deal with students who have become lonely, homesick or love-lorn, and some of them try to take their own lives. I am no maidenly aunt as you know and I have had occasion to call upon a woman’s gentle touch with some of the more difficult cases. Edith has helped me several times, the most recent example of which was Brother Xavier.’

‘Xavier?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up from tugging on his boots. ‘Xavier from St Bernard’s Hostel, who came to fetch us when Armel was poisoned?’

Michael nodded. ‘I am under seal of confession, you understand, but suffice to say Xavier is a troubled soul who needed a motherly shoulder. Edith was kind and helped him immeasurably. Now, Bernard’s is next to the Brazen George, and the dormitory overlooks one of its gardens. Through his window, Xavier heard some of the smugglers boasting about the profits made this year to a few of their companions and told Edith about it. Edith, acting as a good citizen, told me.’

‘Why you?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Why not Oswald? Or Tulyet?’

‘Partly because I was available, partly because she trusted me because I am your friend, and partly because she was afraid Oswald would prevent her from helping Xavier if he knew what the lad was telling her. You know he is overly protective.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘This is still a long way from why you lied to me about seeing Dame Pelagia.’

Michael sighed. ‘Edith, through listening to Xavier, sent me the names of several Fenmen involved in smuggling. It was interesting to know the identities of these men, but not particularly important. Until, that is, the smugglers became more confident and brash, and we reasoned that they might be the same outlaws that Tulyet had been chasing – and even, perhaps, the same ones who hired the mercenaries to attack us near Denny. Then Edith’s information became very important. I told Tulyet I could get the names he needed from my grandmother so he would not guess I had them already.’

‘So you lied to protect Edith,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing him with open scepticism.

‘Yes,’ said Michael, ignoring his friend’s doubtful expression. ‘As I said, when we thought we were just dealing with the Fenmen who have been running their smuggling trade for years, her information was nothing. But when smuggling developed into outlawry, and there were burglaries and attacks on travellers, her information became potentially dangerous – especially to her. And can you imagine what Oswald would say if he learns what she has been involved in? She also made me promise I would not tell you.’

‘And so, when you told Tulyet you were going to see Dame Pelagia, you had no intention of visiting her,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘It was an excellent opportunity to pass along Edith’s information and it did not put her, Dame Pelagia or Matilde at risk.’

‘And of course Tulyet is still ignorant of who these outlaws are,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘Michael! How could you have been so foolish! You have assumed that the information Edith had from Xavier’s eavesdropping at the Brazen George is the same that Dame Pelagia would have heard from her questions in the kitchens at Denny.’

‘So?’ asked Michael defensively. ‘Of course it will be the same.’

‘It will not!’ yelled Bartholomew in frustration. ‘Deschalers was surprised when you told him the smugglers were active around Denny Abbey – not that there were smugglers, but that there were smugglers in that particular area. Tulyet knows he does not have the men who are responsible for the attacks on the roads and the burglaries in the town. Those are the names Dame Pelagia has, not those of the Fenmen who have been committing petty crimes with smuggled figs, nor those of the merchants and scholars who have been taking advantage of the opportunity to make a profit from the warm weather!’

‘But my grandmother told Deschalers that the men in Denny’s kitchens were just the kinsmen of the lay sisters,’ shouted Michael. ‘You heard her!’

Bartholomew slammed his hand on the windowsill, furious with him. ‘She is not stupid, Michael – unlike you it seems! What was sitting on Deschalers’s table as we waited for him to come to take Julianna off our hands? Sugared almonds! An expensive commodity to leave around for casual visitors to devour, you will agree. Dame Pelagia probably suspected Deschalers was involved and did not want him to guess she knew more than she was telling.’

‘But he was not involved!’ Michael insisted. ‘His lemons were legal.’

‘But Dame Pelagia did not know that, did she!’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Michael in a quieter tone, blood draining from his face. ‘You are right!’

‘Of course I am right!’ snapped Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair again and beginning to pace up and down in the small room. ‘And we told Harling all about it! He came to see us here and asked what we had discovered. He even offered Dame Pelagia a safe house. Safe indeed! We should have guessed all this days ago!’

‘But we had no evidence,’ said Michael in a low voice. Bartholomew saw the fat monk’s hands were trembling and that he was as white as snow. He swallowed his anger with difficulty, and went to the shelf near the window to pour him some wine. Michael took it gratefully and took an uncharacteristically small sip. Bartholomew imagined he must be shaken indeed.

‘Well, what do we do now?’ he asked, suddenly very tired, but far too agitated to sit. ‘By his own admission, Harling was guilty of kidnapping, smuggling and the murder of Philius. He was also the man responsible for bringing the poisoned wine to Cambridge.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael unsteadily. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he told me he had killed Philius for asking too many questions about the nature of the poison in the wine. Which means he was probably also the third person who killed Isaac with Katherine and Edward. That whole business was well organised and no clues were left behind. It is exactly the kind of ruthless efficiency I would expect from a man like Harling.’

‘But why all this death and destruction?’ asked Michael, rubbing his face hard with his hands. ‘None of the other smugglers has gone to such lengths to hide his crimes.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

Her bright eyes and the air of suppressed anticipation about her suggested that she was anything but weary of the subterfuge she had uncovered. Matilde had been listening to the exchange with such interest that she had forgotten all about tying the old lady’s shoes. Impatiently, Dame Pelagia pulled her foot away from the young prostitute, and tied the lace herself with strong, steady fingers. She stood and grinned at Bartholomew, looking far better equipped to deal with whatever the night might throw at them than was the physician.

‘Matilde says we are to be the bait in a trap,’ she said in a cheerful voice. ‘I wondered whether you might resort to that. I wish Michael had passed word to me sooner, because then I would have arranged for Matilde to be away.’

‘I lead a dull life, Pelagia,’ protested Matilde, flashing the old lady a radiant smile. ‘This will add a little much-needed excitement.’

Dame Pelagia laughed and patted Matilde’s hand. ‘Come then, my young friend. Let us look this wolf in the jaws together!’

Together they went back down the stairs. Bartholomew looked around the neat room, wondering if he were the only person to be feeling trepidation over the events that were about to unfold. Michael was hiding any fears he might have under a veil of calm, while Dame Pelagia and Matilde seemed to be looking forward to the coming confrontation with confidence and excitement.

He went to the window shutter and peered out. Shadows glided here and there, directed by a man in a long cloak: the outlaws springing their attack. It would not be long now, he thought. Before following Matilde and Dame Pelagia downstairs, he glanced around the neat bedchamber. He had never been in the room where he supposed Matilde entertained her customers, and was curious. There was a small bed in a corner with a straw mattress at its foot, both heavily laden with blankets of fine wool. A low table stood under one window, bearing a matching water-jug and bowl, and the stools to either side of it were handsomely carved. Matilde’s collection of expensive dresses hung in a line near the other window, so that the air could pass through them and keep them fresh.

He heard a voice outside, and ran down the steps to where the others stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

‘They are here,’ he whispered. He drew a surgical blade from his bag, pushed Matilde and Dame Pelagia behind him, and waited.

The door was kicked open with such violence that one of the hinges was torn from the wood, and a blast of cold air gusted around the room. Then the powerful Michaelhouse philosopher, Ralph de Langelee, stood aside and gestured for Edward Mortimer to enter in front of him.

‘I knew he had to be involved!’ muttered Michael, eyeing Langelee with disdain as the philosopher followed Edward into Matilde’s house. ‘I have never liked him and his grasp of Plato is deplorable!’

Behind Edward were one of Tulyet’s sergeants and the lay sister from Denny Abbey who had brought them their meals. Bartholomew realised that it must have been she who had been listening outside the attic door when Julianna had revealed her suspicions to Bartholomew and Dame Pelagia had pretended to sleep. She made a polite curtsey of greeting to the elderly nun, which was acknowledged, but not returned. Outside, others, whose faces Bartholomew could not see, milled around. The sergeant stepped inside and brandished his loaded crossbow, and then a fourth person stepped into the room. Harling regarded the scene with some amusement.

‘So,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘We meet again!’

For a moment no one spoke. Ralph de Langelee regarded Bartholomew and Michael with a gloating smile, while Edward Mortimer was clearly uncomfortable with the situation and licked his lips anxiously. The sergeant was unreadable, and stood like a statue with his crossbow aimed at Michael’s chest and the lay sister at his side. But the only person Bartholomew was aware of was Vice-Chancellor Harling. He stood just inside the door, dressed in his scholar’s tabard of black, and his hair, as usual, plastered into place with liberal handfuls of animal grease. There was a faint bruise on his chin, but other than that he appeared to be in perfect health.

‘Do drop that ridiculous weapon,’ he said, as he saw Bartholomew’s surgical knife. ‘If you try to use it, my friend here will be obliged to shoot Brother Michael with his crossbow.’

Bartholomew let the little blade clatter to the floor, where Langelee kicked it out of reach under a table.

‘I see you did not anticipate meeting me again,’ said Harling, smoothly gloating. ‘At least, not in this world.’

‘Then you are wrong,’ said Bartholomew coldly, hating the man for his smug arrogance. ‘I knew you had escaped when the beadles did not find you drowned. How did you do it?’

Harling shrugged. ‘Besides my skill with knives, growing up in the Fens equipped me with skills in the water. I am an excellent swimmer, and it was an easy matter to allow myself to be swept out of sight and then strike out for the nearest river bank.’

He lost interest in Bartholomew, and his glittering black eyes took in the room’s handsome furnishings, the defiant Dame Pelagia, the stunned Michael and, finally, Matilde.

‘Your prostitute!’ he said to Bartholomew, smiling in understanding. ‘Of course! Where better to hide an elderly nun? I should have guessed.’

He nodded to Langelee, who stepped forward to grab Pelagia. Bartholomew blocked his way. Langelee made a gesture of impatience and swung at Bartholomew with one of his huge fists. Bartholomew ducked and the punch passed harmlessly over his head, but Langelee followed it immediately with another with his opposite hand that landed squarely on Bartholomew’s jaw. Lights danced in front of the physician’s eyes, and he fell backwards in an undignified tangle of arms and legs.

Matilde screamed and darted to his side, swearing at Langelee with words that suggested her origins might not be as gentle as her appellation of ‘Lady Matilde’ implied. Bartholomew rubbed his chin and tried to stand, but Langelee planted a hefty foot on his chest and pinned him to the floor, grinning when Matilde battered his thick leg with her small fists.

‘Stay where you are, Bartholomew,’ said Harling sharply. He nodded to Edward, who took Pelagia’s arm. Michael started forward, but stopped when the sergeant cocked his crossbow. With a sudden shock that made his stomach churn Bartholomew recognised the sergeant as one of those who had been with Tulyet in his office when they discussed the plan to lay a trap for the outlaws. It became immediately clear to him that it had all gone wrong. Tulyet would not be coming to rescue them because he had been betrayed by one of his own men.

And that was it, Bartholomew thought numbly. Harling had outwitted them as easily as that. The sergeant had told him everything Tulyet had planned, and all Harling had to do was kill four people who stood in his way – the four who knew the identity of the outlaw leader and exactly what he had done. Dame Pelagia would be questioned to ensure she had shared her knowledge with no one else, while Michael, Matilde and Bartholomew would be executed where they stood. And Deynman? If he was not dead already, he would not have long to live either. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair.

‘Give yourself up, Harling,’ said Michael with a boldness Bartholomew was sure he could not feel. ‘You cannot escape. Tulyet knows your part in this affair.’

‘Tulyet knows nothing!’ said Harling in disgust. ‘He did not even know that some of his trusted sergeants have been persuaded to join us in our business. I thought it would not be long before he became suspicious of his lack of success in hunting us down, and started to look towards his own soldiers when his attempts to catch us were repeatedly foiled. But he did not. He continued to chase around in the Fens, not realising that each time he missed catching my men at their camps, it was because they had been forewarned. The Sheriff is a fool. Do not look to him for deliverance.’

‘He is waiting nearby with an armed detachment,’ said Michael, with admirable cool.

‘Of course he is,’ sneered Harling. He gestured to the sergeant. ‘And this is one of them. Far from ambushing me, Tulyet has been drawn away to where he will fall into a trap himself.’

Edward Mortimer shifted nervously, casting a quick glance towards the street. ‘He speaks the truth. The Sheriff has been enticed to the river, where our men in his ranks will turn on him.’ He looked at Harling. ‘But nevertheless we should not stay here longer than necessary. Kill them now and let us be away.’

‘You are monsters!’ whispered Matilde, gazing from Edward to Harling. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘The usual reason, madam,’ said Harling. ‘I am weary of giving. It is time to take.’

‘You will not get far,’ said Michael. ‘Cheating the King of his taxes will be regarded as treason. You will never be safe from him.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Harling. ‘I have purchased a pleasant manor in the north country – under a different name of course – and will spend the rest of my days enjoying the proceeds of this most lucrative winter. I had hoped that Katherine Mortimer might be able to enjoy it with me, but, unfortunately, circumstances dictated otherwise.’

‘How can you have accrued such wealth in so short a time?’ said Michael in disbelief. ‘A few figs and the odd pomegranate cannot make a man’s fortune.’

‘Foolish monk!’ said Harling, his eyes glinting silvery black in the candlelight. ‘Do you think I would waste my time with fruit? That is for the poor devils who lurk about in the marshes with their pathetic little punts and their sacks of ancient oranges. And, anyway, I have been engaged in this business since last September – the day after half-wits like you voted for Tynkell instead of me.’

‘What about poisoned wine?’ asked Michael. ‘There is probably a lucrative market for that.’

‘I daresay there is,’ said Harling. ‘But I do not peddle poisoned wine. I merely had a dozen bottles – specially prepared with a strong French poison – delivered to present to a few of my acquaintances before I left. Among others, I planned to give one to Chancellor Tynkell; one to you, Brother, for leaching away my power as Vice-Chancellor; one to Master Bingham of Valence Marie who spoke out against me so unfairly when I stood for election – although Rob Thorpe almost saved me the trouble by having him indicted of Grene’s murder. Unfortunately, neither Physwick Hostel nor St Mary’s Church are places I could hide such gifts, and so I was forced to store them with the Mortimers. Half were promptly stolen, and I had to go to extraordinary lengths to get them back, so they would not be traced to me before I was ready to leave. You must admit I was thorough.’

‘Oh, very,’ said Michael heavily. ‘You arranged for Armel to be buried early to prevent too close an examination of his body; you, Katherine and Edward stole the four bottles from Matt’s room at Michaelhouse, then you went to Gonville, where you retrieved the fifth one and killed Isaac; you killed Philius when he began asking questions about poisons at his Friary; and you killed Sacks.’

‘I most certainly did not kill Isaac,’ said Harling indignantly. ‘That was Katherine and Edward. As Bartholomew observed earlier today, I have some skill with knives, and I would not have resorted to hitting the man on the head. While they were doing that, I was innocently searching the kitchens for the wine, unaware that murder had been done.’

‘But you helped us hang him once I had knocked him senseless,’ said Edward wearily. ‘You were not as entirely innocent of the affair as you would have them believe.’

‘And it was you who attacked Matt in Philius’s room,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you not stab him then – and Philius, for that matter – to save yourself the trouble later?’

‘Would that I had,’ said Harling, not without bitterness. ‘But I was interested only in retrieving the wine at that point, and thought I was being merciful in sparing your lives. I knew if I started a fire in Philius’s room, Bartholomew would feel obliged to stay to ensure his patient was not burned to a cinder, thus allowing me the opportunity to escape.’

‘Sacks stole six bottles from you, but we found only five,’ said Bartholomew. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of Langelee’s weight from his chest, but the sergeant swung his crossbow in his direction, and Langelee’s foot pushed down harder still. ‘Where is the last one?’

‘It was with Sacks when I killed him,’ said Harling dismissively. ‘Unfortunately, it was smashed in the fight we had, before he expressed a curious desire to see the inside of Master Cheney’s salt barrel. I had planned to dump that barrel in the marshes, but that is no longer necessary now you have discovered its secrets.’ He brushed imaginary specks of dust from his gown.

‘Did you desecrate Egil’s body to hide the fact that it was he who brought you the wine?’ asked Michael. ‘Because his hands and face were blistered from touching it?’

‘At last!’ said Harling. ‘You have been uncommonly slow in dealing with the few facts that have trickled your way. Perhaps the rain has rotted your minds. When Cynric so kindly informed me where you had left Egil’s corpse, I went to claim it, knowing that you would notice the blisters on his hands and face in the cold light of day. Unfortunately, he was very heavy. I hauled him as far as I could, and then settled for the easier option of removing the incriminating parts – the burns from where he had touched the bottles as he brought them across the Fens from France. You were supposed to think he was savaged by a wild animal.’

‘Very selective wild animal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Taking only hands and head.’

Michael moved restlessly, and the candlelight glittered on the ornate crucifix he had worn since the installation. Bartholomew saw it had caught Harling’s eye, too, and suddenly the Vice-Chancellor’s business in the Fens became crystal clear. He had said, quite clearly, that he was not interested in clothes and fruit, and that he considered himself in a league far beyond all the other casual opportunists. And, when Bartholomew saw him looking at Michael’s cross, Bartholomew knew exactly what the Vice-Chancellor’s trade had been.

‘Treasure,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are smuggling treasure!’

‘Good again,’ said Harling appraisingly. ‘Gold and silver is indeed what my companions and I have been smuggling. It was astonishingly easy: boats were available; pilots were ready to be hired to take the cargo through the Fens; and officials had been bribed so many times before that they had not the slightest qualm about being bought into silence again.’

‘But where does it come from?’ asked Bartholomew. He tried to rise, but Langelee’s foot was immovable.

‘It comes from Brittany,’ said Michael in sudden understanding. ‘Oswald Stanmore and I were telling you only the other day how hostilities between England and France might have died down, but that the war is still very much in progress in Brittany: there have been many reports of bands of the King’s men roaming the country to attack villages and religious houses.’

‘And you are buying the treasures from these sacked religious houses and smuggling them into England?’ asked Bartholomew of Harling. He answered his own question. ‘Items like Philius’s collection of crucifixes, the handsome chalices at Valence Marie and the gold plate at Denny are all objects monasteries and convents would own – and that would be easy for looters to carry away.’

‘I had surmised as much,’ said Dame Pelagia casually. ‘When I saw that gold plate on which the Abbess served us cakes, I knew it was nothing the Countess had donated. It was Italian and the Countess is not an admirer of Italian craftsmanship.’

‘It is really very simple,’ said Harling. ‘There is no market for plundered church plate in Brittany, and so, unless the soldiers doing the ransacking do not mind donating their treasure to the King’s bottomless coffers, the only way they can profit from their hard work is by selling it to me – cheaply, of course. I then bring it to England where I can sell it at a suitably inflated price. You bought something of mine, I see, Brother.’

Harling eyed Michael’s gold cross again. Michael looked shifty, but did not offer to return it. Harling went on.

‘Philius bought some, too, which I later reclaimed. But I know when to stop, and I have more than enough wealth to keep me and my companions comfortable for the rest of our lives. Of late, I have been unable to control the soldiers I hired to bring the treasure through the Fens. They began to attack travellers on the roads and then even places in the town – like the Round Church and St Clement’s Hostel. It would have been unfortunate to have them recognised as the perpetrators of these crimes while they were visiting me on business.’

‘So it was you who sent them to kill us in the Fens?’ asked Michael.

‘You are tenacious when it comes to mysteries,’ said Harling smoothly. ‘I knew it would be only a matter of time before your investigation of the poisoned wine led you to me – or to one of my companions who would not have had the nerve to brazen it out. When you did not accept that Bingham had murdered Grene – as Eligius very conveniently believed – I decided to take action before you had time to begin an inquiry. I sent my best man, Alan of Norwich, to deal with you, but he failed miserably. On my orders, Egil returned to look for you, but he met with his unfortunate accident.’ He turned to Edward. ‘You are lucky to escape that marriage, my friend!’

Bartholomew saw Langelee tense and shoot Edward a nasty glance.

‘And was it you Julianna heard talking at the abbey, and who later set fire to the guesthall?’ asked Michael, oblivious to the exchange between Julianna’s suitors.

Harling sighed. ‘Of course not. Had that been me, we would not be having this conversation now – you would have died in the fire. Those were a couple of clerks who work at St Mary’s Church, and who have let me down badly with their bungled attempt on your lives.’

‘And another attempt was made when that puny little fellow tried to knife me,’ said Michael. ‘And, simultaneously, someone else was waiting to shoot Matt with a crossbow outside Gonville Hall.’

‘The man with the crossbow was me,’ said Harling. ‘When John came running out as though the Devil himself was after him, I guessed he had revealed something he should not have done and so I shot him instead. Bartholomew was not an immediate threat at that point, and I knew I could come back for him at a later date.’

‘But how did you know I would visit Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew, easing himself up slightly when Langelee’s attentions seemed to be more on considering Edward’s association with Julianna than on Harling’s revelations, ‘Did Colton tell you he had summoned me?’

Harling sighed. ‘Think, man! I had just killed Philius. Who was Master Colton going to call to help him under such circumstances? All I had to do was wait, because I knew either you or Michael would come. And I was right.’

‘I see why the Abbess did not object when I suggested we might stay longer at Denny,’ said Michael. ‘She, of course, knows all about what you are doing and was perfectly happy to see us roasted alive in her guesthall. She even used Julianna’s wiles to keep us there instead of reprimanding her lewd behavior as any good Abbess would have done. I was very wrong about her – I thought she was noble and saintly.’

‘What lewd behaviour?’ demanded Langelee, removing his hefty foot from Bartholomew and moving towards Michael. Bartholomew scrambled to his feet. ‘You slander that fine woman’s name, Brother.’

Michael stood his ground. ‘She offered to perform “little services” if we remained at Denny. It is possible that her intentions were innocent, but they certainly would not sound so to a worldly ear.’

‘But you are a monk!’ exploded Langelee. ‘You are not supposed to possess a worldly ear!’

‘I was referring to the Abbess,’ said Michael primly. ‘Master Harling’s partner in crime. She was your accomplice, I assume.’

‘Naturally,’ said Harling. ‘I needed someone of intelligence and integrity whom I could trust in all this. She has proved herself superb. Who would ever guess she was involved? You did not – until now, and now it is too late to do anything about it.’

‘And where is Deynman?’ demanded Bartholomew, suddenly weary of Harling’s boasting.

‘Deynman? You mean Gray? I never had him. You were right when you said I was bluffing – he is probably in some tavern. But enough of this. Langelee, you volunteered to dispatch them for me. Do so, and then return to Michaelhouse to await payment. You will forgive me if I do not stay. But do not take long over it – all this must be completed before any more of the night is lost.’

He turned and strode out of the room, followed by Edward and the lay sister who held Dame Pelagia by her arm. Langelee drew a long hunting knife and turned towards Bartholomew.