Murder by the Book

Chapter 7

When they left Batayl, Michael insisted on visiting Newe Inn, to ask whether anyone there had heard a bell on the night Northwood and his friends had died. As usual, it was alive with the sounds of sawing and hammering, and apprentices tore up and down the stairs, yelling urgently to each other. The reek of wood oil was stronger than it had been the last time they had visited – the bust of Aristotle had been drenched in it and had been left outside to dry in the sun.

They walked up to the libri distribuendi, where Bartholomew admired the room’s understated opulence yet again. It felt like a place of learning – venerable, solid and sober. Kente came to greet them, his face grey and lined with exhaustion.

‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, regarding him with concern. ‘You will make yourself ill if you drive yourself so hard.’

Kente managed to smile. ‘It is only for another four days, and the bonus for finishing on time will more than compensate me for any discomfort. I am not the only one who is tired, anyway – Walkelate and Frevill have worked just as hard, if not harder.’

‘They have,’ agreed Michael, looking around. ‘Although I still fail to understand why Walkelate accepted this project in the first place, given his College’s antipathy towards it.’

‘Antipathy!’ snorted Kente. ‘Downright hostile opposition would be a more accurate description. And he accepted because it is right. He is an ethical man – a little eccentric perhaps, and given to funny ideas, but so are all scholars, so we should not hold it against him.’

‘What sort of funny ideas?’ asked Bartholomew.

Kente sniffed. ‘None as strange as yours, Doctor, with your hand-washing and affection for boiled water. His include things like making metal brackets for the bookshelves. We were skidding about on iron filings for days before I managed to convince him that wooden ones are better.’

‘I know we have asked before, but do you have any theories about the four scholars who died not a stone’s throw from here?’ enquired Michael hopefully.

‘Of course. It has come to light that they were using the garden for sly experiments – trying to make lamp fuel before the men who had the idea in the first place – and the Devil likes those kind of sinners. He came and took them.’

‘Other people say it was God,’ remarked Michael.

Kente shrugged. ‘Well, neither will appreciate you probing their business, so I should let the matter drop if I were you. But you are not here to chat to me. Come, I will take you to Walkelate.’

Bartholomew and Michael followed him into the room containing the libri concatenati, where Walkelate was in conference with Frevill and Dunning. The King’s Hall architect looked tired, and so did Frevill, although neither seemed to be teetering on the edge of collapse like Kente.

‘I am alarmed by the amount of work still to be done,’ Dunning was saying. ‘Are you sure all will be ready?’

‘Yes,’ the architect replied firmly. ‘Just one more polish, and we shall seal the door to this room until the grand opening on Thursday.’

‘And we have almost finished the shelves for the libri distribuendi, too,’ added Frevill. ‘We may have to labour frantically to see them absolutely perfect. But perfect they will be.’

‘They will,’ agreed Walkelate. He rested his hand on Frevill’s shoulder, and beamed at Kente. ‘I could not have hoped for better craftsmen. Working with you has been a privilege.’

The sincerity of his words seemed to give Kente new energy and he drew himself up to his full height. ‘Come, Frevill. Let us see whether Aristotle is dry.’

The craftsmen left, and Dunning went with them, muttering about some aspect of the bust that was not to his liking.

‘How may I help you, Brother?’ asked Walkelate, beginning to make notes on a scrap of parchment using the cista as a table. ‘Ah! Good day, Holm. How are you?’

Bartholomew turned to see the surgeon behind him, holding a large packet. Walkelate leapt to his feet and seized it eagerly.

‘Is this it?’ he demanded, eyes full of keen anticipation.

‘It is, and I made it myself,’ replied Holm, oozing smug confidence. ‘Out of rose petals and lily of the valley. And I added cinnamon and nutmeg, too, for good measure.’

‘It is to mask the stench of Kente’s wood oil,’ Walkelate explained excitedly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Holm assures me that it will have eliminated all unwanted odours by Thursday.’

‘I use it when wounds turn bad, and it always works,’ smiled the surgeon. ‘You are a friend, Walkelate, so I shall not charge you for my labour. A shilling will cover the cost of the ingredients.’

‘Thank you,’ said Walkelate gratefully, handing over the coins, although Bartholomew thought the price rather high. ‘I shall fetch a bowl.’

Holm raised his hands in a shrug when the architect had gone, as if he felt the need to explain his friendship. ‘He was kind to me when I first arrived, so I decided to continue the association. He ranks quite highly at King’s Hall, and I am always happy to maintain good relations with those who might be useful to me one day. But what are you doing here?’

‘Looking into the death of your colleague Vale and his friends,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I do not suppose you noticed anything amiss, did you, from your home next door?’

‘Only the lights, which I have already mentioned to Bartholomew,’ replied Holm. ‘And I would tell you if I had seen anything else, because I shall play a prominent role in this library’s opening, and I have no intention of being deprived of an opportunity to shine.’

‘Walkelate tells us that you hired singers that night,’ said Michael. ‘To entertain the craftsmen.’

Holm nodded. ‘They were oiling shelves, which is painstakingly dull, so I took pity on them. However, I wished I had not – they joined in the songs and the caterwauling was dreadful. I could hear them from my house, and was obliged to close the windows in the end.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Why had the surgeon so suddenly decided to treat Walkelate’s exhausted workforce? Did he have another reason for his uncharacteristic kindness – such as drowning out anything that might have been happening in the garden?

‘Do you ever visit the pond?’ he asked, watching Holm intently.

But he was wasting his time; he could read nothing in the bland features except a mild surprise at the question. ‘No, of course not. I understand it is full of evil sprites.’

‘Then did you ever see Vale, Northwood or the London brothers there?’ asked Michael.

‘I have better things to do than gaze into overgrown gardens. I only noticed those lights because I happened to leave a book on my windowsill, and I saw them when I went to move it.’ Holm’s expression turned salacious. ‘Have you heard the rumour that Vale and Ruth were once lovers?’

Bartholomew struggled to mask his dislike of the man, and wondered how Julitta, who seemed sensible, could be deceived by the oily charm he oozed when he was with her. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But I do not believe it can be true. Ruth is a decent lady.’

‘You are half right,’ said Holm, with a nasty smile. ‘It is not true. And the reason is because Ruth’s heart belongs to Bonabes, and Bonabes’s to her. Which explains why a man of the Exemplarius’s abilities and intelligence continues to labour for the ghastly Weasenham.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Michael, although the claim came as a surprise to Bartholomew, who was not very observant about such matters. ‘Bonabes is never far from Ruth, and I have seen the secret looks they exchange. They should take more care, because Weasenham is vindictive.’

‘And he has poisonous substances to hand,’ added Holm darkly. ‘Ones for making paper.’

‘Here,’ said Walkelate, returning with a basin. He tipped Holm’s concoction into it, and set it on a shelf. Bartholomew inspected it and saw that the mixture comprised mostly bits of stem, which would do little to combat noxious smells. Holm had cheated the man he claimed was a friend.

‘We were lucky not to have been slaughtered in our beds yesterday, because Tulyet proved woefully inadequate at defending us,’ said Holm conversationally. ‘I am going to complain to the King about him. Now I live in this town, it must be properly guarded.’

‘I doubt you were in danger,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘I suspect the raiders were local men who wanted the tax money, and they will know better than to harm the town’s only surgeon.’

‘That cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet would have noticed any Cambridge resident assembling a private army–’

‘I beg to differ,’ interrupted Walkelate. ‘The raiders headed straight for the Great Tower. In other words, they knew exactly where to go, which outsiders would not have done. Tulyet is scouring the marshes for the culprits, but he should be looking in the town.’

‘You mean scholars?’ asked Michael uncomfortably. ‘It was not Principal Coslaye, if that is the rumour you have heard. He has an alibi for the time of the attack.’

‘Coslaye?’ asked Walkelate, taken aback. ‘He is not the kind of man to take part in armed scuffles!’

‘Oh, yes, he is,’ countered Holm, all malice. ‘He is a hot-tempered warmonger, who–’

‘He was with the Carmelites during the invasion,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I assure you, no scholars were involved in that terrible business.’

‘If you say so,’ said Holm blandly, making no effort to look convinced.

There was no evidence of bells in Newe Inn or its garden, and when they had finished searching, Bartholomew said he needed to visit the castle, to check on his patients. Michael accompanied him, as he wanted to speak to Agatha’s nephew about Coslaye.

‘It is the sort of task I should have been able to delegate to a Junior Proctor,’ he grumbled, as they walked. ‘But none of our lazy colleagues sees fit to help me.’

‘Holm lives very close to the place where Vale and the others died,’ Bartholomew remarked, declining to address the fact that no sane scholar would want to be Michael’s minion. ‘And as you have pointed out, all medici have a working knowledge of poisons.’

‘You want him accused because you do not like him,’ said Michael astutely. He shrugged at Bartholomew’s sheepish smile. ‘I do not blame you: he is a vile individual. So is Coslaye, come to that, yet here I am, racing to prove his innocence. Perhaps we should let the tale run its course, because I do not want bigots like Coslaye in my University.’

‘We are not “racing” to save him, we are doing it to prevent the town from accusing scholars of assaulting the castle – a rumour that may end in a riot.’

‘True,’ conceded Michael with a sigh. ‘I am not sure what to make of his claim of hearing a bell, though. Perhaps Browne is right: Coslaye just hears things these days.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘The hooded man you chased out of Newe Inn’s garden last night was looking for something. Why not a bell?’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘What would anyone want with a bell?’

‘Perhaps Meadowman will be able to tell you if he finds one during his dredging. Look! There is Dunning again, with Ruth and Bonabes. Julitta is not with them, so I wonder if she is still at the castle.’ He hoped so. It would be pleasant to see her again.

Michael glanced sideways at him. ‘You seem rather taken with her. Does Holm have a rival for her affections? Is that why you are so eager for him to be our murderous villain?’

To his horror, Bartholomew felt himself blushing. ‘No, of course not! Besides, love is not for me, not after Matilde. In fact, I am giving serious consideration to joining a religious Order.’

‘I would not recommend that,’ said Michael, somewhat unexpectedly, for he was usually keen to snare his friend for the Benedictines. ‘You might be used to poverty, but the obedience would be a problem. So would the chastity. Besides, you could do a lot worse than Julitta. She is made of much finer stuff than that pitiful widow you have been visiting.’

‘You know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, both surprised and chagrined.

‘Nothing escapes the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael smugly. ‘And you should pursue Julitta, because Holm will not make her happy. Even Clippesby says so, and he is hardly an astute observer of human nature.’

Confused and more than a little embarrassed, Bartholomew changed the subject. ‘So you think Holm is right when he says that Ruth has given her heart to Bonabes?’

He glanced to where Weasenham’s wife and Exemplarius were walking side by side. Bonabes was carrying a heavy parcel, and it slipped at that moment. Ruth darted forward to help him, after which they exchanged a glance of such smouldering passion that Bartholomew was dumbfounded.

‘I think we can assume he is,’ remarked Michael dryly.

‘Edith’s seamstresses worked all night to repair Frevill’s lye-burned cope,’ said Dunning, indicating the package as their paths converged. ‘We are just taking it back to him.’

‘It is better now than it was before,’ said Bonabes, setting the burden down and wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘Although Master Weasenham will face a hefty bill, I fear.’

‘It will not kill him,’ said Ruth. She exchanged an unfathomable glance with Bonabes, then smiled at Bartholomew. ‘Julitta is still nursing the wounded men. She refuses to leave them.’

‘I told her there are more pleasant ways to spend the day,’ added Dunning. ‘But she said she must inure herself to such sights for when she is married to Holm.’

‘Holm!’ muttered Ruth in disgust. ‘I wish she was betrothed to someone nicer.’

‘She assures me that he is everything she has ever wanted,’ said Dunning. ‘Not that she has much choice in the matter, of course. I want my family affiliated with his, because he is related to the Holms of Norfolk. But never mind that. Weasenham told me today that someone is going around dispatching scholars who voted for my library. Is it true?’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Sawtre’s death was an accident, and it is coincidence that the four men who died in Newe Inn’s garden happened to support the scheme.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Dunning worriedly. ‘Because I did not donate a house so that people could be murdered over it.’

The sun was shining brightly by the time Michael and Bartholomew reached the castle, the mist and cloud having burned away. Bartholomew could hear sheep bleating in the fields outside the town gates, and the scent of recently milked cows was in the air. It was yet another pretty day.

The castle was still in a state of high alert. Bowmen stood at every arrow slit, and two mounted knights were stationed by the Gatehouse, ready to charge at the slightest threat. Meanwhile, the soldiers who loitered in the bailey were tense, wary and wore full armour.

All the casualties in the ‘infirmary’ were doing better than Bartholomew had dared hope, and he suspected it was because of Julitta, who moved among them with cups of water – which she assured him had been boiled – and encouraging words. He said so, and she smiled in a way that made his heart lurch. Flustered, he joined Michael at Robin’s bedside.

‘Yes, my Aunt Agatha came to see me,’ Robin was saying. ‘She told me not to tell anyone that it was Coslaye of Batayl Hostel who was among the invaders.’

‘It was not Coslaye,’ stated Michael. ‘He was at the Carmelite Priory when the attack took place, squabbling with the friars about soot being thrown over his mural of Poitiers.’

Robin looked doubtful. ‘But I saw him, Brother. He was wearing armour and a helmet, admittedly, so he looked different, but I am sure it was him.’

‘You were mistaken,’ said Michael firmly. ‘It was someone who looked like him.’

‘It is possible, I suppose.’ Robin sighed. ‘But Aunt Agatha has ordered me to keep it quiet, and I value my life too much to cross her. I shall not discuss it with anyone else, do not worry.’

His eyes began to close, so they left him to rest. Bartholomew tended the other patients, rather disappointed to learn that none of his colleagues had been to visit. Unimpressed, he saw they had abrogated the entire responsibility to him, almost certainly because there would be no payment.

He set about changing dressings and checking wounds for signs of infection, pleased when Julitta offered to help. She had deft, gentle hands, and learned quickly what needed to be done. It was late afternoon by the time they had finished, and he lingered over Robin for no other reason than that he was enjoying Julitta’s company and was reluctant for it to end.

‘My reading lessons with you will have to be postponed,’ she said softly, nodding towards the patients. ‘It seems we both have more important things to do now.’

‘I could find the time,’ said Bartholomew quickly.

She touched his arm and his stomach did somersaults. ‘You are kind, but the wounded must come first. And now I must leave, because I promised to help my father with the finery he is to wear to the Corpus Christi celebrations on Thursday.’

Bartholomew watched her go, noting the way the sun caught her hair as she passed a window.

‘It is a pity she is promised to Holm,’ said Robin, also watching. ‘She is wasted on him.’

Bartholomew was grateful when Gyseburne arrived, relieved to be thinking about medicine and not the complex gamut of emotions that seethed within him. His colleague did not want to listen to a detailed report of each patient’s progress, however, and interrupted with an observation.

‘Boiling the dressings we applied to these open wounds does seem to have reduced infection, although I cannot imagine why. However, as my dear old mother always says, heat and Hell go together, so I can only assume that Satan is somehow involved.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked.

‘You think God likes cooked bandages, then?’ asked Gyseburne keenly. ‘And prefers to lay His holy hands on them, rather than ones torn straight from old clothes or bedding?’

‘I do not know.’ Bartholomew was never happy when theology entered medicine.

‘Well, there must be some explanation for why your technique works,’ insisted Gyseburne. ‘There is a reason for everything – even for yesterday’s attack.’

‘Yes, and Tulyet will find it,’ said Bartholomew, thankful to be on less contentious ground.

‘Possibly, but you should ask Ayera first.’ Gyseburne lowered his voice. ‘I am going to tell you something because I trust you, but you can never reveal to Ayera that it came from me. Do I have your word?’

Bartholomew nodded warily, sensing he was about to be told something he would not like.

Gyseburne took a deep breath. ‘He was among the raiders yesterday. There! It is out, and now it is your responsibility to make sure the relevant authorities hear about it. I am absolved.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not! He is a geometrician!’

‘He was a soldier before he came to Cambridge. A very fine one. I know, because I practised medicine in York before I came here, and that is his home city, where he was involved in several questionable incidents. Indeed, there was one that touched your Master Langelee – he had been entertaining, and summoned me when all his guests fell ill. They had been poisoned.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Langelee told me the tale when we went to York a few weeks ago, and Ayera mentioned it, too.’

‘Did Ayera also tell you that the cook who provided the soup was in his family’s employ? Of course, he claimed it was a mistake anyone might make, but I have my suspicions.’

‘Then they are wrong,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Ayera would have had no reason to harm Langelee’s visitors.’

‘On the contrary, the stricken men were enemies of his powerful uncle – the one who died recently but who transpired to be penniless. There was no evidence to prove anything, of course, but the entire episode stank. But regardless of this, I know what I saw yesterday.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew, both bewildered and unsettled by the claims.

‘Not long after dawn, I was returning home from seeing a patient in Girton – which is why I was late arriving to help you with the wounded – when I saw armed men racing away from the town at a tremendous speed. Ayera was among them. I hid, so he did not see me.’

‘Then it is your duty to tell the Sheriff. He will find there is an innocent explanation for–’

‘Yes, there might be,’ interrupted Gyseburne. ‘Although I cannot imagine what. However, I am not telling Tulyet anything. Ayera may seem courteous and refined, but there is murder in that man. I shall not cross him, and if you ever tell anyone that you heard this tale from me, I shall deny it. He is your colleague, so the matter is in your hands now.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Gyseburne had not burdened him with his unpleasant observations. He liked Ayera, and did not want to hear nasty tales about him.

‘And there is something else,’ Gyseburne went on. ‘I met Rougham on my way here, and he has spent a lot of time with the Carmelite scribe who had the seizure. Apparently, Willelmus fainted from fright, because of what he saw.’

‘What did he see?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘He would not say. However, I cannot help but wonder whether what terrified Willelmus was seeing a prominent scholar – namely Ayera – among the villains who attacked our town.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but suddenly the day did not seem quite so bright and pretty.

He was about to leave the castle when the rest of his medical colleagues arrived – not to visit the wounded, but to debate the lucrative business of being on-call for the Corpus Christi pageant. As they approached, he heard Meryfeld confiding to Holm and Rougham, with a mind-boggling lack of remorse, how he often misled patients about the contents of the cures he sold.

‘Poppy juice is expensive,’ he was saying. ‘So why use it, when most folk are incapable of telling the difference? The tincture I call Poppy Water contains nothing but nettles and mint.’

‘And your clients never suspect?’ asked Holm, keenly interested.

‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld scornfully. ‘They trust me, and believe anything I say.’

‘I would never dare do anything like that,’ said Rougham. Bartholomew was not sure whether Rougham was favourably impressed by Meryfeld’s dishonesty and itched to emulate it, or whether he was disapproving. ‘Most of my customers are scholars, and they tend not to be stupid.’

‘Some of them are,’ averred Meryfeld with a grin. ‘Especially the rich ones at King’s Hall.’

The conversation came to an abrupt end when they became aware that Bartholomew and Gyseburne were listening, and they hastened to present their plan for the pageant instead. They had decided that the town was to be divided into sectors, and each medicus was to have one, except Bartholomew who, it was anticipated, would still be too busy with his battle-wounded.

‘You have your hands full already,’ Rougham explained unctuously. ‘And we do not want to load you with even more work. How are they today, by the way?’

‘They are doing extremely well, thanks to me,’ said Holm, before Bartholomew could respond. ‘Of course, I shall not be paid for my hard work, but money is not everything.’

‘Is it not?’ asked Meryfeld, bemused.

Holm looked smug. ‘I earned far more than riches with my surgical skills yesterday – I earned the respect and adulation of the entire town. And that may be useful in the future.’

Bartholomew could not bear to listen to him, and changed the subject rather abruptly. ‘I have been meaning to warn you all of some danger. Hooded men waylaid me the other night, and demanded the formula for that burning substance we created. The wildfire.’

‘Why would anyone want to know that?’ asked Rougham uncomfortably.

‘I am not sure, but they threatened violence when I told them I could not recall it, so I recommend that you be on your guard.’

‘But we do not remember it, either,’ objected Meryfeld, alarmed. ‘Indeed, I can barely recall that night at all, let alone provide anyone with a detailed list of the ingredients we used.’

‘I recollect adding a lot of rubbish,’ mused Gyseburne. ‘Indeed, I think I tossed in a dash of slug juice at one point. But as to the specific formula, I have no clear memory …’

‘Well, I was not there,’ said Holm smugly. ‘So I need not be concerned.’

‘You should be – these villains might think we shared the secret with you,’ said Rougham.

‘But you never did!’ cried Holm, horrified by the notion. ‘I have asked for it on numerous occasions, but none of you are ever willing to discuss the matter.’

‘I wish we had not done it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘We devised a terrible thing.’

‘We did,’ agreed Gyseburne soberly. ‘Indeed, I wish I could remember the recipe, so we would know never to bring those particular ingredients together again.’

‘Well, I wish I could remember so we could sell it,’ stated Meryfeld baldly. ‘Someone will recreate the stuff at some point, so why should we not be the ones to reap the reward? Do not look so shocked, Bartholomew. Just think of all the good you could do with a large sum of money.’

‘The men who ambushed me were not interested in paying,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I was under the impression that they were going to kill me once they had what they wanted.’

‘Oh,’ said Meryfeld uncomfortably. ‘Well, that puts an entirely different complexion on it.’

‘Your antics had better not result in my murder,’ said Holm warningly, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘I am about to marry a woman who will make me very rich, and I have no intention of being dispatched before I have had the chance to enjoy my good fortune.’

‘It is true love, then, is it?’ asked Rougham acidly.

‘True love for her father’s money,’ confided Holm, treating his colleagues to a man-of-the-world wink. Bartholomew looked away.

‘Our best chance of earning a fortune lies in perfecting the recipe for lamp fuel,’ said Rougham, ignoring the surgeon and addressing the others. ‘I pondered the matter at length yesterday, and I believe our last brew would have worked better with a teaspoon of honey.’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. While he enjoyed the sessions with his colleagues, he sometimes found their capacity for peculiarly random statements wearisome.

‘Because it is sticky,’ explained Rougham. ‘So it will bind the ingredients together in a more productive manner.’

‘It is worth a try,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew rolled his eyes. ‘And if that does not work, then I have been thinking, too. The addition of red lead will be beneficial.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Red lead has no known property that will–’

‘Open your mind,’ interrupted Rougham, gesturing expansively. ‘I do not understand why you are so unwilling to experiment, especially as you do it on your patients all the time.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for Rougham’s insults.

Rougham took a step away, unused to the physician taking issue with him. ‘I mean that you try new and unorthodox treatments on your clients, so why not do the same with the lamp fuel?’

‘I do nothing of the kind,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘All my treatments have either been effective in the past, or there are sound, logical reasons why they will work now. I would never–’

‘Urine,’ announced Gyseburne grandly. Thrown off his stride by the unexpected declaration, Bartholomew faltered into silence.

‘What about urine?’ asked Rougham warily.

‘It contains flammable properties,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘My mother told me so, and she is right, I am sure. She usually is.’

‘It can be combustible, under certain conditions,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering how Gyseburne’s dam should have come by such information. Was she a witch? ‘But–’

‘Well, I like to live on the edge,’ said Holm drolly. ‘So red lead, honey and urine it is for next time, then. We shall reconvene tomorrow.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, as Meryfeld, Holm and Rougham marched away together, haughty and confident. ‘I am beginning to think we are wasting our time with them.’

‘All manner of great inventions have been discovered by chance,’ countered Gyseburne. ‘We may well stumble on something important by random testing.’

‘Not with the compounds they have recommended.’ Bartholomew was disgusted.

Gyseburne raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how urine will react when heated with pitch? No? Then do you know that red lead will remain inert when mixed with brimstone? No again! Do not dismiss us out of hand, Matthew. It is unbecoming in a man who expects tolerance for his own eccentricities.’

A clatter of hoofs in the bailey heralded the arrival of Tulyet and his men, back from the Fens. There was mud on their armour, and the Sheriff looked tired and out of sorts. He stamped over to Bartholomew and Gyseburne.

‘Give me a report,’ he ordered curtly.

‘A report about what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. He was not ready to discuss Ayera with Tulyet – he wanted to tackle the geometrician alone first, and hear the explanation that he was sure would exonerate him.

‘About the health of my men, of course,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else would I want from you?’

Bartholomew supposed it should have been obvious, and hastened to oblige. Tulyet listened intently, and was relieved when he heard the prognosis was generally good.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Although I shall never forgive myself for this debacle. How could it have happened? This is a castle, for God’s sake, and if we cannot defend ourselves, how can we expect people to believe that we are able to protect their town?’

‘They know you have learned from your complacency,’ said Gyseburne soothingly.

Tulyet winced. ‘Now perhaps you would do something else for me. The soldiers who died …’

‘Bringing them back is beyond our abilities,’ said Gyseburne sternly. ‘We are not necromancers.’

‘I do not expect you to raise the dead,’ snarled Tulyet. He put his hands over his face, and scrubbed hard. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to keep barking at you. I am very tired …’

‘Then rest,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You will be no good to anyone if your wits are addled from exhaustion. Go home and sleep. Helbye will summon you if there is trouble.’

Tulyet nodded, although it was clear that he had no intention of complying. ‘Today was a waste of effort. Those villains outwitted me with sheep.’

Bartholomew exchanged a bemused glance with Gyseburne.

‘They drove a lot of ewes into the area through which they escaped,’ the Sheriff went on, ‘and not even Cynric could find their tracks among all the hoof-marks. We spent the whole day trying, but it was hopeless.’

‘The Fens are a wilderness,’ agreed Gyseburne. ‘Men disappear there, never to be seen again.’

Tulyet scowled. ‘I know, and it is frustrating when they happen to be men I want to catch. But enough of my troubles. Will you examine my dead soldiers, and tell me exactly what happened to them? I would like to furnish their families with an accurate account of their final moments.’

‘Of course,’ said Gyseburne, although Tulyet had been looking at Bartholomew. He set off towards the chapel, a wooden building set against the curtain wall, at a businesslike clip.

‘I am not sure what to think about him,’ whispered Tulyet, following. ‘He seems obliging and competent, but I sense something deeply unpleasant beneath that amiable veneer.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I have always liked him.’

‘You like everyone, and it is a failing you should strive to overcome.’ Tulyet sighed dispiritedly. ‘I did not want to admit it in front of him, but I still have no idea who was responsible for that damned raid – and even less idea how to go about finding out.’

‘Robin thought Coslaye of Batayl Hostel was among the invaders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Coslaye was at the Carmelite Priory when the attack took place, so Robin was mistaken.’

‘Pity.’ Tulyet saw Bartholomew’s startled expression and hastened to explain. ‘It would have given me a place to start.’

‘I will listen for rumours,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘And will tell you if I hear anything.’

‘Thank you, but you will not,’ said Tulyet morosely. ‘The attack was by strangers, not folk from the town. There will be no useful rumours, because the culprits do not live here.’

‘Walkelate disagrees. He thinks they are locals, as they knew where you keep your money.’

‘Then his reasoning is flawed: the Great Tower is the most secure part of the castle, so of course we will lock our valuables there. You do not need local knowledge to guess that.’

They followed Gyseburne in silence for a moment, then Bartholomew began speaking again.

‘I was waylaid by cloaked and hooded men on Wednesday. They wanted to know the formula for the wildfire my colleagues and I made last winter – the substance that could not be doused.’

Tulyet shot him a pained glance. ‘I forbade my son to talk about what he had witnessed that night, but he rarely obeys me. In other words, I suspect it is fairly common knowledge that you are the one most likely to recollect which ingredients were used. Did you recognise these villains?’

‘They were heavily disguised. Michael’s grandmother drove them off with knives.’

‘Dame Pelagia is back?’ asked Tulyet, alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘To hunt down a French spy, apparently.’

‘Then I hope she does not need my help,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Because I cannot oblige her as long as there is a hostile band of mercenaries lurking in the Fens.’

Inspecting the dead soldiers was a bleak business. Some were men Bartholomew had known for years, and he was acutely aware that they had kin relying on the wage they earned. Tulyet would not let their families starve, but it would not be easy for them, even so. He inspected each man with considerable sadness, calling out specific causes of death to Willelmus, the Carmelites’ scribe, who stood with pen and parchment at the ready. Gyseburne left the chapel when they had finished, eager to be back among the living, but Tulyet had yet another favour to ask of Bartholomew.

‘I need you to tend Ayce again. He is refusing to eat, and I do not want him to die just yet. He may decide to talk to me in a day or two, so it is important to keep him alive.’

It was hardly a pleasant mission, but Bartholomew agreed to do it. He was following Tulyet out of the chapel when he saw a peculiar collection of tubes, ratchets and wheels. He stopped dead in his tracks.

‘That is the ribauldequin I was telling you about,’ explained the Sheriff. ‘The one we made for the King as part-payment of our yearly taxes.’

Bartholomew shuddered, recalling all too clearly the ones at Poitiers. Tulyet’s creation had the same unholy malevolence, and the holes at the end of its muzzles looked for all the world like spiteful eyes.

‘Does it work?’ he asked.

‘I hope so, but we cannot test it because we have no ammunition. However, if it fails, it will not be our fault – we should have been sent more detailed instructions. Indeed, were it not for Langelee, Walkelate, Riborowe and Chancellor Tynkell, we would not have got this far.’

‘I wish they had refused. The device is immoral – they should have had nothing to do with it.’

Tulyet eyed him balefully. ‘Fortunately for me, they do not concur. Indeed, they all told me that University-trained minds will be an essential ingredient for developing better artillery in the future – that warfare will remain primitive without their input.’

Bartholomew was disgusted, but supposed he should not be surprised. Academics were always intrigued by the kind of problem that only intelligence could solve. He looked at the ribauldequin with distaste. ‘It is hardly the sort of thing that should be kept in a chapel, Dick.’

‘It was in the Great Tower, but we had to move it when we reorganised everything to accommodate your infirmary. I shall be glad when it has gone from here, though – my chaplains will insist on draping their wet laundry over it, and it is beginning to rust.’

A sudden, alarming thought occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think this is why the robbers came? They wanted your weapon to use in their next attack?’

Tulyet regarded him rather patronisingly. ‘You cannot stage lightning strikes if you are loaded down with heavy pieces of artillery. It was the tax money they wanted, Matt, not this.’

Bartholomew did not know enough of military tactics to know whether Tulyet was right or wrong.

He insisted on going alone to Ayce’s cell, suspecting that Tulyet’s angry presence would be counterproductive. Ayce was sitting on the floor, rejecting the bed and stool that had been provided for his use. Bread and a greasy stew stood untouched by the door.

‘I will not talk to you,’ growled Ayce. ‘So do not waste your time with questions.’

‘It is the Sheriff who has questions, not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am just a physician.’

Ayce hesitated for a moment. ‘I was injured in the fighting, and it throbs horribly. Perhaps I shall accept your services, because I cannot think clearly through the pain.’

Bartholomew set about cleaning and binding the cut. When he had finished, he gave Ayce a potion to ease his discomfort, then indicated the food. ‘You might feel better if you eat, too.’

Ayce picked up the bread and took a tentative bite. ‘I should never have let myself be taken alive,’ he said, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘But I was stunned by a blow to the head …’

‘You are fortunate your comrades did not make an end of you,’ said Bartholomew, packing away his pots and potions. ‘I understand they dispatched one of their number who was too badly wounded to run away.’

‘It was what we had agreed before we began our mission. It is better that way.’

‘Better for the men who hired you, perhaps.’

Ayce shrugged. ‘We were well paid for it. Besides, I have not cared what happens to me since John was stabbed, and this seemed as good a way as any to make an exit from the world. I was more than happy to volunteer when they came hunting for recruits. And if we had been successful, I would have had enough money to drink myself to death.’

‘Who are these men?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘They did not say, and I did not ask. Not that they would have told me if I had.’

Bartholomew regarded him sceptically. ‘You expect me to believe that strangers came along, and you joined them without knowing who they were or what they intended?’

‘Oh, I knew what they intended. They said from the start that their aim was to attack the town.’

‘For the taxes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or the ribauldequin?’

Ayce regarded him blankly. ‘What is a ribauldequin?’ Then he held up his hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I do not care. However, I am glad our raid caused such consternation. Cambridge is where John was murdered, and I hate everything about it.’

‘People have been telling me about your son’s death. It is said that he often bullied scholars.’

Ayce regarded him with dislike. ‘And that gave a clerk the right to slaughter him?’

‘No, of course not, but it explains how it came about. It was self-defence.’

‘You would take Hildersham’s side – you are a scholar. The town found him guilty, though, and steps should have been taken to catch him after he escaped. Now go away and leave me alone. I do not wish to talk any longer.’

The interview had depressed Bartholomew, and he was in a gloomy frame of mind as he left the castle. Outside, one of his students was waiting to tell him that he had been summoned by Prior Etone. It was dusk and he was tired, but he began to trudge towards the Carmelite Friary anyway. When he arrived, it was to find Jorz sitting with his hand in a bucket of cold water.

‘It was Browne’s fault,’ the scribe twittered tearfully. ‘He came up behind me, and deliberately startled me out of my wits.’

‘He did,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘I saw it happen. Poor Jorz was boiling up a new recipe for red ink, when Browne came creeping in. He clapped his hand hard on Jorz’s shoulder, and made him spill it all over himself.’

Bartholomew inspected Jorz’s arm, but the cold water had already worked its magic, and although the scribe would be uncomfortable for a few days, he did not think there would be any lasting damage. He set about applying a soothing salve.

‘Browne laughed when he saw I was hurt,’ Jorz went on. ‘He is a vile fellow – cruel and sly.’

‘What was he doing in our domain in the first place?’ asked Etone. ‘I thought we had agreed that members of Batayl were barred, lest they stage some sort of revenge over the soot incident.’

‘He claimed he wanted to buy some ink,’ explained Riborowe. ‘But I know for a fact that he does not have any money – he is always saying that times are hard. So I imagine he was here to spy, to look around and see what might be done to repay us for our novice’s high spirits.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Etone worriedly. ‘We shall have to ask Michael’s beadles to keep a protective eye on us for the next few days.’

‘Or you could apologise for the soot, and offer a truce,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Apologise?’ spluttered Riborowe. ‘Never!’

‘Actually, that is a good idea,’ countered Etone, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘I am weary of this dispute, and see no point in continuing it. I shall apologise, and Matthew will go with me, as a witness.’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically.

‘Yes, now,’ said Etone. ‘Before I decide it is too great a burden for my pride to bear.’

Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after him, but when they reached Batayl it was to discover everyone out except Pepin, who had been left on guard. The Frenchman said that the students had gone to hear a sermon in St Mary the Great, while Coslaye and Browne were in Newe Inn.

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I thought they disapproved of the library.’

‘They do,’ replied Pepin. ‘But Walkelate thinks he can win them over by showing them his finished lecterns. The man is a fool. His nasty library has deprived Batayl of better living conditions, and no amount of fine carving will ever make us overlook that fact.’

‘Well, I intend to overlook the wrong that has been inflicted on me,’ said Etone loftily. ‘I do not have the energy to hold grudges – not against Dunning for breaking his promise, and not against Batayl for challenging us about it.’

Once again, Bartholomew found himself in Etone’s wake, as the Prior strode towards Newe Inn. The door was open, so they entered.

‘Good God, it reeks in here!’ exclaimed Etone, waving his hand in front of his face. He grinned a little spitefully. ‘The guests at its grand opening are going to be asphyxiated.’

Bartholomew followed him up the stairs, where they could hear voices. They entered the room containing the libri distribuendi, and found Walkelate proudly displaying some finished mouldings to an unlikely audience that included Coslaye, Browne, Dunning and Bonabes. Meanwhile, Kente and Frevill, exhausted after yet another day of gruellingly hard work, were packing up their tools.

‘They are all right, I suppose,’ Coslaye was saying grudgingly. ‘But battle scenes would have been preferable to all this Paradise nonsense. And you should have made Aristotle more manly.’

‘We should not linger here, Coslaye,’ said Browne, also regarding the bust with contempt. ‘Libraries are dangerous. Five men have died in and around them already.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Walkelate indignantly.

‘Etone! What are you doing here?’ Browne’s instantly furtive expression suggested that he probably had intended to harm Jorz by slinking up behind him, and was now worried that the Prior intended to demand reparation.

‘I came to offer a truce,’ replied Etone. ‘We are even now: our novice should not have put soot on your mural, but you should not have startled Jorz when he was working with hot liquids. I should like to bring an end to our dispute. What do you say?’

‘I shall think about it,’ said Coslaye coldly. ‘And I will send you my decision later. Or perhaps I shall reject your slithering advances. You will just have to wait and see.’

Head held high, he sailed away. With a churlish smirk, Browne followed.

‘You see, Matthew?’ said Etone in exasperation. ‘It is hopeless! I offer them an olive branch, and they spit on it. Well, they can have a feud, if that is what they want.’

‘No!’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘You are right to end this silly spat. It would be a pity for ill feelings to sour our opening ceremony on Thursday, and–’

But Etone was already striding away, so Walkelate was obliged to scurry after him to finish what he wanted to say. Kente and Frevill were hot on his heels, tool-bags slung over their shoulders, eager to wash the wood dust from their throats with cool ale. Bonabes, Dunning and Bartholomew followed more sedately.

‘You are wasting your time if you think you can help forge a truce between Batayl and the Carmelites, Bartholomew,’ said Bonabes. ‘Neither side seems wholly rational to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ agreed Dunning. ‘And I object to them saying that the source of their discord is my so-called promise to give each of them Newe Inn. I did nothing of the kind.’

‘What were you doing here?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Surely it is a little late for guided tours?’

Bonabes winced. ‘We happened to be passing, and Walkelate raced out and hauled us inside to inspect Aristotle’s newly buffed bust. It is not the first time he has ambushed me to admire his works of art, so I think I must avoid Cholles Lane in future.’

Dunning chuckled good-naturedly. ‘He is something of a menace in that respect.’

They walked down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Etone used the opportunity afforded by their arrival to escape from Walkelate. Bonabes and Dunning followed him, and they could be heard laughing in the lane together, amused by the architect’s eccentric enthusiasm. Oblivious of the reason for their mirth, Walkelate began talking to Bartholomew.

‘I am glad you came, because I have something to tell you. Alfred, our youngest apprentice, informed me today that he heard a bell in the garden last week – he spent a night here, you see, sanding a cornice. He only remembered it today, but he wanted me to inform you or Michael. However, I imagine he fell asleep and dreamt it, because bells do not ring at that hour.’

‘I am not so sure. Coslaye heard one chiming when Northwood and the others died.’

‘Really?’ Walkelate shook his head, baffled. Then a happy grin stole across his face. ‘Kente put the finishing touches to the lecterns for the libri distribuendi an hour ago. Come and see them.’

‘Another time.’ Bartholomew saw the disappointment in Walkelate’s face, and hastened to make amends. ‘It is too dark to appreciate them properly now.’

‘We made excellent progress today,’ said Walkelate, his excitement bubbling up again. The libri concatenati are ready, and we shall keep their room closed now, until our grand opening. Well, we shall have to oust the bale of hay, but that will not take a moment.’

‘The bale of hay?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed.

Walkelate smiled. ‘Holm’s concoction was not working, so Dunning suggested an old country remedy instead – the theory is that dry grass absorbs strong odours from the air. He assures me that by Thursday, the room will smell as sweet as a meadow.’

Bartholomew started to walk home to Michaelhouse, aware that the daylight was fading fast. Recalling what had happened the last two times he had wandered about the town after dark on his own, he broke into a trot, eager for the sanctuary of the conclave, where wine and perhaps some cake would be waiting. He jumped in alarm when Cynric materialised in front of him.

‘You should not be out at this time of night without me,’ the Welshman said admonishingly. ‘It is not safe.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we are almost home.’

‘You cannot go home,’ said Cynic. His expression became sympathetic when he saw Bartholomew’s tiredness. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They are Meryfeld’s patients.’

‘There was a dispute about overcharging, apparently, and Meryfeld declines to answer their summonses until they acknowledge that he is in the right.’

‘But Master Heltisle does not like me,’ said Bartholomew, too weary for a confrontation with the prickly Master of Bene’t. ‘It would be better if you fetched Gyseburne or Rougham.’

‘Neither is home. I am on my way to Batayl, by the way, to tell them about Poitiers, but I will walk with you to Bene’t first.’

Bartholomew had forgotten about Cynric’s invitation to lecture, and hoped the talk would not induce a lot of patriotic fervour that would be uncomfortable for Pepin.

‘Do not mention me in your account,’ he begged. ‘Half the town believes I am a warlock, and I do not want the other half thinking I am a warrior. Tell them about your own exploits.’

‘Very well,’ promised Cynric. ‘But here we are at Bene’t. Knock on the door to make sure they are willing to let you in. If not, I shall escort you back to Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew was disappointed when the porter stepped aside and indicated he was to enter, because Cynric’s offer of company home was appealing. The book-bearer nodded a farewell and disappeared into the gathering shadows, as silent-footed as a cat.

‘Damn!’ muttered Thomas Heltisle, a tall, aloof man with neat silver hair, when he saw which physician had answered his summons. ‘I had hoped one of the others would be available.’

‘I am happy to leave, and you can wait for–’

‘No,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘I do not want the Devil’s crony in my College, but John Rolee has knocked himself senseless, so it is an emergency and I have no choice. Come.’

He began hauling Bartholomew across the yard before the physician could take issue with him. As they went, it occurred to Bartholomew that he had never been in Bene’t’s library before. The heads of the other Colleges were happy to let him use their books, but Heltisle had always refused.

When they arrived, he was impressed. The room – a chamber above one of the teaching halls – was crammed with texts of all shapes and sizes. Unlike King’s Hall with its mighty bookcases, Bene’t had opted for a low mezzanine gallery that ran around all four walls to provide additional storage; access to it was via an elegantly crafted but rather unstable set of wheeled steps.

Heltisle’s six Fellows stood in a huddle near the window. They nodded wary greetings to him, and one or two crossed themselves, as if they expected Satan to be close at hand now he was there.

‘Over here,’ called a small, feisty scholar named Teversham. He was crouching next to someone on the floor. ‘We have tried shouting and tapping his face, but we cannot wake him up.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank as he approached. Rolee’s head lay at a peculiar angle, and it was obvious that his neck had been broken.

‘I am afraid it is too late,’ he said, kneeling and performing a perfunctory examination to confirm what he already knew. ‘He is dead.’

‘He cannot be!’ cried Heltisle, shocked. ‘He was talking with us not half an hour ago. We were discussing elephants, and he came to fetch his bestiary, to show us what they look like.’

‘And he fell?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The steps broke,’ explained Heltisle, pointing to where the wheeled stairs lay on their side. ‘We heard the crash, and came racing in here to find him … But he cannot be dead, Bartholomew! He is just knocked out of his wits. Look again.’

‘His neck is broken,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. If it is any consolation, death would have been instant. He felt nothing.’

‘It is no consolation at all!’ shouted Heltisle. ‘He owes me ten shillings.’

To mask his bemusement at the remark, Bartholomew went to inspect the ladder. One of the legs had split, causing the whole thing to topple sideways when Rolee reached the top. It was not much of a drop from the mezzanine, and he had been acutely unlucky to land so awkwardly.

‘Will there be an investigation?’ asked Heltisle in an uncharacteristically small voice. He hated situations that involved the Senior Proctor, because bad publicity affected benefactions.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Michael will need to examine the steps, and he will want you to tell him exactly what happened. Beyond that, I cannot say.’

‘Very well,’ sniffed Heltisle. ‘Although it is a waste of time. He can do more good by looking into those four corpses at the Common Library. The grace to found such an institution should never have been passed, you know. It is a wicked scheme, and will end in tears.’

There was a chorus of agreement from his Fellows. Bartholomew said nothing, knowing the remarks were aimed at him for having had the audacity to support it.

‘We are not paying you for this visit, by the way,’ said Heltisle. ‘We called you to help Rolee, but instead you only pronounced him dead. You did not use your skills to save him.’

A fee had been the last thing on Bartholomew’s mind – he frequently forgot to charge for his services anyway – and he waved away Heltisle’s comment as of no consequence.

‘So you may have this instead,’ Heltisle went on, pressing a book into his hands.

‘No!’ Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘This is far too valuable for–’

‘I have never heard a physician try to negotiate his fee downwards before,’ said Heltisle with a grim smile. ‘Perhaps the tales about your honesty are true after all.’

‘Oh, he is honest,’ muttered Teversham. ‘That has never been in question. It is his pact with the Devil that I am worried about.’

Bartholomew sighed wearily. ‘I have no pact with the Devil. Why will no one believe me?’

‘Because no medicus should enjoy as much success as you do,’ explained Teversham shortly. ‘It is not natural.’

‘You condemn me for saving people?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

‘If Satan does not help you, then how do you explain your victories?’ demanded Teversham.

‘Hot water mostly,’ flashed Bartholomew, and then wished he had not.

Evesham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Water that has been cooked in the fires of Hell?’

‘Water from the town well,’ snapped Bartholomew, angry with himself for not guessing how Bene’t would respond to his remarks, especially after his recent conversation with Gyseburne about boiled bandages. ‘Which has been heated in our kitchen.’

‘We do not want to know, thank you,’ said Heltisle, cutting across Teversham’s response. ‘However, to return to the book, we decided before you arrived that we would give it to the medicus who tended Rolee. Not only is it a bestiary – and we do not have room for such foolery in our library – but he cut his hand last week, and managed to smear blood all over it.’

Bartholomew peered at the ominous stain in the gloom. ‘I am sure it will wash off. But I cannot take a book, even so. It is far too–’

‘It is yours now, whether you like it or not,’ added Teversham. ‘Put it in your Common Library if you decline to keep it yourself. God knows, that foundation is tainted enough, so Rolee’s nasty volume should feel perfectly at home there.’

Bartholomew objected to being bullied into accepting a gift he did not want, but he was too tired for further confrontation. He nodded cool thanks, and left Bene’t without another word. He began to walk home again, craving the gentler company of Michaelhouse, but running footsteps made him spin around in alarm. He braced himself for trouble, but it was only Cynric.

‘Come quick,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘Coslaye was not in when I arrived, so the students went to look for him. They found him in his garden, and his head has been stove in by a book.’

‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew in dismay.

‘Yes,’ panted Cynric. ‘And your surgery will not save him this time. He is utterly dead.’