Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Walkelate dubiously. ‘Because I am extremely nervous. Suppose people say there is too much beech? Or that the shelves are too low …’

  ‘When did you last see Frevill?’ demanded Michael, not interested in the architect’s insecurities. ‘And please think carefully, because the safety of our town may depend on it.’

  Walkelate gulped. ‘Last night. I told him he need not come today, as we have finished.’

  ‘I have not seen him, either,’ said Dunning. ‘But he has lived in Cambridge all his life, and would never harm it. His family is powerful and respected here.’

  ‘Look for Frevill in the stationer’s shop,’ said Walkelate suddenly. ‘The Carmelites promised labels for our shelves, but Jorz’s death has thrown them into confusion. Frevill mentioned last night that he might ask Weasenham to provide us with an alternative set.’

  ‘He may have gone to order them, I suppose,’ said Dunning. ‘He was worried that the Carmelites would not fulfil their obligations in time.’

  Walkelate stood. ‘I shall come with you to find out.’

  Bartholomew and Michael set off at a trot towards the High Street, the architect at their heels. Neither Michaelhouse man spoke. Michael was too breathless from what was a very rapid pace, while Bartholomew’s mind was teeming with questions and worries. Their silence allowed Walkelate to indulge in an agitated monologue about the height of his shelves.

  It was dusk, and the holiday atmosphere had intensified since morning: people were determined to enjoy themselves no matter what. Most were armed, though, and Bartholomew was alarmed to see that many scholars were, too, despite the fact that they could be fined for carrying knives, swords and sticks. All were heading home, however, and it would not be long before the streets were deserted.

  They reached Weasenham’s shop to find its windows shuttered, and the stationer escorting out the last of his customers. It was Riborowe, laden down with several heavy packages.

  ‘Someone has started a rumour that the Devil haunts our priory,’ Riborowe said angrily. Weasenham’s face went suspiciously bland. ‘But Jorz and Northwood were not killed by Satan.’

  ‘Well, they did not die because libraries are dangerous, either,’ said Walkelate firmly. ‘Whoever started that stupid story is a wicked villain who deserves to rot in Hell for his lies. I only hope the tale does not prevent people from using Newe Inn.’

  ‘I wish I owned a ribauldequin,’ muttered Riborowe, regarding the architect with naked hatred. ‘I would set it on our highest wall, and blast anyone who entered that accursed place.’

  ‘You would be just as likely to blast yourself,’ Walkelate flashed back. ‘You know as well as I do that those machines are extremely unreliable and a danger to their operators.’

  ‘Yet you still helped Sheriff Tulyet to build one,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply.

  ‘Because I could see that he would make dangerous mistakes without me,’ explained Walkelate. ‘What would you have done? Let him produce a device that would definitely maim its crew? Or help him devise one that would at least give them a fighting chance?’

  ‘Bartholomew would have produced one that kills soldiers on both sides,’ said Riborowe unpleasantly, before the physician could think of a suitable reply. ‘Because that would please Satan.’

  The Carmelite put his head in the air and sailed away while Bartholomew winced. Weasenham was listening, and would almost certainly repeat the remark to his other customers.

  Unwilling to ask his questions in the street, Michael barrelled past the stationer and entered the shop. There was a brief scuffle within, and Bonabes and Ruth shot away from each other. Surreptitiously, Ruth straightened her clothing.

  ‘Have you seen Frevill?’ demanded Michael, ignoring their mortification. ‘The carpenter?’

  ‘Yes – he came to commission some shelf labels not long ago,’ replied Weasenham. His eyes narrowed when he saw the information was important. ‘Why?’

  ‘Did he say where he was going next?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

  ‘He did,’ said Weasenham, looking from monk, to physician and then to architect with a face full of open curiosity. ‘But I will not tell you unless you explain why you want to know.’

  ‘Then I shall answer,’ said Ruth, shooting her husband an admonishing look. ‘He said he was going for a nice ride in the Fens, as Master Walkelate had given him a free day.’

  Walkelate smiled at Michael. ‘You see? Frevill is innocent of your horrible suspicions after all. He is just enjoying a little peace after the fever of finishing our work.’

  But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘No one rides into the Fens when the sun is about to set. He is almost certainly going to meet the raiders.’

  ‘Raiders?’ pounced Weasenham. ‘Frevill is one of them? I heard Coslaye had joined—’

  ‘You are mistaken, Doctor,’ cried Bonabes, horrified. ‘Frevill is a good man – kind and hard-working. He is not the sort of fellow to join assaults on the King’s taxes.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Ruth. Then she frowned. ‘Although he said one strange thing … He was talking to another customer in the shop, and I heard him say that the University was about to learn its lesson. I thought it was an odd remark, but perhaps with hindsight …’

  ‘He must have meant learn them in the library,’ explained Walkelate patiently. ‘It is a place of education, after all.’

  ‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘There was something in his voice that was rather more … more menacing.’

  ‘Damn Tulyet and his ruse!’ muttered Michael. ‘It has worked – the raiders have decided to attack the University now that they believe that the King’s taxes are no longer in the castle!’

  ‘But that would be impossible,’ said Walkelate dismissively. ‘The University is a scattered entity, with no identifiable centre. And the greater part of it comprises poverty-stricken hostels.’

  ‘What about the library?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That might be seen as a secure building in which to hide large chests of coins. It has thick walls and a sturdy door, after all.’

  Walkelate shook his head. ‘You are panicking over nothing. There will be no raid.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Michael. ‘And I intend to warn every College, convent and hostel in our studium generale to be on their guard.’

  It was dark when they left Weasenham’s shop, and even in the short time that they had been inside, the streets had emptied considerably. Bartholomew detected an uneasiness among those who were still out, and the town felt dangerous and uninviting.

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Michael, when he set off towards the Great Bridge. ‘We need to ensure that every scholar in the University knows what might happen tomorrow.’

  ‘To tell Dick Tulyet what Ruth just said about Frevill.’

  ‘Very well.’ Michael sketched a quick benediction, then began to hurry in the direction of St Mary the Great, calling over his shoulder, ‘But watch out for ambushers.’

  Bartholomew kept to the shadows. It was an unsettling journey. He jumped every time there was an odd sound – and the night was full of them: whimpering dogs, the creak of the sign above the Griffin tavern, the squawk of a startled bird, a slithering sound made by a fox among some rubbish. He was relieved when he reached the castle, although as he approached it he felt he was being watched by dozens of hidden eyes. It was not a comfortable feeling.

  ‘You should not be wandering about alone,’ Tulyet admonished Bartholomew, who had stated his purpose to at least four guards before being allowed inside. The Sheriff wore full armour, and his broadsword was strapped to his waist. He appeared calm and confident, although Bartholomew detected the tension within him. ‘It is asking to be attacked again.’

  ‘Frevill the carpenter is one of the raiders,’ explained Bartholomew tersely. ‘And there is reason to believe that they will attack the University next. Your trick worked well, it seems.’

  Tulyet winced. ‘Then Michael will have his hands ful
l tomorrow. There will be trouble at the library ceremony anyway, and if the raiders attack while your scholars are skirmishing …’

  ‘Will you help him?’

  ‘I shall do what I can, but I must bear in mind that this intelligence may be a canard, to draw me out of the castle, thus leaving it vulnerable. And the King’s taxes are still in the Great Tower.’

  Bartholomew’s stomach churned; he was sure that the beadles and academics would be all but powerless against the professional warriors who had so efficiently stormed the bailey.

  ‘Have you learned any more about the raiders?’ he asked.

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘But they have picked a good time to invade. Normally, we could repel them by putting reinforcements on the town gates, but the dry weather of the last few days means that the river and the King’s Ditch are low – shallow enough to wade across without recourse to—’

  He was interrupted by an echoing boom, and there was a flicker of red over the eastern wall. For a moment, nothing happened, then there was a curious whooshing sound, and something plummeted into the bailey, flinging up a great spray of earth that made both him and Bartholomew dive for cover. Pebbles and soil pattered all around them. When it stopped, they scrambled to their feet to see a small lump of rock, half buried in the hole it had made.

  ‘What in God’s name …’ began Tulyet.

  ‘Artillery!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘I saw it used at Poitiers. I imagine that missile came from a bombard.’

  ‘God’s tears!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘Who are these men?’

  Tulyet began to yell orders to his guards, who were gazing in open-mouthed shock at the spectacle. Then there was a second boom, and a stone hit the wall outside with an almighty crack. The sound jolted the garrison into action and they raced to carry out Tulyet’s commands. Within moments, the castle was alive with activity. Some soldiers were detailed to draw buckets of water to douse fires, others were moving horses to a safer place, while others still were breaking out weapons from the armoury. Bartholomew felt a sword thrust into his hand.

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed in alarm, trying to pass it back.

  ‘You do not want to be unarmed tonight, believe me,’ said Sergeant Helbye tartly. ‘You may need to defend yourself.’

  After a while, another projectile slammed into the eastern wall. It made a terrible noise, but Tulyet’s engineers peered over the parapet and shouted that there was no appreciable harm.

  ‘What are they trying to do, Matt?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘You have seen these infernal machines in action. Do they intend to shatter my walls, then pour through the breach?’

  ‘Not unless they plan to be here a while. Bombards do not have the power of trebuchets, or the ability to cause widespread injuries like ribauldequins.’

  ‘Then why bother?’ asked Tulyet, white-faced.

  ‘To unsettle you, probably. You have not seen artillery deployed before, and they anticipate that you will not know how to react.’

  Tulyet scowled. ‘Then they will discover that I am not as easily dismayed as the French.’

  ‘Unless …’ Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Do you think this is a ruse, to keep you inside while the real attack is elsewhere? It does not take many men to handle one of those devices, leaving the bulk of the robbers free to do as they please.’

  Tulyet stared back. ‘In other words, I shall later be accused of cowering inside my stronghold, while the town and its University is razed to the ground.’

  He whipped around to issue more orders, and Bartholomew found himself included in the party that was to venture outside. He was grateful, no more keen to skulk in the castle than the Sheriff. He followed Tulyet through the Gatehouse, and was certain his suspicions were right when they met no resistance. Sergeant Helbye led a small group east, to work their way behind where they thought the bombard was set. The rest followed Tulyet down the hill, towards the Great Bridge.

  ‘The watchman!’ cried Bartholomew, hurrying over to a dark shape on the ground. The fellow was dead, and his companions were in their shelter, too frightened to come out.

  ‘There was a whole army of them, sir!’ cried one, when he looked through the window and recognised Tulyet. ‘They were on us before we could react, so we decided to stay here …’ He hung his head, aware that he had not behaved honourably.

  Tulyet did not waste time berating him, and merely gestured that the rest of his unit was to advance. The streets were oddly deserted, and somewhere a dog barked frantically. Bartholomew saw a shadow in front of them, and tensed, but it was only Cynric.

  ‘Some are on the High Street,’ the Welshman whispered. ‘Thirty or so, all armed to the teeth.’

  Tulyet broke into a trot, his warriors at his heels, so Bartholomew and Cynric followed. As they turned into the High Street, they saw shadows outside King’s Hall. They were fiddling with something below the gate, and it did not take a genius to see that they planned to set it alight.

  Tulyet ducked out of sight, and issued a series of low-voiced instructions. Immediately, several of his men lit lanterns. The instant they were ready, he released a resounding whoop and tore towards the enemy, his men baying behind him. Bartholomew saw the robbers’ shock as they whipped around: clearly, they had not expected trouble from the castle. Several took flight, panicked by the shouting and sudden profusion of lights. Bartholomew grabbed Cynric’s arm.

  ‘Go to All Saints and ring the bell,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Quickly!’

  Cynric hesitated, preferring to fight, but then ran to do as he was told. Bartholomew looked back to the affray, and saw Tulyet down on one knee while a raider prepared to make an end of him with a mace. He raced forward, and knocked the fellow off his feet with a punch that hurt his hand.

  ‘Use your sword,’ advised Tulyet, scrambling upright. ‘Fists have no place here.’

  Bartholomew heard a sound behind him, and only just managed to parry the blow that was intended to decapitate him. His assailant was tall and bulky, and he could not help but wonder whether it might be Ayera or Langelee. The man advanced with deadly purpose, and Bartholomew saw he meant to kill. Panic made him inventive, and in a somewhat unorthodox move he lashed out with his left hand and caught his opponent a sharp jab on the chin. It sent the fellow’s helmet flying from his head and made the hood fall from his face.

  ‘Frevill!’

  Furious at being recognised, the carpenter stabbed viciously. Bartholomew twisted away, but tripped over a dead skirmisher who was sprawled behind him. Frevill leapt forward to stand over him, raising his weapon above his head to deal the killing blow. The sword began to descend.

  At that moment, the bell began to clang. It made Frevill start and spoiled his aim. Snarling in fury, he lifted the blade again, but suddenly pitched forward, a dagger protruding from his back. Bartholomew looked around wildly, and saw a shadow in a doorway. His first thought was that it was Dame Pelagia, but it was too large. Then another raider attacked, and all his attention was taken with trying to prevent himself from being skewered.

  But Cynric’s alarm bell turned the tide of the skirmish, and the raiders retreated as townsmen and scholars poured from their homes to see what was happening. The withdrawal became a rout when arrows began to rain down from the walls of King’s Hall. Tulyet quickly regrouped his men, and set off in pursuit. Then Warden Shropham appeared, his Fellows at his heels. Those who were armed ran to help Tulyet, leaving those who were priests to tend to the dead and dying.

  ‘Were any of the raiders captured alive?’ Bartholomew asked of Cynric, as he struggled to save the life of a man with a severed arm. ‘Dick will want to question them.’

  ‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘The fighting was violent and bitter – the invaders could not afford to be taken prisoner, while the castle wanted to redress the humiliation of last time. But the robbers lost seven men, and we lost only two. We conducted ourselves more respectably this time.’

  Cynric’s bell had filled the streets with i
ndignant townsmen and scholars, all of whom had armed themselves with sticks, cudgels and even garden tools. They helped Tulyet hunt for the raiders in the dark lanes, and so did Michael’s beadles, although it was not long before the Sheriff returned to King’s Hall, his face dark with anger and disappointment as he reported that they had all managed to escape. Cynric offered to track the villains back to the marshes, but although Tulyet dispatched a unit of soldiers to accompany him, he did not look hopeful.

  Dame Pelagia was among those who came to inspect the aftermath of the skirmish.

  ‘Have you seen Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked her. He was looking at the raiders’ bodies, relieved beyond measure when none were familiar. ‘Or Ayera?’

  Pelagia shook her head, her expression unfathomable as always. ‘Why?’

  ‘Damn these villains!’ cried Tulyet, sparing Bartholomew the need to answer. ‘Who are they? And what did they want at King’s Hall?’

  ‘It is the best fortified of the Colleges,’ explained Shropham in his quiet, understated manner. ‘And there is a rumour that the taxes are hidden in the University. King’s Hall is certainly where I would look first, were I a thief intent on acquiring crates of money.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ mumbled Tulyet, not looking at Bartholomew. ‘There is a tale to that effect.’

  ‘You did well, Sheriff,’ said Pelagia with a sinister grin. ‘You saw through their sly plot to divert you, and taught them that Cambridge is a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tulyet, although he was looking at his dead guards and did not smile back. He glanced up when someone hurried towards him.

  ‘We found the bombard, but it was abandoned,’ gasped Helbye. ‘They must have heard us coming and took flight. We tried to follow, but it was too dark.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Tulyet. Then resolve filled his face. ‘We shall gather every able man in the town and hunt them down the moment it is light enough to see.’