He opened the offending tome, and there was the word scrawled in the margin, definitely in Langelee’s untidy hand. The fact that it was in the vernacular, not Latin or Greek, spoke volumes, too. Langelee’s grasp of classical languages was not the best.
‘Why did he want such a book?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He teaches philosophy, and he, unlike the rest of us, tends not to venture into other disciplines.’
‘He is not clever enough,’ said Deynman, blithely oblivious of the fact that he was in no position to criticise anyone’s intellect. ‘The rest of us like to hone our minds, but he would rather play camp-ball. He has never asked to borrow a book before, and I should have thought of an excuse not to let him have it.’
‘You cannot prevent the Master from using his own library.’
‘I can and I will,’ vowed Deynman. ‘I saw him reading it with Ayera later. Now he would never deface a book. He cares too deeply about them.’
Bartholomew was puzzled and worried. Langelee was not a man for academic chitchat, especially with someone who possessed an intellect as formidable as Ayera’s, so what had they really been doing? He patted the Librarian’s shoulder, and bent to read what had prompted Langelee to do such a terrible thing. It was the chapter on devices that could be used to attack a castle. A wash of cold dread flooded over him as he scanned descriptions of siege engines, weapons for undermining rocks, and recipes for making things that exploded.
‘Langelee borrowed this last week?’ he asked.
Deynman nodded. ‘Yes, why? What is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost.’
Bartholomew gripped Deynman’s arm urgently. ‘Forget about this. Do not mention it to the Master or to anyone else.’
‘Why?’ pressed Deynman. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Neither do I,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I do know we need to be careful.’
When Bartholomew found Michael, the monk was just finishing a discussion with Clippesby. The Dominican was agitated, and shot towards the stables when Bartholomew approached, muttering something about needing a sensible conversation with a horse to calm his nerves. Michael’s expression was one of exasperation and bemusement in equal measure.
‘What did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘That the rat declines to visit libraries any more, because they are too dangerous; the Carmelite Friary’s blackbirds have a low opinion of Riborowe; and the College cat reports that Langelee and Ayera have taken to going out at strange times, sometimes together but usually alone.’
Bartholomew watched Clippesby disappear into the stable, and wondered what to do about the cat’s intelligence in particular.
‘There will be a grain of truth in it all,’ sighed Michael. ‘There usually is, although it is difficult to extract fact from fiction where he is concerned. The man is a lunatic, and I often wonder why we do not dismiss him and appoint someone sane.’
‘Because he is gentle and good, and that is worth a great deal.’
‘I suppose so. But I can tell from the expression on your face that something else is wrong now. Did Deynman refuse you access to some text?’
‘Ayera and Langelee have been reading up on warfare. And things that explode.’
Michael swallowed hard. ‘What you said earlier has jogged my memory – I noticed Ayera’s limp, too. Could he have been one of the trio my grandmother drove away from you on Wednesday? She told me later that she thought she had injured two of them enough to slow them down.’
‘She hit one in the foot and the other in the thigh. Coslaye had a damaged foot …’
‘And Ayera walked as though his injury was higher up. Yet I cannot see him joining forces with the likes of the Principal of Batayl. But having said that, Ayera has always been something of an enigma. I hope to God he has not led Langelee astray.’
‘No one “leads” the Master anywhere he does not want to go.’
Michael was sombre. ‘True. And we must not forget that he was the chief henchman for a powerful churchman with a lot of enemies. He must have been very good at it – those sorts of occupations tend to have a short life expectancy, and he did it for years.’
‘Not as long as your grandmother, though,’ remarked Bartholomew.
‘She is a remarkable woman, is she not?’ said Michael fondly. ‘There cannot be many elderly ladies who played a role at the Battle of Poitiers.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. The victory had been attributed to the skill of English and Welsh archers, the lie of the land, and the reckless over-confidence of the French commanders, but now he wondered whether the Prince of Wales had had a secret weapon – not ribauldequins or wildfire, but Dame Pelagia. He frowned. ‘Weapons and warfare.’
‘What about them?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Langelee and Ayera have been reading about them; Northwood and the others may have been experimenting with them; Riborowe and Coslaye drew them; Chancellor Tynkell professes to know about them; while any number of scholars were at Poitiers – Northwood, Holm, Walkelate and Riborowe …’
‘And Pepin of Batayl says he was not there, although you caught him out in inconsistencies about the area. Moreover, he is a Frenchman in a hostel that is named for the English victory, which must be uncomfortable to say the least.’
‘I am sure this is important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I have no idea why.’
‘Then we had better find you some answers.’
They decided to speak to Riborowe first, and arrived at the Carmelite Priory to find the friars spring-cleaning ready for Corpus Christi. Their bedding had been put to air, and clerics and lay-brothers alike were busy with mops and brushes. Etone was in the scriptorium.
‘Out, out!’ he was crying, driving his querulous scribes before him like a flock of geese. ‘It reeks in here, and the floor is in desperate need of a scrub.’
‘But we cannot afford the time, Father Prior,’ objected Riborowe, clasping his skeletal hands in dismay. ‘Dunning wants this Book of Hours by Thursday, because he is going present it to the Common Library. At its opening.’
‘It will not be ready then, will it,’ said Etone sweetly. ‘What a pity!’
‘He will take his custom to Ely,’ warned Jorz, hopping from foot to foot in distress.
‘So what?’ demanded Etone. ‘What can he do to us now? Decline to give us Newe Inn? He is an untrustworthy man, and I would sooner not treat with him again anyway.’
‘We have company,’ said Riborowe, whipping around suddenly when he sensed they were being observed. ‘What do you want, Bartholomew? To inspect Jorz’s pictures, and tell him whether his portrayal of Satan is accurate?’
‘Stop!’ ordered Etone sharply. ‘What have I told you about being rude to Matthew?’
‘That he may refuse to tend your chilblains if I insult him,’ replied Riborowe sullenly. He glowered at Bartholomew, and ignored his Prior’s pained wince at the lack of tact.
‘How can we help you, Matthew?’ asked Etone with an ingratiating smile that did not sit well on his naturally austere features.
‘For a start, you can tell us whether Coslaye visited you early on Saturday morning,’ replied Michael. ‘To accuse you of spoiling his mural with soot.’
‘Yes, he did,’ replied Etone uncomfortably. ‘And I have disciplined the novice responsible. However, I can see the lad’s point. Coslaye’s painting is a glorification of war, and while I am as patriotic as the next man, I do not condone slaughter.’
‘What time did Coslaye arrive?’
‘Just before nocturns. I remember, because his ranting distressed us, and we found it difficult to concentrate on our prayers afterwards.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So Coslaye had no alibi for the raid after all, because nocturns was in the middle of the night, a long time before dawn.
‘How long was he here?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘A few moments,’ replied Etone. ‘He howled at me, I howled back, then he stormed out.’
�
�I do not suppose you noticed whether he was limping, did you?’
Etone frowned. ‘It is odd that you should ask, because I saw him hobbling quite painfully, but that was much later in the day. I did not observe any obvious limp when we raged at each other over his horrible painting.’
‘Did he explain what had happened to him?’
‘He said a book had fallen on his foot. I quipped that perhaps a Common Library was not such a bad idea after all, because it would save the heads of impecunious hostels from being injured by tomes stored on cheap shelving. He did not find my remark amusing.’
‘We also need to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, intending to ask whether Ayera had spoken to the scribe during the raid, as Clippesby had claimed; and if so, what about.
Riborowe scowled. ‘Tulyet still has him. How are we expected to manage when we have no one to draw chickens? What are my ribauldequins supposed to shoot at?’
‘Or my demons to eat?’ added Jorz.
‘Ribauldequins,’ mused Michael. ‘How familiar are you with those, Riborowe?’
The thin friar was delighted to be asked. ‘I have never seen one in action, because I was too far away at Poitiers, but I have read a good deal about them and …’
He trailed off when he saw his Prior regarding him coldly, disapproving of his obvious pleasure in devices designed to take human life. He flushed, and slunk away to the chamber at the rear, where he stirred something red that was bubbling in a pot.
‘I shall speak to him later,’ said Etone, watching Riborowe with troubled eyes. ‘It is time this unseemly fascination with artillery ended.’
He returned to the business of driving the reluctant scriveners from their desks in his quest for a dust-free environment, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to make their own way out.
‘Coslaye would have had plenty of time after this altercation to join the attack on the castle,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked across the yard. ‘So perhaps Robin did see him, and he injured his foot in the fracas. Etone’s testimony certainly points that way.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I sincerely hope they are wrong!’
Outside the friary, the roads were quieter than they had been, and several families had given up decorating their homes, leaving them oddly lopsided. Michael and Bartholomew had reached the High Street when they saw Tulyet arguing with the head of the Frevill clan. The debate was cut short when Frevill stalked into his house and slammed the door.
‘I was trying to persuade him to cancel the pageant,’ explained Tulyet. ‘He refuses, although he has spirited his family and valuables to the country. Hypocrite! What about those who do not have a refuge, and who may lose everything if the raiders strike during his damned festivities?’
‘I thought he was to lead the procession,’ said Michael. ‘If he flees the town, then—’
‘Oh, he will lead it,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘It will take more than the prospect of a raid to deprive him of an opportunity to flaunt his finery. He will enjoy himself, safe in the knowledge that all he holds dear is beyond the raiders’ reach, and that a fast horse will be waiting to whisk him away at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Then perhaps you should not have arranged for his cope to be repaired,’ said Michael. ‘He might have been less eager to strut if his ceremonial regalia was full of lye-holes.’
‘I wish I had let it dissolve,’ said Tulyet viciously. ‘His actions are the worst combination imaginable. Either he should have cancelled the pageant and left the town to organise a proper defence, or he should have proved that there is nothing to worry about by keeping his family and jewels here. As matters stand, folk are confused and frightened by his example.’
‘The rumours of an attack do seem to be growing stronger,’ said Michael. ‘Several Colleges and a number of hostels have declared an end to their programmes of beautification, on the grounds that we shall all be in flames soon anyway. And my grandmother is afraid they may be right.’
Tulyet sighed tiredly. ‘I shall ask the other burgesses to cancel the festivities, but I doubt they will oppose Frevill: the Guild of Corpus Christi is powerful, and money has been invested in the arrangements. Dunning would be furious, too – he wants the whole town to witness his largesse in funding your Common Library.’
‘Can you not order them to do it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not on the basis of rumours. Still, at least I know who murdered Adam, the beggar and my guard. It was definitely the robbers. I have witnesses now, along with a distinctive piece of armour that was gripped in my soldier’s dead hand.’
‘When did they claim their first victim?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In other words, how long have they been spying on the town?’
‘The beggar was murdered on Easter Day – more than two months ago.’
‘Holm arrived here to live on Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Ignore him,’ said Michael, when Tulyet’s eyebrows rose. ‘He has taken a dislike to Holm.’
‘He is not the only one,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Holm was useless when my men were injured. Incidentally, were you aware that he keeps a lover? Clippesby knows, so I imagine he told you. He stumbled across them when he was debating some lofty theological tract with a goat. Or was it a pig? I cannot recall now.’
‘Did Clippesby give you a name?’ asked Michael. ‘Prudishly, Matt stopped him from revealing it when they discussed the matter, and I keep forgetting to ask.’
‘Browne of Batayl Hostel.’
‘Browne?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I was not expecting that! Still, I suppose it explains why Holm seems immune to Julitta’s very considerable beauty, and why Clippesby is so certain their union will be unhappy. You will have to prevent her from marrying him now, Matt. Make her fall in love with you instead. It would be a kindness.’
‘How will you catch the individual who killed Adam, Dick?’ Bartholomew asked, before the monk could embarrass him further.
‘I have every available soldier out scouring the Fens. Unfortunately, these raiders are elusive and extremely well organised, and I am not hopeful of nabbing them before they next attack.’
‘Speaking of their next attack, there is a tale that the tax money has been moved from the castle and hidden in the University,’ said Michael. ‘Do you have any idea who invented such a lie?’
‘No, but the story is all over the town. There is gossip about Gyseburne, too – namely that his interest in urine stems from the fact that it can be made to explode. Is it true?’
‘Urine does contain combustible—’ began Bartholomew, but then stopped abruptly.
‘He is still horrified by Rougham’s capitulation,’ explained Michael to the Sheriff. ‘And he is loath to discuss substances that blow up with anyone now. Even you.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘It was a secret that should have been carried to the grave, and he had no right dabbling in such matters in the first place. If that vile concoction is ever used against my men, I shall … well, let us hope it does not happen.’
‘Christ!’ groaned Bartholomew when Tulyet had gone. ‘What if it is? What if the raiders manage to create some?’
‘They cannot, not when you say rock oil is difficult to obtain and dangerous to distil. But perhaps we are taking too bleak a view of the situation. There may be no raid – the robbers may have given up after their rout on Saturday.’
‘That is not what everyone else seems to think,’ said Bartholomew, aware that several High Street houses had boards over their windows. ‘Including your grandmother.’
‘But they may be wrong. There is nothing except rumour to suggest there will be an attack. I am sure this tale did not come from the culprits, and they are the only ones who really know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, although he was far from convinced.
The interview with Willelmus was delayed yet again when Michael was intercepted by a beadle saying that Walkelate needed some requisitions to be signed as a matter of urgency. Barthol
omew went with him to Newe Inn, still worrying that wildfire might play a role in the looming trouble.
The clouds had lifted and it was hot by the time they reached Cholles Lane. The streets were clogged with dust, and Bartholomew wished it would rain, to dampen it down. People were already complaining about the heat, worried that the crops might fail again. The town’s children were happy, though, and frolicked in the river’s shallows, squealing their delight amid fountains of brown spray. Bartholomew hoped it would not make them ill, because they had chosen to play not far from where the Carmelites discharged their sewage.
Bartholomew and Michael entered Newe Inn, where they met Dunning in the basement, just leaving. He was whistling cheerfully to himself, and smiled when he saw Michael.
‘You are prompt,’ he said approvingly. ‘Walkelate has the documents ready, and I appreciate you coming so quickly. Time is of the essence now that Corpus Christi is only two days away.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael gloomily.
Then Dunning’s face darkened. ‘I wish I did not have to waste so much of it quashing these ridiculous tales about a raid, though. Of course there will not be an attack! These villains are still Christians, and know better than to risk the wrath of God by interrupting religious ceremonies.’
‘Opening a library is hardly a religious—’ began Bartholomew.
‘Nonsense!’ interrupted Dunning. ‘Prayers will be said, will they not? And monks and friars will be in attendance? I want it to be a day to remember – and I do not mean because everyone skulks at home, too frightened to come out and admire what we have achieved here.’
He bustled away before they could argue, leaving them to climb the stairs to the upper rooms. When they arrived, they could not help but notice that the reek of oil was just as powerful as it had been the last time they had visited, and Holm’s ‘remedy’ sat ineffectually in a bowl on the windowsill. Aristotle, now affixed in his permanent position atop the first bookshelf, seemed to be grimacing his disapproval at the stench.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 28
