A Deadly Brew

Chapter 6

Bartholomew regarded Julianna in disbelief, simultaneously they looked towards the door a second time as there was a slight, but distinctly audible, groan from the floorboards in the hallway.

‘And what day of the month did you notice this change in your humours?’ he asked, speaking as loudly as he could. Under the door, where there was a gap between wood and floor, a shadow moved, stopped and then passed on, while in her chair Dame Pelagia snored obliviously.

Julianna smiled quickly at him before becoming intense again. ‘They suspect I know. I am no longer safe and neither are you.’

‘Know what?’ said Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Safe from whom?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Julianna. ‘That is the frustrating part. There are comings and goings in the depths of the night and something is amiss, but I do not know what.’

‘Then how do you know you are in danger?’ asked Bartholomew. Perhaps Julianna had been locked up in the convent for too long, and her desire for something to break the monotony of her daily life had gained the better of her common sense.

She fiddled with her veil and glanced at Dame Pelagia. ‘There is not much time to explain. Last night, after compline, I went to the pantry for something to eat – I am always hungry here since the portions are so small – and I heard men in the kitchen. I heard one of them telling the others that you were not dead, but were recovering here along with that fat Benedictine and your servant. They were furious. Then I heard them say they would act tonight. As I went to leave, I knocked a plate off a shelf and they heard me. I escaped to the dormitory, but I think they guessed it was me who had been eavesdropping.’

‘What were these men like?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Mercenaries wearing boiled leather jerkins and helmets? Or a young man with a newly grown beard?’

Julianna shook her head. ‘I did not see them. But at least one of them was gently spoken. He was not a common soldier.’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. By no stretch of the imagination could Alan or any of the soldiers be described as gently spoken. But while Bartholomew could believe that the mercenaries might have discovered their whereabouts and intended to attack them again, surely there was not a second group of people who wanted his death and Michael’s? He wondered again if Julianna might be making up the story to inject some excitement into her life, or if she had misunderstood or misheard.

Julianna read the doubt in his face. Her eyes narrowed and her face became hard. ‘You do not believe me! I risk myself to come to warn you, and you do not believe a word I say. Well you will find out I am right, but then it will be too late.’

She began to flounce away, but he caught her by the arm.

‘Wait! You say you have risked your life to warn me, but people do not risk their lives for those they do not know. What were you intending to ask of me? Other than an astrological consultation to cure the cough we both know you do not have.’

Her eyes flashed with fury, but this was as quickly replaced by sudden humour. ‘You are astute!’ She looked towards Dame Pelagia and then to the door. ‘You have also guessed correctly. When you leave tonight, I want to go with you.’

He had been right: Julianna saw in Bartholomew and Michael an opportunity to escape from her tedious existence at Denny. Since she probably realised that there would be nothing in her horoscope to warrant the Abbess removing her from the Fens, she must have had an alternative plan to ensure she would be able to abscond.

‘And if we take you to Cambridge, what will you do then?’ he asked, to see how far she had considered her arrangements in advance. He was not disappointed.

‘I will throw myself on the mercy of my uncle,’ she said promptly. ‘Thomas Deschalers, the grocer.’

It was a small world, he thought. ‘Are Thomas Deschalers and the Abbess kinsmen, then?’ he asked. ‘You are the niece of both.’

‘I know what I am,’ said Julianna imperiously. ‘But Thomas Deschalers is my father’s brother and the Abbess is my mother’s sister. They are not kinsmen really. When my parents died last year, he used my relationship with her to secure me here.’

‘You did not want to come, I take it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I did not!’ claimed Julianna vehemently. ‘I preferred life in London, although Cambridge was proving it might have possibilities. Uncle Thomas did not really give me time to find out before he had arranged for me to come to this godforsaken bog.’

‘You have not always been in a convent, then?’

Julianna grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, yes, I have spent most of my life with nuns. I had a few weeks of freedom in London after the death of my parents, and then a few weeks in Cambridge when I lived with Uncle Thomas. But I would rather be anywhere but here. You must take me with you.’

‘And what will you do if Uncle Thomas orders you straight back here?’

‘He will not!’ said Julianna defiantly. ‘I will tell him of all the strange happenings and he will inform the Sheriff who will investigate.’

‘What strange happenings?’

‘I have already told you!’ said Julianna impatiently. ‘Comings and goings in the night, strange men in the kitchens between matins and lauds–’

‘But there might be a dozen explanations for these things, Sis … Mistress Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently.

Perhaps some of the lay sisters had their menfolk into the kitchens to give them food, he thought, for even in the Fens, where fish and fowl were more abundant than elsewhere, food was still scarce and hideously expensive for the honest labourer. Or perhaps the explanation was less innocent, and some of the lay sisters, or even nuns, entertained men under cover of darkness. But regardless, Julianna’s suspicions were scarcely something with which to bother the Sheriff.

‘The wisest course of action for you to take would be to tell your aunt of your concerns and observations, and let her decide what to do about it,’ he said eventually.

‘You are worthless!’ shouted Julianna with sudden vehemence, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I should have known better than to trust you.’

Her furious words woke Dame Pelagia, who blinked in confusion at the scene in front of her. Julianna shoved Bartholomew away and fled from the room.

‘And you should not be there!’ he heard her yell, presumably to the person who had been trying to listen outside the door. He went to look, but there was no one to be seen.

‘What ails Julianna?’ asked Dame Pelagia, standing unsteadily. Her eyes widened accusingly. ‘You did not seduce her while I was dozing?’

‘Of course I did not!’ said Bartholomew half indignant and half startled by the old nun’s forthrightness. ‘She is angry because she did not like the advice I gave her.’

He helped the old lady down the stairs and they entered the Abbess’s solar again. She and Michael were positioned most decorously, she standing at the window, and he still sitting in the chair by the fire. He stood as Bartholomew entered with Dame Pelagia and offered her the chair.

‘Have you worked out a course of treatment for my niece’s ailment?’ asked the Abbess. ‘Or will I need to ask Thomas Deschalers to house her until I find her another convent in a more healthy part of the country? I was alarmed when she told me of her condition yesterday. It is not good for a person so young to have such complaints.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Bartholomew. He was saved from having to answer further by the sound of the bell ringing to call the nuns to sext. The Abbess moved from the window and offered her hand to Michael, who hastened to take it in his.

‘Thank you for your company, Brother,’ she said. ‘You have been most charming and entertaining. You are welcome to join us for sext, if you like.’

Michael caught Bartholomew’s look that he wanted to talk and said, with some reluctance, that he would say his offices at the prie-dieu in the guesthall. With a gracious smile, the Abbess took her leave, followed by Dame Pelagia, while the lay sister conducted Bartholomew and Michael out of the convent proper and back to their lodgings.

‘Are you still in one piece?’ asked Cynric anxiously, looking up from the fire in front of which he had been drowsing. ‘I thought those women intended some serious mischief.’

‘Some of them did,’ said Michael slyly, looking at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye.

‘Not to the same extent as you,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Your lecherous attentions had that poor Abbess in a terrible quandary.’

‘Matthew, Matthew!’ said Michael in hurt tones. ‘What do you think I am? I have sworn a vow of chastity.’ The gleam in his green eyes was anything but chaste.

‘Really?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And how well do you keep it?’

‘That, my dear physician, is none of your business,’ said Michael with a smug smile. ‘But I can assure you I was nothing but decorous and gallant with that noble lady, the Abbess.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but was unable to determine whether he was telling the truth. Michael’s eyes shone with something other than their usual salaciousness, and Bartholomew hoped the monk did not imagine himself in love. If he did, the situation was bound to end in tragedy for Michael, if not for the Abbess.

Briefly, he told Michael what Julianna had said, but the monk dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

‘Silly girl! The nuns ought to warn her about her behaviour. She was lucky it was you she enticed up into her secluded chambers, and not some lout who would have taken advantage of her.’

‘What about what she says she overheard last night?’

Michael shook his head. ‘You were right to have misgivings: she probably made it up to force you to take her to Cambridge. It is a clever tactic – what better way to make someone do what you want than to prey on his fears? You have just been viciously attacked and almost killed in the Fens, and so she warns you that it might happen again. Most men would be gone already!’

‘Then we should go,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘There is a remote chance she is telling the truth and I want to return to Michaelhouse anyway.’

‘Your leg needs more rest,’ said Michael, after a moment’s hesitation.

‘It does not!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the feebleness of the excuse to stay.

‘It is too late,’ said Michael, studying the sky through the open shutters. ‘If we set off now, it will be dark by the time we reach Cambridge and it would be dangerous to be on the road then.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are at least four hours of daylight left and we can easily walk the eight miles to Cambridge before dusk.’

‘Walk?’ squawked Michael in horror. ‘I cannot walk eight miles!’

‘It will do you good, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing Michael’s substantial girth critically. ‘You need some exercise.’

‘I still feel weak from my experiences in the Fens,’ said Michael, putting a flabby hand to his forehead. ‘And I think I might have twisted my ankle.’

‘Show me,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘I am good with twisted ankles.’

Michael sighed. ‘Just one more night, Matt!’ he pleaded. ‘One more! And then I will return to Cambridge with you. I will even walk if you so demand. But let us stay here one more night!’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you have a tryst with the Abbess? I would advise against it if you do, Brother. No good can come of such an affair.’

‘You sully that good lady’s name,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Of course I have no tryst with her. She is a holy, decent woman.’ He turned abruptly on his heel, and went to sit in one of the window seats at the opposite end of the hall, staring morosely out at the misty marshes.

Bartholomew exchanged a look of incomprehension with Cynric, who had watched the scene with considerable interest.

‘Is he in love with this Abbess?’ whispered Cynric, looking at Michael uncertainly.

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. He sighed and paced restlessly. ‘We are wasting time here, Cynric. If Gray fails his disputation a second time, he will have to repeat an entire year of studying. And that is something neither of us wants!’

‘You work too hard, boy,’ said Cynric. He gestured to the fire. ‘Where is there a welcoming hearth like this in Michaelhouse? Just draw up a stool and enjoy it while you can.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew saw Cynric was right. Michael clearly had no intention of leaving Denny that day – although what could be keeping him except the possibility of an encounter with the Abbess, Bartholomew could not imagine – and he could not leave the fat monk behind. He perched on a stool and poked at the fire with a stick, watching sparks fly up the chimney. He realised there was a residual stiffness in his limbs from his night in the Fens and the rest would do him good – then they would be able to make better time on the road to Cambridge at first light the next morning.

The lay sister tapped tentatively on the door and entered, bearing a tray that was so heavily laden with food that Bartholomew, not anticipating such weight, almost dropped it when he hurried forward to help. Michael smacked his lips appreciatively at the large game pie, while Bartholomew ate the excellent bread, baked that day in the convent’s own kitchens. Fresh bread was a rare commodity in Michaelhouse, where stale flour was usually used because it was cheaper. There was also some firm yellow cheese, a pat of creamy butter, a little dish of something covered by a linen cloth, and three oranges. Bartholomew picked up one of the fruits and turned it over in his hand.

‘I have not seen one of these for years,’ he said. It was wizened and hard after its long journey from Spain or Italy, and probably long past its best. But to see an orange at all in the Fens in winter was remarkable.

Cynric eyed it with suspicion. ‘I heard those things poisoned Master Mortimer the baker.’

‘That was lemons,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Oranges should not poison anyone. Try some.’

Cynric shook his head quickly and turned his attention back to his bread and cheese. Michael poked suspiciously at the green and lumpy substance in the small dish covered by the linen.

‘What is that?’ he asked with some disgust. ‘It looks like something terrible has been done to a vegetable – and you know how I feel about vegetables.’

‘Pickled eels and samphire,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Stanmore bringing some as a gift for Edith many years before. His sister had eaten it only because she wanted to please her husband, and had paid for her courtesy by spending most of the night being sick. The next time Stanmore had presented some to her she had shown the good sense to feed it to the cat. ‘It is considered a great delicacy and is very expensive. We should be honoured the abbey is sharing such a dish with us.’

‘You eat it, then,’ said Michael, pushing it towards Bartholomew after a brief and decisive sniff. ‘It smells rank.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Brother. It tastes a good deal worse than it smells. That is why it is produced in such small quantities: like most delicacies, if it were common, no one would eat it. Oswald told me the King has a liking for pickled eels and samphire, and so, of course, it can be found in the houses of most people who consider themselves fashionable.’

Michael offered it to Cynric, who speared a piece of eel with his dagger and put it in his mouth. He spat it out again immediately, and pulled a face of such utter disgust that Michael and Bartholomew began to laugh.

‘That is quite horrible,’ said the Welshman, after he had taken a healthy swig of ale to wash away the flavour. ‘It tastes like bitter medicine! Far from being honoured, I would say the abbey is trying to get rid of us! You can keep your local delicacies, boy. We Welsh know how to cook seaweed better than that.’

‘Seaweed?’ whispered Michael, aghast. ‘They have given us seaweed?’

‘A particular type,’ said Bartholomew, feeling guilty that they were being uncharitable over the nuns’ generous attempt to provide them with extravagant foods. ‘It is not just any old weed picked up from the shores.’

‘That makes no difference, Matt,’ said Michael sagely, placing the dish as far away from him as possible. ‘Seaweed is seaweed and we should not eat it. It is not natural. We are not crabs!’

Bartholomew smiled and went back to poking the fire while the others finished their dinner. Despite Michael’s recovered humour, Bartholomew remained apprehensive about his determination that they stay in Denny for another night. He was certain that whatever it was that made him so insistent had nothing to do with the poisoned wine, or the attempt on their lives. Michael, thought Bartholomew, would not win his much-desired promotion from the Bishop if he indulged in a love affair with the Abbess of Denny!

Bartholomew awoke with a start to find a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He was about to struggle when he saw Cynric’s profile etched in the faint light from the embers of the fire. He relaxed and the hand was removed. When he had grown bored with sitting by the fire, he had fallen asleep on his bed and the room was now quite dark. He wondered what time it could be: he could hear no sounds coming from the convent and the guesthall was totally silent. He sat up on the bed and watched Cynric buckling his dagger to his belt.

‘What is it?’ he whispered.

Cynric edged nearer so that his voice would not carry. ‘Michael has gone.’

‘Gone where?’ Bartholomew stood up and went towards Michael’s bed, a pointless action since Cynric had just informed him that Michael was no longer there. He rubbed his eyes and tried to force himself to be more alert.

‘Shh! I do not know. He went out a few moments ago. Should I follow him?’ He drew his cloak around his shoulders in anticipation.

‘We both will,’ whispered Bartholomew, after a moment of indecision. He could sense Cynric’s disapproval, but the Welshman kept his thoughts to himself. Bartholomew knew Cynric had a low opinion of his abilities to creep around undetected in the dark, but it was only Michael they were following and, if anything, Michael was even worse at stealth than was Bartholomew.

Absently slipping his medicines bag over his shoulder, he followed Cynric through the door.

‘Why are you bringing that?’ hissed Cynric, pulling at it in the dark. ‘It will be in the way.’

Bartholomew shrugged: taking his bag was so instinctive, he had not even realised he had done it. His teacher, Ibn Ibrahim at the University in Paris, had taught him he should never be without it, not even in the bath. Bath! All very well in the civilised countries to the east, but Bartholomew had only ever seen one bath-house in England, and that was in the former villa of a Roman nobleman and had fallen into ruin many centuries before. It was all Bartholomew could do to persuade people to give their hands the most cursory of rinses before eating, despite the fact that he was sure it would prevent a veritable host of intestinal disorders if they did.

He forced his mind away from the perennial problems of medicine and back to Cynric’s silent shadow moving ahead of him. Michael was nowhere to be seen, but Cynric led the way unhesitatingly around the side of the guesthall and into the gardens behind the church. An empty snail shell crunched loudly under Bartholomew’s foot, making Cynric glance back at him with a weary look of warning to take more care.

The temperature had fallen dramatically with the coming of clearer weather, and the ground underfoot was crisp with rime. For the first time in many weeks, the stars could be seen glittering between the occasional drifting cloud and Bartholomew paused to gaze upwards before an impatient tug on his sleeve set him following Cynric through the fruit trees and rows of kitchen vegetables. Bartholomew shivered in the cold, and wished he had brought his cloak.

At first, he thought Cynric’s instincts must have been wrong and that Michael had traipsed off elsewhere in the darkness. But then he saw a movement and there was Michael, all but invisible in his black habit. He appeared to be waiting for someone, because he paced back and forth with an agitation Bartholomew had seldom seen in the sardonic monk. Bartholomew began to have serious misgivings over spying on his friend, for it was apparent from his demeanour that Michael was not meeting just anybody: he was anxious and tense and Bartholomew had attended enough nocturnal meetings with Michael to know he was not easily unsettled from his habitual complacency.

‘Come on,’ said the physician softly, pulling at Cynric’s sleeve. ‘This is not right. We should not be spying on Michael and his lady-love.’

Wordlessly, Cynric led the way out of the garden and back towards the guesthall. When he stopped, it was so sudden that Bartholomew bumped into him from behind. Cynric raised his hand to warn him not to speak, but Bartholomew had already seen the dark shadow flitting along the side of the guesthall. The nun looked around carefully, before moving soundlessly through the fruit trees to where Michael waited. Cynric drew Bartholomew into the shadows until she had passed, and then led the way back to the guesthall door. He fiddled with the handle.

‘Hurry up!’ said Bartholomew, shivering. ‘It is cold out here. It is all very well for you – you have your cloak, but I do not.’

‘It is locked,’ muttered Cynric. He stood back and studied the handle, perplexed.

‘It cannot be,’ whispered Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Let me try.’

He fumbled around with the handle, and pushed and pulled at the door, but Cynric was right: someone had locked it.

‘How very odd,’ he said, looking at Cynric’s silhouette in the darkness. ‘Do you think someone broke in to search our belongings?’

‘If it were me, I would not lock the door while I was inside,’ answered Cynric softly. ‘It might interfere with a hasty escape.’

Puzzled, Bartholomew followed Cynric around to the side of the building to assess the chances of climbing through a window – they could hardly knock on the abbey door in the depths of night and say they had locked themselves out.

Cynric froze suddenly, motioning for Bartholomew not to move. There were two people kneeling at the foot of the wall below the window in the guesthall. Bartholomew peered into the darkness, trying to see what they were doing, but all he could see was their bent backs and something dark on the floor. Then there was a blaze of light and the two figures leapt to their feet. Both held a flaring torch in each hand. Bewildered, Bartholomew watched as one stood back and hurled the flaming missile upwards and towards the window. Leaving a trail of light behind it, the torch dipped and disappeared with a tinkle of breaking glass. The first torch was followed by a second and then a third. The fourth missed, and had to be retrieved and thrown again.

Cynric eased Bartholomew further back into the shadows as the two figures darted towards them, and watched them run out of the nunnery grounds through the gate next to the vegetable garden. Bartholomew was unable to take his eyes from the flames licking up inside the guesthall.

‘Damn!’ he whispered. ‘My cloak is in there, and so are my new gloves. Just when I was beginning to like them!’

‘I have your gloves here,’ said Cynric, pushing them into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘I borrowed them yesterday when I went to look for Egil.’

Numbly, Bartholomew put them on. He jumped and ducked as one of the windows blew out suddenly in a roar of flames, sending glass showering onto the ground below.

‘We are meant to be in there,’ Cynric whispered, stating the obvious. ‘That door was locked so that we could not get out.’

‘But we could still have jumped through the windows,’ said Bartholomew.

Cynric shook his head, squinting up and assessing their size, vividly outlined by the flames behind. ‘The mullions are too close together. I might have made it, but you would not and neither would Brother Michael.’

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew loudly, suddenly afraid for the fat monk’s safety. He turned and raced to the vegetable garden with Cynric at his heels.

Michael stood under the trees, talking softly to the nun who had passed them earlier. They stood closely together in an intimate fashion, and Bartholomew wondered how Michael would react at being caught red-handed at his dalliance. The Benedictine looked up as he heard their footsteps coming towards him, his expression unreadable. As Bartholomew came nearer, the nun turned around and he was brought up short.

‘Dame Pelagia!’ he exclaimed.

The elderly nun acknowledged Bartholomew’s unexpected presence in the orchard with a curt inclination of her head, but Bartholomew was in utter confusion. Surely Dame Pelagia could not have been the object of Michael’s amorous attentions? How could she be the reason Michael had insisted on remaining at the abbey? The monk regarded him coldly, clearly unamused at being interrupted.

‘Someone has set light to the guesthall, thinking us to be inside,’ explained Cynric, when he realised Bartholomew had been startled into silence.

Michael exchanged an enigmatic glance with the old lady.

‘I wondered what that crash was,’ she said. ‘One of the windows blowing out?’

Bartholomew nodded, surprised that she should know about such things.

‘I suggest we leave here right now and let these people think they have done their job this time,’ said Cynric urgently, ‘or else we shall never be free of their attentions.’

His plan made sense to Bartholomew, but Michael was uncertain. ‘What are you suggesting? That we head to Cambridge now? In the dark?’

‘Why not?’ asked Cynric. ‘I can scout ahead and make certain it is safe.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We will leave at first light.’

‘And what do we do in the meantime?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by Michael’s attitude. ‘Go back to the abbey and wait for the killers to try again?’

‘We need to collect our belongings,’ said Michael, clearly temporising.

‘The guesthall is on fire,’ said Bartholomew. As he spoke, the abbey bell began to sound the alarm, and excited voices began to clamour in the silence. ‘Everything will have been destroyed, including my only cloak and even the pickled eels and samphire.’

‘Pickled eels and samphire?’ asked Dame Pelagia sharply. ‘I did not know the abbey possessed any of that. It is a favourite of mine.’

Michael patted her arm. ‘I will buy you some when we reach Cambridge,’ he said absently.

Bartholomew looked from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But are you suggesting that Dame Pelagia will be travelling to Cambridge with us?’

Michael nodded. ‘She will. We will leave as soon as it is light.’

‘It is better we go now, boy,’ said Cynric urgently, ‘while all this confusion is on. When the fire is out, they will soon see there are no bodies and we will have lost the advantage. Then we might never get home.’

Michael hesitated in an agony of indecision.

‘Leave me here, Michael,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘Come back when you are better equipped.’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘You will not be safe and leaving you is out of the question.’

‘But I could slow you down,’ she said gently. ‘And it is imperative you return to Cambridge and send word to the Bishop in Ely that I have information for him or, better yet, inform Sheriff Tulyet what has been happening so that he can act before it is too late.’

‘Information about what?’ asked Bartholomew, his confusion growing by the moment.

‘If I leave, you leave,’ said Michael, ignoring him and speaking firmly to the nun, his tone brooking no argument.

The old lady sighed. ‘Then we should go now, as your friend suggests.’

Michael put his hands over his face and scrubbed hard at his cheeks. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘Fetch what you need and meet us here. But hurry. And take care!’

‘Will you bring Julianna?’ asked Bartholomew as she began to move away. She stopped and stared at him mystified. ‘When you come back, bring Julianna with you,’ he said again, thinking she had misheard. Wordlessly, she moved away, her progress through the trees stately, but sure-footed.

‘What is this?’ said Cynric, bewildered. ‘Do we each get to choose a nun to take home with us?’

Michael turned to him. ‘Can you follow her? Make sure she returns unmolested?’

Cynric’s face registered confusion, but he slipped away soundlessly through the trees after the old lady.

‘Explain yourself,’ said Michael to Bartholomew peremptorily. ‘What do you mean by imposing that young woman on us? She is a harlot!’

Bartholomew gazed at Michael in disbelief. ‘Michael!’ he chided gently. ‘What is the matter with you? You know why she must come – she warned us that an attempt might be made on our lives tonight and she was right. And she said she believed she was in danger, so now we are under a moral obligation to try to protect her. But more to the point, why are you insisting that we bring Dame Pelagia? She is an old lady, and will not find such a journey easy, especially in the dark.’

‘I know!’ said Michael fiercely. ‘That is why I wanted to leave in the morning.’

‘But why bring her at all?’

Michael lunged at Bartholomew suddenly, catching him by a handful of his tabard. ‘That is my affair and none of yours! Keep your questions to yourself!’

He thrust Bartholomew from him with such force that the physician lost his footing on the frozen soil and tumbled inelegantly to the ground. In an instant, Michael was kneeling next to him.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt! I am sorry! I did not mean … sometimes I do not know my own strength,’ he said apologetically, anxiety written all over his face.

‘What is wrong with you?’ demanded Bartholomew crossly, rubbing his leg. ‘If there is something distressing you, tell me. Do not just push me around!’

The fat monk let out a great sigh and looked up at the stars. ‘Dame Pelagia,’ he said in a low voice, ‘is my grandmother.’

‘So? That is no reason for belligerence.’ Bartholomew started to climb to his feet.

‘You do not understand,’ said Michael, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him up with ease. For all his obesity and lack of fitness, Michael was still a powerful man. ‘You see, like me, Dame Pelagia is an agent for the Bishop of Ely.’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly, trying to work some sense into Michael’s piecemeal revelations. ‘Are you telling me that spying runs in your family, or just that your Bishop is prepared to use anyone to further his own ends – even an old lady?’

Michael sighed again. ‘She is officially retired now. She was in all this business long before I was born, and was not always a nun.’

‘Evidently not,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if she is your grandmother. But why the secrecy? It is not such a terrible thing to have grandparents. Even I had some once.’

‘Because I know the Bishop would want me to leave her here to discover more about what is happening. But she is old and frail, and I am about to defy the Bishop and take her away,’ said Michael. ‘It is becoming too dangerous for her here.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. That Michael was about to incur the Bishop’s ire might have serious consequences for the advancement of the ambitious monk’s career. The Bishop would not be pleased that Michael had taken matters into his own hands and removed a potentially valuable spy: he was possessive about people who provided him with information, as his insistence that Michael was to remain Proctor and not become Master of Valence Marie attested.

‘But what makes you think she will not be safe here?’ Bartholomew asked eventually. ‘And why could you not have told me all this earlier?’

‘No one knows Dame Pelagia is my grandmother except the Bishop,’ said Michael. ‘He decided it would be safer for everyone concerned if only he and I know that.’

‘Dame Pelagia knows, I take it?’ asked Bartholomew facetiously.

‘Do not be flippant, Matt!’ snapped Michael. ‘This is no laughing matter!’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, with a sigh of resignation. ‘But I do not see why you deem all this secrecy so necessary.’

‘Although my grandmother came to Denny to enjoy a well-earned retirement, old habits die hard. She told me yesterday that she has suspected for several months that something untoward has been going on in the area and, like Julianna, has observed strange comings and goings in the night. She has known since she arrived that Denny Abbey lies on a smuggling route. Goods are brought down the Fenland waterways from the coast, because the dry land around here is ideal for storing the contraband until it is sent on.’

‘Smuggling?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Are you suggesting the Abbess is a smuggler?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped Michael. ‘How could she be? The smugglers are the Fenfolk, some of whom have kin among the lay sisters at the abbey. It was these men whom that silly Julianna heard in the kitchens last night. My grandmother knows the identities of some of them, and she wants me to pass their names to either the Bishop or the Sheriff. I was also hoping to learn something from the Abbess earlier today, but I could tell she is innocent and knows nothing of all this.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily of his conviction that Michael’s intentions for the Abbess that afternoon had been rather different.

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Michael sardonically. ‘You assumed I was trying to seduce the woman. You have a nasty imagination, Matthew! My intention was only to discover whether she might have heard or seen anything odd without raising her suspicions, or telling her why I wanted to know. I had to be subtle: I did not want her to endanger herself by beginning an investigation of her own, and so needed to be careful not to let slip that her abbey is the scene of untoward happenings.’

‘The oranges!’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘And the lemons Deschalers sold Mortimer.’

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

‘Smuggled fruit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The oranges we ate earlier tonight were probably smuggled through this route across the Fens.’

Michael considered. ‘You are doubtless right. But, oranges aside, I feel that it is no longer safe for my grandmother to remain here. She has been asking questions in the kitchens all afternoon, so that she could provide me with information when we met tonight, and I am afraid her actions will have aroused the suspicions of the smugglers. I suppose your Julianna is equally vulnerable.’

‘Not my Julianna,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘But you did not speak to your grandmother between the time we left the Abbess and the time you persuaded us to wait until tomorrow to leave. How did you know to meet her here tonight?’

‘The Countess of Pembroke is a powerful lady,’ said Michael, apparently changing the subject, ‘and, like all ladies, she confides her secrets to her most trusted ladies in waiting. She is careful, but she often overlooks the presence of an old nun dozing on a bench, or doddering feebly around the cloisters. I have met my grandmother here, under this tree, many times since I undertook to act as the Bishop’s agent. She often has vital information, which I then pass to him. My grandmother and I know each other well enough to arrange to meet without speaking.’

Bartholomew shuddered, appalled at the implications of Michael’s words. The Bishop even had a spy in the Countess of Pembroke’s bedchamber, and was using a frail old lady to obtain information that would enable him to manipulate his domain and maintain political power. But then, if Dame Pelagia acted in the way Michael described, she was anything but a frail old lady: she was a cunning manipulator – just like Michael himself – except that she seemed to have years of experience behind her. He was suddenly absolutely certain that she had not been asleep when Julianna spoke to him in the attic, and that the younger woman’s intelligence of curious happenings might well have prompted her to go ferreting for further information to pass to Michael. He remembered the soft creak outside the attic door: someone else had heard what Julianna had to say, too.

A low hiss told him that Cynric was back. Dame Pelagia was with him, leaning on his arm, and Bartholomew wondered how Michael thought they were going to get her back to Cambridge. Behind them was Julianna, her face aglow with vindication.

‘I told you so!’ she whispered to Bartholomew, raising her eyebrows arrogantly. ‘It is a good thing you heeded my advice, or you might now be dead.’

Bartholomew did not say that he and Michael had discounted her advice, and that it had been by chance they were away from the guesthall when the attack was made. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a cloak? It will be a long, cold walk.’

‘Walk?’ exclaimed Julianna in disbelief. ‘I cannot walk! Where are your horses?’

‘His is at the bottom of a bog,’ said Michael archly, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And so will you be if you cause us trouble. This is no jaunt we are undertaking, madam, but a flight for our lives.’

Julianna’s exuberance faded at Michael’s hostility and the prospect of a dismal walk, and Bartholomew thought she looked as though she was having serious second thoughts about the whole adventure. Although the rain had stopped, a chill wind cut across the Fens, blowing clouds over the moon and obscuring its dim light. It would not be an easy journey, nor a pleasant one.

‘Are you sure your uncle will take you in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if he refuses, we cannot take you to Michaelhouse. Women are not allowed in the Colleges.’

‘Are you monks then?’ asked Julianna in surprise.

‘Virtually,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour. He understood that it would not be wise to allow women to roam freely around the Colleges and hostels, but the rule was sometimes carried too far. If it were not for his patients and the occasional case with Michael, Bartholomew would not have met any women at all.

‘Listen,’ said Cynric, gathering the small group around him. ‘I will scout ahead and check all is clear. If something is amiss, I will make a sound like a nightjar – twice – and you should immediately take cover at the side of the road and stay there until I say it is safe to come out. You,’ he said, turning to Bartholomew, ‘should stay well behind and ensure we are not being followed, and Brother Michael can help the ladies in between.’

Without waiting for their agreement, he set off and almost instantly disappeared in the undergrowth. Julianna puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.

‘Am I to take orders from that grubby little man?’ she asked. ‘He cannot even sew!’

‘You do what he says or you can stay here,’ said Bartholomew coldly, angered at her attitude towards the man who was a loyal friend and whose judgement Bartholomew respected. He was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of taking Julianna with them. She was the Abbess’s niece, and would surely be secure under her care. But Julianna had seemed in genuine fear, and the more he came to know her, the more Bartholomew doubted her ability to look after herself. All he needed to do was to deposit her with Deschalers, and his responsibility would be at an end. If Deschalers thought Bartholomew had made a mistake, then he could return her to Denny with no harm done.

With Michael holding Dame Pelagia solicitously by the elbow and Julianna swaying along beside them, the small group set off. Bartholomew was about to drop behind, when Dame Pelagia caught his arm in a grip that was more powerful than he would have believed possible from someone who gave the appearance of being so frail.

‘That pickled eel and samphire,’ she whispered. ‘The dish was on the kitchen table when I went to collect my cloak. I tasted it, and I am almost certain it contained some soporific drug. Had you three been more adventurous in your tastes – or more alert to the fashions of court – you would have eaten the dish that is such a favourite of the King. And then nothing would have woken you when the fire broke out in the guesthall.’

Bartholomew felt vulnerable trailing behind the others. Their progress was painfully slow along the road, and he could see that this was largely because Julianna had put on the light shoes nuns wore in the abbey, which were wholly inadequate for the rutted, sticky mud of the road. Even from his position far behind, he could hear her shrill complaints ringing out across the Fens. After they had travelled about a mile, Michael stopped and waited for Bartholomew to catch up with him.

‘This is hopeless,’ he grumbled, casting a venomous look at Julianna. ‘We will never reach Cambridge if she is with us. She cannot walk and she will not be quiet.’

Julianna regarded him icily. ‘He is going too quickly, and my feet hurt.’

‘We must hurry, Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You said you were in fear of your life from these men, and you have good reason to be afraid. It is only a matter of time before they learn that we did not die in the fire – and they will guess where we are going, and will come after us. Do you want them to catch us?’

She shook her head miserably, and looked as though she was going to cry. Michael turned away in disgust and continued walking with his grandmother.

‘And he pays far more attention to that old crone than me,’ said Julianna bitterly.

So that was it, thought Bartholomew: spoiled Julianna resented not being the centre of attention.

‘Stay with me then,’ he said, reasoning that he might have better luck with her than Michael. ‘But no talking.’

She smiled at him in the darkness, and he took her hand and led her to the side of the road. He waited for a while, peering back along the track to ensure that no one was following, before walking briskly a short distance and repeating the process. When the moon was out, there was enough light to see the road quite clearly, but when it went behind a cloud, the darkness was all but impenetrable. To make matters worse, strips of ghostly white mist trailed across the causeway, sheathing the undergrowth in a murky veil that made Bartholomew’s task almost impossible.

It was not long before Julianna was bored, complaining that her wet feet became chilled during the periods of enforced stillness. She had opened her mouth to let off yet another litany of grumbles, when there was a sharp snap from the undergrowth, and she and Bartholomew froze into silence. At the same time, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and they were plunged into inky blackness.

Just when Bartholomew was beginning to think the noise had been made by an animal, and that it was safe to move on, he saw a shadow emerge from the bushes nearby and slip down the road after Michael.

‘What do we do?’ said Julianna, her voice high pitched with excitement. ‘Will you kill him?’

Bartholomew regarded her askance. For a woman who had spent her life with nuns, she had a curiously vicious trait in her personality. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move until I come back for you; you will be quite all right if you do what I say.’

‘And what happens if you are slain?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘Do I just wait here in this foul place for ever?’

Bartholomew gave her another look of disbelief, and left, creeping along the side of the road after the figure with as much stealth as he could muster. Ahead of him, the man kept to the middle of the road, but then was lost to sight as a wisp of Fen mist curled across the path and enveloped him. Intent on watching him, Bartholomew did not pay as much attention to where he was treading as he might, and he stumbled into a pothole. Through the shifting fog, Bartholomew saw the man dart into the undergrowth in alarm.

Bartholomew picked himself up, found a spot where he would be well shielded by bushes, and prepared to wait. He shivered. It was cold without a cloak, and his hiding place had ankle-deep icy water that seeped through his boots.

One thing his years of friendship with Cynric had taught Bartholomew was that in situations like the one in which he now found himself, the safest option was to wait and see what happened next. Cynric had often told him that the art of travelling at night without being seen was merely a matter of patience and practice. Bartholomew had been given more opportunities to practise than he would have liked over the previous five years, while his work as a physician had forced him to learn patience. He knew that, eventually, the person ahead of him would grow tired of waiting, or would come to believe he had imagined the sound that had startled him, and would emerge from his hiding place.

With horror, Bartholomew saw another figure glide past him and make its way down the road. Julianna! The moon emerged from the clouds and she was clearly visible. To make matters worse, every so often, she would stop and call out his name. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. Stupid girl! He was deliberating whether to go after her and haul her to safety, or let her go and hope the man hiding further along the road would allow her to pass unmolested, when the matter was decided for him.

The stranger hurtled out of the undergrowth, and then he and Julianna were engaged in a violent skirmish. Bartholomew tore towards them, abandoning any attempt at stealth. But Julianna’s screams were so loud and piercing, that Bartholomew imagined she would have alerted any outlaws for miles around that there was potential prey on the road anyway.

He reached the struggling pair, and hauled the man away from Julianna. The moon slipped behind a cloud again. The man tottered backwards, but then regained his balance and raced at Bartholomew. They collided, and Bartholomew realised in panic that the man was attempting to put him in one of the holds that wrestlers used. He tried to wriggle out of the man’s grip, but powerful arms had locked around his chest.

‘Hit him!’ screamed Julianna, using a rotten branch to flail at the man. One of her wild blows caught Bartholomew on the neck, and he realised that he was in as much danger from her ill-aimed swipes as was the man who attacked her. He kicked backwards, aiming to drive his heels into the man’s shins. With a grunt of pain, the man eased his hold for the instant that allowed Bartholomew to squirm free.

‘Do something!’ Julianna howled. Her voice distracted the man, and Bartholomew used the opportunity to dive at him. The man side-stepped neatly, and used Bartholomew’s own momentum to throw him to the ground. Bartholomew scrambled away as fast as he could and managed to regain his footing. He had seen what happened to wrestlers once they had fallen on the floor, and he had no desire to have his arms bent into unnatural positions or his head twisted round on his neck.

The man grabbed at him before he had fully gained his balance and then they were both down, scrabbling about in the muddy road. While the wrestler tried to get a good grip on Bartholomew to render him helpless, Bartholomew fended him off with kicks and punches. Julianna, meanwhile, declined to come too close to the affray and began to throw stones. The first one fell harmlessly short; the second caught Bartholomew a painful blow on the arm.

‘Julianna! Stop!’ he yelled.

The man had managed to get a hand inside Bartholomew’s collar, and was beginning to twist it. As his tunic was pulled tight around his neck, Bartholomew began to gasp for breath. He balled his hand into a fist and punched as hard as he could, aiming for the sensitive region just under the ribs. But the man was solid muscle and, with the exception of a small grunt, Bartholomew’s desperate measure had no impact on him at all. Just as Bartholomew was beginning to feel dizzy from lack of air, the man went limp and the grip on Bartholomew’s collar was released.

‘There!’ said Julianna in satisfaction, dropping a heavy stone to the ground and brushing off her hands. ‘That taught him a lesson!’

Bartholomew struggled out from under the unconscious man as Cynric and Michael, alerted by Julianna’s screams, came hurrying towards them. Breathless and shaken, but still in one piece, Bartholomew bent to examine his opponent.

‘Did he molest you?’ Dame Pelagia asked Julianna, coming straight to the point.

Julianna shook her head. ‘He asked me whom I was looking for,’ she said. ‘I attempted to run away, but he caught me and I screamed.’

‘You most certainly did,’ said Michael drily. ‘I thought Judgement Day had come! What a racket! And now half the population of East Anglia knows we are here.’

‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in horror, breaking into their conversation.

Everyone turned to look at him, kneeling over the prostrate figure in the moonlit road.

‘It is Egil!’ he said in a voice filled with dismay. ‘And we have killed him!’