A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  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!’

  Chapter 7

  ‘But he was attacking you!’ protested Julianna, unrepentant. ‘And what would I have done if he had killed you, all alone out here in this vile place?’

  Cynric shot her an unpleasant glance. ‘From what I saw, Egil did mean you harm, boy,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘He was choking the life out of you.’

  ‘He was!’ agreed Julianna. ‘I saved your life, but now you think I am a murderess.’

  ‘Well, so you are,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Where did you learn such things? Not at Denny, I am sure.’

  ‘It came naturally,’ said Julianna, not without pride. ‘I just knew what needed to be done and I did it. My uncle, Thomas Deschalers, always said I should have been born a boy. Then I might have been a fine warrior.’

  Bartholomew gazed at her in revulsion. The woman had just struck a man dead, so that even now her hands were red from the blood that had splattered onto them, and she was boasting about it. He sat back on his heels and felt a wave of sickness pass over him. Egil had been killed instantly, his skull smashed like an egg under the great rock she had used. Even in the pale light from the moon, Bartholomew could see the huge depression at the back of the man’s head where the stone had dropped. What was he to tell Oswald? And what of Egil’s family? How would they manage without him?

  Cynric patted him consolingly on the shoulder. ‘She saved your life,’ he said softly. ‘If she had not brained him, I might well have done.’

  Bartholomew turned to look at him. ‘But you would not, Cynric,’ he said bitterly. ‘You might have rendered him insensible, but you would never have
struck him dead from behind in the dark.’

  ‘What is done is done,’ interrupted Dame Pelagia sharply, looking down at the body. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for recriminations. Julianna believed this man was about to kill you, and so she took the action she considered appropriate. And now we should continue our journey before one of us comes to harm.’

  Dame Pelagia’s reaction to Egil’s violent death was no more nun-like than Julianna’s had been, and Bartholomew wondered afresh about the religious community in the Fens. Were they all smugglers, slipping out in the dead of night with their habits kilted around their knees to haul stolen goods along secret waterways? Was it the nuns of Denny who had hired Alan and the mercenaries to kill him and Michael? But that made no sense – Bartholomew had never been to Denny before and the nuns could have no reason for wanting him dead. Perhaps it was something to do with Michael and his grandmother. He looked at the old lady dubiously, wondering what intrigues and wicked deeds she had encountered while in the service of the Bishop. If she had been in the spying business for years, her skills must be outstanding in order to have allowed her to have reached her ripe old age unscathed.

  Bartholomew stood and walked away from the others, looking up at the star-blasted sky and trying to pull himself together. His first inclination was to go to Julianna and shake her so hard that her teeth would fall out; his second was to run back to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, and put the whole business – the pointless deaths of young Armel and Master Grene; the brutal murder of Isaac; the vicious attacks on him, Michael and Cynric; the Fen smugglers; and Julianna’s assault on Egil – out of his mind. He dismissed the wish almost as soon as he had made it: he had no desire to see Julianna tried for murder, since she had obviously acted in the firm belief that Egil was trying to kill him. But the matter would need to be handled very carefully, nevertheless, if the Sheriff were to be convinced her action was justified. And, Bartholomew admitted to himself, it was not so much the manner of Egil’s death that distressed him – horrifying though it was – it was Julianna’s total lack of remorse. He had met some selfish people in his life, but none were quite as cheerfully blatant about it as was Julianna.

  Nothing would be gained from further delay, however, so he took a deep breath, and walked back to where Cynric was wrapping Egil in the dead man’s cloak.

  ‘We cannot carry him back with us now,’ said Cynric, tugging at the inert body and testing its weight. ‘He is too heavy for you to carry alone and I still need to scout ahead.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘Our first priority is to get Dame Pelagia and Julianna to safety. So, we will leave Egil at the side of the road and come back for him in the morning. Oswald …’

  He had been going to say Oswald would lend him some of his men, but, in view of what had happened to the last ones, he was uncertain Stanmore would trust him with others.

  ‘Perhaps the Sheriff …’ he trailed off miserably, looking at Michael.

  ‘Master Stanmore will come for the body,’ said Cynric decisively. ‘Help me carry him off the track before we lose any more time.’

  Between them, Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric managed to haul Egil’s heavy body to the side of the road. A dark trail dribbled from the bundle as they moved, and Bartholomew glanced involuntarily at the huge stone that Julianna had selected. She must surely have known that a blow from such a large rock would kill. He glanced over to where she watched, hands on hips and a satisfied smile playing about her lips. He considered inviting her to paint her face with Egil’s blood, as young hunters often did with their first kill, but was not entirely certain that she would not leap at the opportunity with enthusiasm.

  As Bartholomew tucked the cloak tighter around the corpse, Cynric drove a stick into the ground as a marker. Although nothing was said, Bartholomew knew as well as Cynric that a corpse might attract wild animals, and if they dallied too long before returning, who could be certain that Egil would be where they had left him?

  When they had finished, Cynric wordlessly slipped off into the darkness to check the road ahead again, while Michael took Dame Pelagia’s arm and led her forward. Bartholomew was left with Julianna.

  ‘You had better go with them,’ he said, regarding her with distaste. ‘It will be safer for you.’

  ‘It will be safer for you if I am here,’ she replied brightly. ‘You would have been throttled by now, had I not saved you.’

  ‘You killed my brother-in-law’s servant,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his anger rising again. ‘There was no need to hit him so hard!’

  ‘There was every need!’ blazed Julianna. He shook his head and turned away from her, but she caught his arm. ‘Listen! I am sorry he was someone you knew but, believe me, it was you or him as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, relenting slightly. ‘Now go with Dame Pelagia and Michael. I will check your screeching did not alert any outlaws.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it, and flounced after Michael. The sadly inadequate shoes prevented her from walking in as dignified a fashion as she would have wished, but she managed to effect a respectable strut. Bartholomew watched her go, hearing her footsteps recede into the darkness. Overhead, the stars were beginning to fade and the sky was fractionally lighter than it had been. It would not be long until dawn. He stood looking down at Egil’s body for some time before he followed the others.

  Mercifully, the rest of their journey was uneventful, and they arrived at the Barnwell Gate just after prime. Julianna’s flimsy shoes had finally disintegrated and Bartholomew and Michael had been forced to take turns to carry her for the last three miles. Dame Pelagia, however, had maintained a steady pace, and Bartholomew was impressed with her stamina, especially given her performance of frailty when he had helped her up the steep stairs to chaperone Julianna’s astrological consultation. The old lady, Bartholomew thought begrudgingly, was a fine actress indeed. He supposed her habitual pretence of feebleness would go a long way in ensuring she was excused from some of the more rigorous duties of a convent nun – such as taking a turn in the vegetable garden or long vigils – and thus improve Dame Pelagia’s quality of life immeasurably.

  By the time they reached the town gate, all five of them were mud-spattered, cold and weary, and Michael was limping from where his wet sandals had chaffed his heels. Only Cynric and Dame Pelagia seemed to have any energy left. The soldiers on duty at the Barnwell Gate regarded the bedraggled party suspiciously, but allowed them in without comment when they recognised Michael.

  ‘Cynric will inform the Sheriff of what has happened to us,’ Michael announced to the guards imperiously, ‘and should anyone come asking whether we have returned, Master Tulyet will not be pleased if you tell them we have, no matter how kindly seeming the enquirer.’

  The guards nodded understanding and escaped gratefully to their small lodge out of the cold. It was not the first time Michael had made such a demand, and they knew his threat was not an idle one. Unlike most University officers, Michael often worked closely with the Sheriff to maintain peace in the town, and Tulyet would take seriously a request from him to reassign the soldiers to less pleasant duties.

  As they walked towards Petty Cury, a narrow street lined with a random assortment of shops, Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him out of Dame Pelagia’s hearing.

  ‘When I made the decision to bring my grandmother with us, I had no clear notion but to get her away from Denny,’ he whispered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. ‘But what shall I do with her? I cannot take her to Michaelhouse: the other Fellows would have a fit if I took a woman there, regardless of her age and vocation.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘You could lodge her with the nuns at St Radegund’s Priory.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘The Priory lies too far outside the town to be safe and, anyway, that will be the first place the smugglers will look when they see she has gone.’

  Bartholomew regarded him speculativel
y. ‘You think they will come for her?’

  ‘I am certain of it,’ said Michael. ‘They will want to know how much information she has gathered, so they will know which parts of their operation are secure and which need to be closed down. I mulled over what she told me all the way home. If those smugglers are well organised enough to carry out an elaborate plan to kill us, then a search of the town for an old nun will be child’s play to them.’

  ‘I suppose we could take her to Edith at Trumpington,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to involve his sister, but feeling obliged to offer.

  Michael shook his head again. ‘That will be the second place they will look. We need somewhere where they will never think of checking.’

  Bartholomew thought for a moment. ‘Is your grandmother easily shocked?’ he asked.

  Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Grandmother? Shockable? Never!’

  ‘Then I know just the place,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But first, I want to get rid of Julianna before she kills someone else, and then I want to see Oswald.’

  ‘You are being unfair to Julianna, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric was right. Egil looked as though he was going to kill you.’ He pulled at Bartholomew’s tunic and looked at his neck. ‘There are still scratches on you from where he almost had you throttled. Let me tell Oswald what happened – if you relate the tale, he will have Julianna swinging for murder and you beside her as her accomplice!’

  ‘Egil did not make these marks,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his throat. ‘Julianna did that when she was flailing around with a stick – before she thought of using a more deadly weapon. I suppose I should be grateful it was Egil she brained and not me.’

  ‘I see you are shocked that a young, well-bred woman could kill without compunction,’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew with an amused expression. ‘Well, you should not be. With all the teaching you do, you have forgotten what women are really like. You idolise them and think they are meek and gentle creatures. Do you think Edith would have hesitated to kill Egil if she thought he was harming you? Or that Philippa, of whom you were so enamoured during the Death? Or even Agatha our laundress? And look at my grandmother! How do you think she has lived so long in the sinister world of spying, if it were not for a certain ruthless streak and her inimitable cunning?’