The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 20

Dickon’s howled order marked the start of a furious and sustained assault by John. He exploded upwards, ignoring a blow to the shoulder and a stabbed forearm, and forced the two scholars to scramble away fast. Dickon held back until he was sure there was no risk to himself, then followed, another sword in his hand and his eyes glittering with malice.

‘Stop!’ roared a commanding voice.

Bartholomew whipped around in alarm, thinking Dickon had recruited other soldiers to help him, then sagged in relief when he saw two boats ploughing towards them. Tulyet was in the first with four soldiers, while Brampton and five beadles were crammed into the second.

‘Bartholomew and Michael murdered Aynton,’ shrilled Dickon before anyone else could speak. ‘So me and John are trying to arrest them.’ He pointed accusingly at Brampton. ‘And he beheaded the Mayor and Lyonnes. His sister told us, so it must be true.’

While John was distracted, Michael lashed out with his fist. He caught the side of the knight’s head, causing him to lose his balance. With a howl of shock, John rolled off the roof and landed in the water. He surfaced, gasping, and Tulyet’s men were there to fish him out.

‘None of this was my idea,’ he spluttered, as he was bound hand and foot. ‘It was your hellion son’s. You should not have inflicted him on me, Sheriff. He is a monster!’

Dickon gaped his dismay at the betrayal, but John did not so much as glance at him, and only continued to protest his own innocence.

‘Dickon,’ breathed Tulyet, his voice hoarse with anguish. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing!’ snarled Dickon, gripping his sword in both hands. ‘But I have to kill these two scholars, because if I do not, they will tell lies about me – just like John is doing.’

‘Dickon, no!’ cried Tulyet, ashen-faced. ‘Put up your sword. At once!’

But Dickon ignored him, and went after Bartholomew with murder in his eyes. Bartholomew scrambled away fast.

‘We know him, Matt,’ called Michael urgently. ‘We have his measure. Remember?’

At first, Bartholomew had no idea what the monk was talking about, but then understanding dawned. He stopped trying to escape and turned to face the child, ignoring the exclamations of alarm from those in the boats. Michael was right: they had known Dickon for years, and they did have his measure – he was a bully, eager to hurt the weak, but afraid of anyone who fought back. He feinted with the little blade, smiling when Dickon faltered, sudden fear in his eyes.

‘Well?’ Bartholomew taunted. ‘All I have is a tiny knife, while you have a broadsword. Come on – attack.’

Dickon did not move. ‘It is a trick. You plan to kill me.’

‘How could I?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are a mighty warrior, are you not?’

He lunged again, causing Dickon to squeal his alarm and scuttle away.

‘I do not feel like fighting any more,’ Dickon declared petulantly. ‘Everyone put up their blades, and I will do the same.’

Bartholomew lowered the knife, and, exactly as he had predicted, Dickon charged, weapon raised for a killing blow. He heard Brampton’s howl of warning and Tulyet’s horrified cry, although Dickon’s vengeful scream was louder than both. He skipped neatly to one side, and Dickon’s sword hissed through empty air until it struck the roof, so hard that the boy was forced to drop it.

‘That hurt!’ Dickon cried, rubbing his hand. ‘And you cheated! You–’

He broke off as his father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

‘I have seen and heard enough,’ Tulyet said hoarsely. ‘It is over.’

‘It is not,’ countered Dickon, and twisted around to sink his teeth into Tulyet’s hand.

Tulyet cuffed him around the ear, which, judging by the boy’s screech of shock, was the first time it had ever happened. There was a resounding cheer from everyone else.

It was not over for the town, however, and the situation with the sluices was now critical. Bartholomew and Michael arrived on dry land to find the streets full of people toting belongings on their backs or on carts. The air rang with urgent shouts, church bells tolled the alarm, and terrified animals milled, as their owners frantically tried to drive them to safety.

‘Unless Zoone can open the sluices in the next few minutes, the town will flood,’ reported Tulyet. He looked spent – sodden and bedraggled from a night of battling rising water and a terrified population, and devastated by what he had learned about his son.

‘Will he do it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not believe so. He and William have been struggling for hours with no success. The destruction will be massive, and all I hope is that no lives will be lost.’

‘What are you going to do about him?’ asked Michael, nodding to where Dickon was being held by a pair of burly soldiers. ‘He murdered two people – more if he really has poisoned Narboro and Lucy – and blackmailed Gille and Elsham into killing two more.’

Tulyet could not bring himself to look at the boy. ‘I have not decided yet,’ he said, pain clear in his voice.

‘He cannot be allowed to escape justice,’ warned Michael. ‘Some of his victims were scholars, so even if I was inclined to be merciful, my University would not permit it.’

‘I know,’ said Tulyet, allowing Bartholomew to inspect his bitten hand. The physician was shocked to see that bones were broken – Dickon had crunched down with all his might.

‘We are all to blame,’ he said, not liking to imagine the anguish Tulyet must be feeling. ‘We should have taken a firmer hand with him from the start.’

‘The fault is mine and mine alone,’ countered Tulyet shortly. ‘I always knew Dickon was … different from other children, but I thought I could channel his flaws into something good, something decent. My arrogance has cost lives.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to say, given that there was a strong element of truth in Tulyet’s words, and there was barely a soul in Cambridge who did not think he was recklessly blind when it came to his only child.

‘How did you know we were in need of rescue?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you see us?’

‘Matilde did. Lucy said a lot of nasty things to her about Matt – things she knew to be lies. Suspicious and bemused, she followed Lucy, and saw her row to Hoo Hall in a coracle. She kept returning to look at the place, to see if anything was happening, until she eventually spotted you two on the roof. She raced to fetch me, and … well, you know the rest.’

He turned as Brampton arrived, also wet and dirty, but more authoritative than he had ever been before.

‘I put John in the proctors’ gaol,’ he reported. ‘It is safer than the castle, given that he escaped the last time he was there. He tried to bribe me to let him go – offered me the money Baldok stole. I agreed, but reneged once he told me where it is hidden. He is a dishonourable man, and I have no compunction in tricking his sort.’

Tulyet regarded him askance. ‘You should be in politics.’

‘Next, he offered to confess all in exchange for clemency,’ Brampton went on. ‘I agreed to consider it, but only if he told me what Morys had done to the sluices. He says there is a lever on the swing manifold – whatever that means.’

‘Tell Zoone,’ ordered Bartholomew urgently. ‘He will understand.’

He feared it would be too late, but hope filled Tulyet’s eyes, and he led the way to the sluices at a pace that forced everyone – including the soldiers who held Dickon – into a run.

It was the darkest part of the night, and lamps had been set to illuminate the three dams, although they only seemed to add to the aura of general chaos as they bobbed and flickered unsteadily. And rain continued to fall.

Tulyet and his followers skidded to a halt near the Middle Dam, where Zoone and William were working, both drenched and black with mud. Defeat was in their slumped shoulders and exhausted faces. Before anyone could speak, Dickon released a peal of jeering laughter, delighted by the destruction that was about to befall a town he had suddenly come to hate. Tulyet ignored him and told Zoone what Brampton had prised from John.

Zoone’s eyes lit in understanding. ‘That explains … Yes! I should have guessed …’

He lay flat on his stomach, thrust his arm into the water, and began to fumble with something beneath the surface. There was a tense wait, during which cries of alarm sounded from the East Dam, where water was starting to spill over the top. Zoone did not allow it to distract him, and focused entirely on the task in hand.

‘There!’ he cried, springing upright as a deep boom resonated from under the water. ‘That has done it! The lever is now unlocked.’

‘Then open the sluice,’ ordered Michael. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘If I do, the gates will fly open, and water will rush out in an uncontrolled surge that will do exactly what we want to avoid,’ explained Zoone. ‘It must be released gradually, using a handle attached to this winch.’

‘Unfortunately, the water is now so high,’ put in William, ‘that someone will have to dive down and manually slot the handle into the drive wheel.’

‘I will do it,’ said Bartholomew; he was a good swimmer. ‘How deep do I need to go?’

‘Not very,’ replied Zoone. ‘But it entails squeezing through a narrow gap, and you are too big. It must be someone smaller.’

‘Me,’ said Tulyet, beginning to unfasten the belt that held his weapons.

Zoone indicated the Sheriff’s bandaged fingers. ‘You will need two working hands or you will fail.’ He looked Dickon up and down appraisingly. ‘Can he swim? If so, he will do. He is a little large, but there is no time to fetch someone more suitable.’

Tulyet addressed Dickon briskly. ‘We will tie a rope around you, and drag you out if you get into difficulties. Take off your shoes and cloak.’

‘No,’ gulped Dickon, his voice unsteady. ‘It is dangerous.’

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Tulyet, ‘which is why you will do it. If you succeed, I will plead clemency for you. You will be exiled, but not hanged.’

Dickon shook his head vehemently, but Tulyet brushed his terror aside. He forced him to remove his cloak and shoes, tied the rope around the boy’s waist, then made him repeat the instructions Zoone had given. Dickon obeyed with ill grace.

‘Good, now go,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘Do something brave and generous. Then perhaps your mother will remember you with pride.’

‘I do not care about her,’ snarled Dickon defiantly. ‘And I am not doing it. I hope the river washes the lot of you away and that this whole town is destroyed.’

‘Then you will hang for murder, right here, right now,’ said Tulyet, so coldly that those listening exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Do not test me, boy.’

Dickon’s face crumpled. ‘But I do not want to,’ he sobbed. ‘I am frightened.’

Tulyet regarded him in distaste. ‘You always tell me you are a bold warrior, so now you are going to prove it. But be warned: jumping in and doing nothing will not save you from the noose, and nor will “accidentally” losing the lever. You will only keep your life if you succeed.’

Dickon looked fearful and rebellious in equal measure, but began to sidle towards the water. William arranged lamps to shine downwards, so the boy would be able to see what he was doing, while Zoone readied the handle. It comprised a long L-shaped spindle that could be fitted into the gate at one end, and attached to the winch at the other.

Dickon sat on the edge of the dam, and opened his mouth to object again, but a glance at his father’s hard, angry face stopped the words before they could be formed. With shaking hands, he accepted the handle from Zoone, took a deep breath and slid beneath the surface. He surfaced, puffing and blowing, almost at once.

‘I cannot–’

‘Again,’ ordered Tulyet.

Dickon vanished a second time, and everyone peered down to watch him squeeze himself through the opening that held the turning mechanism. To their surprise, he surfaced a few moments later with a delighted grin.

‘It was easy!’ he crowed, before it occurred to him that it was a mistake to downplay his achievement. ‘Although it required great skill and courage, of course.’

While Bartholomew hauled Dickon out of the water, Zoone grabbed the spindle end, and worked quickly to secure it to the winch with a complex system of ropes and tackle. When he was satisfied, he called to William:

‘Try turning it. Gently now.’

William obliged, and there was an immediate explosion of bubbles from the other side of the dam, as the gate opened a crack. The onlookers broke into a spontaneous cheer, although Zoone continued to watch intently, calling warnings to William when he felt the friar was working too fast. Soon, even Bartholomew could see that the water in the Mill Pond had stopped rising.

‘I did it!’ yelled Dickon victoriously. ‘I am a hero! I saved the town.’

‘We need to do the same to the East Dam,’ said Zoone. ‘Bring the winch and another handle. Quickly now!’

Pleased with himself, Dickon trotted towards it almost eagerly. He slid into the water without being told, but surfaced a few moments later shaking his head. Tulyet started to order him to try again, but Dickon had dived before he could finish.

The second time, he was gone for much longer, and when he reappeared – some distance away – he was smirking. Everyone understood why when he waved the rope he had untied from around his waist. Furious, Tulyet stepped forward to leap in after him, but Bartholomew grabbed his arm.

‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘You can catch him later.’

‘You never will,’ taunted Dickon. ‘I shall escape, and you can all go to the Devil!’

And with that, he kicked out with his strong legs, swimming into the darkness and laughing in delight at the dismayed expressions on the faces of those he left behind.

‘Now what?’ whispered Tulyet, shocked that his son had bested him with such consummate ease. ‘Who else can we send to–’

‘No one,’ interrupted Zoone, peering down at the water. ‘Luckily, what we have done already is enough to let us control the flow. It will just take longer than it would with three operational sluices.’

‘So we are safe?’ asked William, and when the engineer nodded, he embraced him in a victorious hug. ‘And the rain has stopped, too! We have averted disaster.’

‘Then I had better go to St Mary the Great to announce the end of term and the name of Aynton’s killer,’ said Michael, then grinned. ‘Not to mention the good news concerning the Province of Canterbury. Our scholars will go home with a song in their hearts.’

But Tulyet and Bartholomew were staring at the tiny splashes of white that showed where Dickon was still making his escape. They watched them until he vanished from sight.