Wondering how the monk came by his superior knowledge of women, Bartholomew conceded the point, and acknowledged that his attitude to Julianna was probably unreasonable. Part of his ambivalence to the incident, he accepted, was that he did not like her, and that was unfair. Both Cynric and Michael, whose opinions he trusted, had been convinced that Egil would have killed him had not Julianna acted when she did. He gave Michael a weak smile, and tried to force his feelings of misgiving from his mind.
While Cynric went to St Mary’s Church to report the attack to Vice-Chancellor Harling, and then to the castle to tell the Sheriff, the others made their way to Milne Street where Bartholomew rapped sharply on the bright new door of the house of Thomas Deschalers the grocer. A servant answered, and they were conducted to a chilly room overlooking the street while she went to fetch her master. Julianna was uncharacteristically subdued and Bartholomew had a sudden lurching doubt that she was related to Deschalers at all, and wondered if she had tricked him into bringing her from the abbey.
After a brief wait, during which Michael greedily devoured a dish of sugared almonds that someone had rashly left on the table, Deschalers entered. He had apparently been working in his yard, for he was wearing thick woollen hose of a russet red and a fur-lined cloak that looked comfortable and warm. Bartholomew thought of his own threadbare cloak, now a pile of ashes at Denny, and tried to imagine how he would survive the rest of the winter without it.
‘Uncle!’ exclaimed Julianna, racing across the room and hurling herself into her startled relative’s arms. ‘Uncle! I have had such a foul time! Look!’ She pulled up her gown to reveal ankles that were scratched from grovelling around in the undergrowth, while her slippers dangled from her feet, hopelessly ruined.
Deschalers looked from the shoes to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘What in God’s name have you done to her?’ he asked, his eyes blazing with a sudden anger. ‘Why have you taken her from Denny Abbey? Dame Pelagia?’
‘Your niece overheard some men talking there,’ said Dame Pelagia soothingly. ‘They seemed to be smugglers, and so we brought her here with us for her own safety.’
‘Smugglers?’ echoed Deschalers, bewildered. ‘What are you talking about? There are no men at Denny Abbey. It is a convent!’
‘They are the menfolk of the lay sisters,’ explained the elderly nun patiently. ‘Brother Michael will inform the Sheriff. But, meanwhile, I think Julianna will be safer with you than at Denny.’
‘But what about these smugglers?’ queried Deschalers, looking from her to Michael. ‘I have heard of no smugglers in that area. Why were they at the abbey?’
‘Unfortunately, we know little about them,’ said Michael, ‘except that they are well organised and ruthless.’ He paused, but then plunged on. ‘On our way here, there was an unfortunate incident.’ He glanced at Bartholomew, and quickly outlined the circumstances of Egil’s death and the role Julianna had played in it. Deschalers paled and swept Julianna up in a protective hug.
‘What have you done?’ he asked in a whisper. At first, Bartholomew thought he was talking to Julianna, but Deschalers was looking at him. ‘To what horrors have you subjected this innocent child? Is it not enough that you drag her off in the middle of the night in the company of rough men? And to compound your crime, you force her to fight for her life against an outlaw?’
This seemed a somewhat jaundiced interpretation of the circumstances. Bartholomew protested, goaded by Julianna’s expression of gloating self-righteousness. ‘Egil was not an outlaw. He was one of Oswald Stanmore’s men. And no one forced her to fight – she joined in of her own accord.’
‘I did no such thing!’ said Julianna with dignified outrage. She turned to her uncle. ‘Doctor Bartholomew abandoned me in the bushes by the side of the road while he went off in the dark. I grew so frightened on my own that I was forced to find my own way to Dame Pelagia. And then that man – Egil – attacked me. It was horrible!’
She buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder, while Deschalers turned a furious face towards Bartholomew.
‘What were you thinking of? You left my niece alone when there were outlaws nearby?’
Bartholomew’s recollection of the incident was somewhat at variance with that of Julianna, and he was certain that it had been curiosity and impatience that had driven her from her hiding place, not fear as she had claimed. He regarded her with dislike. She lifted her face from the depths of her uncle’s cloak, her bright, turquoise eyes blazing defiantly.
‘And then, when Doctor Bartholomew finally came to my aid, this outlaw started to get the better of him. I struck Egil with a stone, and in so doing I saved all our lives!’
‘Is this true?’ Deschalers demanded, still holding his niece close to him.
‘More or less,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could answer. ‘She dispatched Egil with a single blow to the head using a rock, although I am unable to verify that we were in danger of our lives. He had no weapon with him.’
‘He was throttling the physician,’ said Julianna angrily, struggling from her uncle’s grasp and striding across the room to wrench at Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Look! See those marks and tell me Egil did not mean business.’
‘It appears you owe my niece a great deal,’ said Deschalers, moving forward to inspect the scratches on Bartholomew’s neck. He smiled with sudden pride. ‘If only she had been born a boy. What a wonderful heir she would have made!’
Bartholomew suspected that Julianna would make Deschalers a wonderful heir just as she was – she was resourceful, resilient, ruthless and wholly without remorse. She would be a splendid merchant, especially if she were able to learn how to use her brutish instincts with more discretion. He imagined what she might be like having acquired Deschalers’ power and influence, and shuddered.
‘I could still make you a wonderful heir, uncle,’ she pouted. ‘I am clever and determined, and no man has yet bested me in anything.’
That Bartholomew could well believe. ‘You should make her your chief henchman,’ he said to Deschalers. ‘You would never need fear anything again.’
Deschalers eyed him uncertainly, but Julianna took his words as a compliment and smiled. ‘Perhaps you should hire me as your book-bearer,’ she said to Bartholomew, with a predatory gleam in her eye. ‘I would do a better job than that dirty little man you have now.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew coldly.
‘You know I would,’ claimed Julianna haughtily. ‘Who was it who saved your life, while your servant grubbed about doing the Lord knows what in the bushes up ahead? And I can sew. I certainly would not have mended brown leggings with a red patch!’
Bartholomew would have worn red patches on all his clothes if the alternative was Julianna’s companionship. He gazed at her with undisguised dislike. ‘We cannot stand around talking nonsense with you all day. I have patients to see.’
He ignored Michael’s look of warning, and pushed his way past her to leave. Deschalers stepped into his path.
‘You seem more shaken by this affair than the others, Bartholomew,’ he said, waving a hand to where Michael and Julianna watched in anticipation of a confrontation. ‘Even more than old Dame Pelagia. Therefore I will overlook your rudeness. But bear in mind that you owe my niece your life; perhaps she will require a favour in return one day.’
Outside, in the street, Bartholomew waited for Michael with his temper barely under control. Typical merchant, he thought with disgust, seizing every opportunity to turn it to some kind of advantage! His blood ran cold when he considered the kind of return favours Julianna was likely to demand. After a few moments, Michael joined him. Dame Pelagia had been persuaded to take some refreshment with Deschalers and Julianna, while Michael and Bartholomew went alone to perform the unpleasant task of informing Stanmore of the deaths of Egil and Jurnet.
‘You might have been more gracious,’ complained Michael as they walked to Stanmore’s premises next door. ‘You cannot just barge into the houses of the most influen
tial people in the town and yell at them.’
‘I did not yell!’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I do not care whether they are influential or not. That Julianna is positively gloating about how she killed Egil!’
‘Then let her gloat,’ said Michael pragmatically. ‘She will learn in time that such an attitude is unbecoming, and it cannot harm Egil now.’
Bartholomew took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, and walked through the gates into Stanmore’s yard. The clothier stood in the middle of it, shouting orders to a group of sweating apprentices who were struggling to fit more bales of black cloth onto the top of an already teetering pile. He saw Bartholomew coming towards him and gestured for the weary boys to take a break. Gratefully, they clattered off towards the kitchens in search of food. One hesitated, and watched them uncertainly before following the others. He looked vaguely familiar, but Bartholomew was often in Stanmore’s yard and he had doubtless seen him there before. He thrust it from his mind, and tried to concentrate on finding the right words to break the news about Egil and Jurnet to his brother-in-law.
‘Always hungry,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head indulgently as he watched his apprentices go. ‘Although they have been somewhat listless of late. Perhaps you might have a look at them when you have a moment, Matt. But you are back early – you told Edith that you might be gone for a week. I hope you were not so foolish as to travel the road at night. The Round Church was burgled two nights ago – inside the town itself and right under the noses of the Sheriff’s patrols! These outlaws have grown bold indeed. I trust you took the proper precautions when you travelled–’
‘Your suspicions about the Bishop’s message were right,’ said Bartholomew in a quiet voice, breaking into Stanmore’s tirade. ‘The whole thing was a ploy to get Michael and me out into the Fens and ambush us.’
Stanmore stared at him with his mouth open and Bartholomew continued. ‘Jurnet was killed in the fight and Egil died on the way home.’
He waited. He would not have blamed Stanmore if he had raged and sworn. One of the traits Bartholomew most admired in his relative was the care he took of the people who worked for him, and Bartholomew would have been beside himself if someone had taken Cynric and returned to say that he was dead. Stanmore, however, neither raged nor swore. He took Bartholomew and Michael firmly by the elbows and led them towards the house. Although he did not live there, it was handsomely furnished, and the solar on the upper floor that he used as an office was a pleasant, although cluttered, room. He gestured that they were to sit by the fire and ordered a maid to bring mulled wine.
‘And some bread,’ called Michael opportunistically as the maid left. ‘And perhaps a little cheese and a bit of bacon for a starving and exhausted monk.’
Stanmore sat opposite them and folded his arms. ‘You look dreadful,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I am sorry, Oswald,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Father Paul warned me that the Bishop’s summons was odd; then you and Edith voiced doubts; then Harling expressed fears. But we paid no heed to any of you, and now Egil and Jurnet are dead.’
Oswald reached out to touch him lightly on the knee. ‘I am sure you are not to blame,’ he said gently. ‘Now, put aside your remorse and tell me what occurred.’
Michael began to speak before Bartholomew could collect himself, and gave a reasonably accurate account of the events of the previous two days, omitting reference to his grandmother and to Julianna’s evident satisfaction at having killed Egil. When he had finished, Stanmore sat back and sipped his mulled wine.
‘Smugglers, you say,’ he said, setting down the cup and frowning thoughtfully. ‘It is common knowledge that there are smugglers in the Fens – there have been for years – but I had no idea that they were at the abbey itself.’
‘You know of these smugglers?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘What exactly have you heard?’
‘Not much,’ said Stanmore with a regretful shrug. ‘Goods are brought from France and the Low Countries to the Wash, and then dispersed around the country via the Fens. It is, by all accounts, an easy matter to use the channels there to keep out of the sight of the men who collect the King’s taxes on imported goods. It is nothing new, however, as I said, although I imagine there has been more smuggling this year than last because the mild weather has kept the waterways from freezing. And, of course, taxes are high to finance the King’s wars in France, so contrabanding is a lucrative business.’
‘I thought hostilities with France had ended because of the plague,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from the cup he held in both hands in an attempt to warm them.
Michael and Stanmore looked at him pityingly. ‘The King still has debts to pay and his soldiers’ wages to find,’ said Stanmore.
‘And he still needs to keep his spy network in place,’ continued Michael. ‘Spies are expensive. Then there are officials to bribe, enemies to be deposed and friends to be bought. And although fighting might have temporarily ceased in France, Brittany is still a hotbed of violence and looting.’
‘Sheriff Tulyet told me that bands of Englishmen roam Brittany at the King’s command, ambushing traders, attacking villages and plundering religious houses,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Brittany is an unsafe place to be.’
‘Sounds like the Fens,’ remarked Bartholomew, looking down at the dark wine in his cup.
‘It is curious,’ mused Michael, ‘but Master Deschalers seemed surprised when we told him about the smugglers. Have you not discussed this with the other merchants?’
‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, as though it was obvious. ‘He knows as much as I do – or possibly more, since most of his goods come from the Wash via the river. Most of mine come from the south, and I use the roads not the waterways.’
‘Then why did he deny that he was aware there is smuggling in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely he would guess that we would discuss the matter with you, and that you would reveal he knew all about it.’
Stanmore shrugged. ‘Perhaps he thought you would accuse him of being involved if he acknowledged what he knew.’
‘Now that I rethink his actual words, Deschalers did not deny that he was aware of smuggling in the Fens, Matt,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘What he said was that he did not know there was smuggling in that area. That is an entirely different statement.’
‘Do you think it is likely that he is involved in it?’ asked Bartholomew of Stanmore.
Stanmore scratched his head. ‘I really could not say. And anyway, he is a fellow tradesman. It would be very wrong of me to besmirch his reputation with unfounded suspicions.’
‘Your reticence does you credit, Sir Oswald,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Now, tell us what you suspect, if you please.’
Stanmore leaned back in his chair, and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, Deschalers has been selling lemons recently. It is possible they came via these smuggling routes. But I have no evidence to support such a claim, and I would rather you did not tell him it was I who put the idea into your heads.’
Bartholomew sensed immediately that he and Michael had stumbled into a trade war. No matter how Stanmore stressed that his relations with his powerful neighbours – Mortimer, Cheney and Deschalers – were friendly, Bartholomew was not fooled. He had spent his childhood in Stanmore’s house, and knew only too well how bitter the competition between merchants could be. Even though Deschalers was a grocer, Mortimer a baker, Cheney a spice-dealer and Stanmore a clothier, they were still rivals in the hard world of commerce. They fought over use of the river wharves, the size of their stalls in the Market Square and even their relative positions in the ceremonial processions through the town. Their dealings with each other appeared cordial enough, but in fact they watched each other like predators, waiting for signs of weakness. Deschalers and Cheney seemed to have taken young Edward Mortimer under their wings, but Bartholomew was certain it was not for altruistic reasons – they were probably already looking ahead t
o the day when Edward inherited his father’s business, and were securing their influence over him for the future.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ asked Michael, pouring the last of the wine into his cup. ‘I know the day is wearing on, and we have already taken up too much of your time, but I would appreciate any more information about this smuggling you might have.’
Stanmore frowned. ‘I really have little more to share with you, Brother. I am certain this has been a good year for smuggling. In the summer, the waterways teem with legally loaded vessels and the long hours of daylight make secret voyages difficult. In the winter, trading usually stops when the Fen waterways become frozen. But this year, the heavy rains have not only kept the ice away, but have provided deep water and more channels for the smugglers’ crafts. They have doubtless become more brazen because business is good and profits have been high – hence Deschalers’s lemons wherever you look.’
‘But why should these smugglers want to kill Michael and me?’ asked Bartholomew, shaking his head as Michael offered him the last piece of bread. ‘We had no idea that any of this went on until we arrived at Denny Abbey.’
‘You would know the answer to that better than I,’ said Stanmore. ‘It must be something to do with that poisoned wine you were investigating before you left. I suppose it is possible that the brew which caused all those deaths was smuggled through the Fens.’
‘It must have been,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Some rascal named Sacks was selling it in the Brazen George and, according to Matt’s students, Sacks seldom comes by anything honestly.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Stanmore. ‘In the wine lies the solution to all this. Discover more about that, and you will know who is prepared to kill you, rather than risk letting you make your inquiries.’
A Deadly Brew Page 21
