A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  Cynric hurled his dagger into the pool of water with a splash that distracted Langelee, and then relieved the philosopher of his sword while his attention strayed. A hunting knife followed it, leaving Langelee spitting with impotent rage.

  ‘Fool!’ he spat at Cynric. ‘Now he will kill us all!’

  ‘There,’ said Cynric, raising his empty hands and ignoring Langelee’s enraged spluttering. ‘Now let him go.’

  Harling gave a mirthless smile, and pressed the point of his sword to Bartholomew’s chin. ‘I am not stupid, Cynric. You can also dispense of the knife you carry in your boot, and the one you have in your sleeve.’

  Cynric blanched, but did as Harling ordered. When the weapons were no more than a trail of bubbles in the water, Harling suddenly shoved Bartholomew away from him so that he crashed into Langelee. Langelee stood like a rock, and one of his ham-like hands stopped the physician from falling, while Harling moved a safe distance away from them, wiping droplets of water from his eyes and dispensing with his sodden cloak. Bartholomew backed up against a tree, his legs shaking from shock and fatigue.

  ‘What do you mean to do?’ demanded Langelee, rather more petulantly than was wise given who was holding the weapon.

  ‘I want you, Langelee,’ said Harling with his nasty smile. ‘You have betrayed me for months, worming your way into my confidence, while all the time you were an agent for the King. I would never have left Cambridge without settling my score with you, and now you have played right into my hands — I knew you would follow me here.’

  He selected a knife from a collection in his belt that he seemed to have acquired since he had attacked Bartholomew and Cynric on the causeway, and balanced it in his palm, still holding the sword in his left hand. Bartholomew’s fingers closed around a piece of loose bark that he had tugged from the tree against which he leaned. Harling raised one arm, and took aim.

  Without stopping to consider the consequences, Bartholomew hurled the bark at the Vice-Chancellor as hard as he could, causing him to falter just as the knife left his hand. The weapon skimmed past the philosopher’s head and thumped into the trunk of a tree, where it quivered from the force with which it was thrown. Harling cursed angrily, while Langelee took advantage of the opportunity to scramble away into the bushes. Michael and Cynric were not long in following his example.

  ‘Damn you, Bartholomew!’ screamed Harling, seeing his quarry gone. ‘Why do you persist in foiling me at every step?’

  He grabbed another knife from the collection in his belt and held it like a spear, narrowing his eyes as he aimed. Bartholomew dived away from the tree, and twisted to one side as Harling’s arm dropped. The knife embedded itself in Bartholomew’s medicine bag, spinning him round and smashing phials that immediately began dripping.

  There was a shout from the undergrowth, not far away. Tulyet must have heard Michael’s yell after all, and was making his way towards them. If Harling intended to kill them all, he did not have much time.

  Bartholomew scrambled away, desperately looking for somewhere to hide. Harling followed, his eyes filled with a grim purpose, and the others seemingly forgotten. He drew yet another knife, and Bartholomew’s foot slipped in mud so that he fell to his knees. He tried to duck around a thick willow tree, but Harling followed him and was standing so close that Bartholomew could hear his agitated breathing. There would be no escape this time. He turned to face Harling, and saw the glitter of triumph in the Vice-Chancellor’s face as he raised his arm to throw the dagger that could not miss. Bartholomew closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the searing pain that would end his life.

  ‘Matt!’ came Michael’s anguished yell.

  Bartholomew forced himself to open his eyes. Harling’s expression of hatred turned to one of surprise, and he lowered the knife to waist level. Bartholomew waited, confused. Did Harling mean to stab him, rather than simply to throw the knife? The Vice-Chancellor looked down at him oddly, and then pitched forwards, the knife still in his hand. Bartholomew saw the weapon aimed at his chest as Harling landed on him, knocking him flat on his back.

  For a few terrifying moments, he was unable to move, and was uncertain whether he had been stabbed or not: he had been told many times by dying patients that their mortal injuries were painless. But then Langelee and Michael ran forward and heaved the inert Vice-Chancellor away from him, and he found himself unharmed. Protruding from Harling’s back was a long, thin blade, embedded so deeply that Bartholomew wondered if it had skewered him clean through. Behind them stood Dame Pelagia, poised to move quickly should Harling show further signs of life.

  Dame Pelagia stepped out of the undergrowth and came towards them, smiling beatifically. Michael elbowed Bartholomew and Langelee out of the way and tore towards her, taking her up in a bear-like hug that Bartholomew was afraid might crack her ribs.

  ‘Grandmother!’

  ‘She is his grandmother?’ asked Langelee, turning an astonished face towards Bartholomew. ‘Dame Pelagia?’

  Bartholomew nodded, while Langelee watched the reunion with fascination. There was a rustle in the undergrowth and Tulyet emerged, flanked by his men. He saw Harling motionless on the ground and gaped at him.

  ‘We saw him drowned!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is he some kind of demon to defy death and rise from his grave to persecute us all?’ He crossed himself vigorously.

  ‘Dame Pelagia made an end of him,’ said Langelee, nodding to where Michael still held the old lady in a protective hug.

  ‘Are you sure he is not still alive?’ asked Tulyet, prodding the Vice-Chancellor cautiously with his foot, as though he imagined Harling might still leap to his feet and attack them all. ‘Check him, will you, Matt? We should be certain this time.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew knelt next to the body and felt for a life-beat in the great vessels of the neck. There was nothing, and Harling’s eyes were wide open and staring. The knife was perfectly positioned to penetrate his heart, and was embedded almost to the hilt. Dame Pelagia possessed a powerful throwing arm, it seemed.

  ‘He is dead,’ he said, standing and backing away from the body.

  ‘Well, wrap him in his cloak and make sure you bind him tightly,’ said Tulyet to one of his men, taking no chances. ‘And then continue the search for his companions. They cannot have gone far.’

  ‘Edward Mortimer is trapped in a bog over there, while his accomplices fled in that direction,’ said Dame Pelagia, pointing with a soft, wrinkled finger. She disengaged herself from Michael and walked towards them. ‘They will not get far. The silly fools did not take the rains into account when they allowed me to convince them to take a short cut. At any other time of year it would be perfectly safe, but the water level is far too high at the moment.’

  ‘Is Edward Mortimer alive?’ asked Tulyet, dispatching his men away in the directions she had indicated.

  Dame Pelagia smiled sweetly. ‘Oh yes. Just trapped. I have been keeping up his spirits with a few tales.’ Her smile widened into a grin, revealing her small, pointed teeth.

  Bartholomew was certain he would not like to hear any tales Dame Pelagia might tell.

  ‘I am sorry to have taken so long to come to your rescue,’ she went on. ‘I could not get a clear shot and too many innocents have already died in this ungodly mess without me adding another.’

  Michael seemed surprised. ‘That would not have prevented you trying ten years ago.’

  Dame Pelagia sighed and then patted her grandson affectionately on the cheek. ‘You know me too well,’ she said with the grin that seemed to Bartholomew to be rather wolfish. ‘The truth is that I only managed to grab one of Harling’s knives when I escaped from him. I could not afford to miss him and hit one of you instead, because that would have been the end of us all.’

  ‘How did you escape?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It looked to me as though Edward and that lay sister had you held firmly between them.’

  ‘They are amateurs and hardly worth mentioning,’ said Dame Pelagia with patent indifference
. ‘I bided my time, slowing them down whenever I could, because I wanted to ensure Harling did not escape and I knew you would be tracking our progress. Reinforcements were, however, a little later in arriving than I had anticipated.’ She looked accusingly at the Sheriff and then at Bartholomew.

  ‘That is what happens when you work with normal people instead of cunning and experienced agents,’ retorted Bartholomew, irritated at the criticism after all the trouble they had taken to help her. ‘But Harling said that you were in the bog and that he had killed you.’

  Dame Pelagia waved a dismissive hand, much as Michael often did when Bartholomew suggested something he did not consider worth discussing. ‘Harling fell in the water and then tried to drag me in with him. I simply allowed my veil to slip off and then shoved that ridiculous lay sister in after him. One nun in a wet habit looks much like another and he drowned her not me. It just goes to show that — as all we agents are taught — it is dangerous to allow your attention to stray, even for a moment, or you may end up killing someone who was on your side.’

  Bartholomew gaped at her. The hem of her cloak and her shoes were wet and muddy, but other than that she was spotless, a marked contrast to everyone else with their sodden cloaks and filthy, dirt-splattered clothes and faces. If she had engaged in some kind of struggle with Harling and the lay sister, then she had managed to do so with minimum effort and absolutely no disturbance to her immaculate appearance.

  She chuckled, amused by his shock, and turned her attention back to Michael, clucking over a small scratch on his hand and setting his gold cross straight against his habit.

  ‘Is she really his grandmother?’ asked Langelee yet again, staring at them as they walked away together.

  ‘Yes. She really is,’ said Bartholomew, finally recovering himself, and taking the philosopher by the arm so Michael and Dame Pelagia might have some privacy. He failed to see why their relationship should be any concern of Langelee’s — or the Archbishop of York’s.

  ‘But that is Dame Pelagia?’ said Langelee in awe.

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew drily. He doubted he would ever forget it. Langelee continued to gaze at Michael and the old nun, resisting Bartholomew’s attempts to pull him away.

  ‘You have not heard of her, have you?’ said Langelee, shaking his head slowly. ‘Dame Pelagia is one of the greatest and most respected of all the King’s agents, and it is said that she is one of the few people who knows all the details of the mystery surrounding the death of Edward the Second — he was our current King’s father.’

  ‘Was he really?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘You scholars!’ said Langelee, condescendingly chiding. ‘How can you expect to teach when you know so little of the world? But I was telling you about Dame Pelagia. It is not mere chance that Queen Isabella, whom we all know played a role in her husband’s murder, spends her days at Castle Rising near a Franciscan nunnery — a house of Poor Clares, which is Dame Pelagia’s Order. It is common knowledge at Westminster that the King would entrust the wardenship of his murderous mother to no one but Dame Pelagia.’

  Bartholomew looked at the old lady with renewed suspicion. No wonder Michael was unwilling to take a post as a mere head of a University College with those kind of family connections!

  ‘A year or so ago,’ Langelee went on, ‘the King relieved her of that charge, and allowed her to retire into the less arduous service of the Bishop of Ely by living at Denny — she was supposed to keep an eye on the Countess of Pembroke when she visited. But it was not long before Dame Pelagia routed out trouble on the King’s behalf. As you concluded earlier, it was she who passed the message to Thorpe to give to my Archbishop.’

  ‘But why did she send this message with Thorpe to the Archbishop of York?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did she not tell Michael? He told me she meets him on occasion to pass the Countess of Pembroke’s secrets to the Bishop.’

  ‘I imagine because it was quicker to send a message with Thorpe. Denny is very isolated and it might have been some time before she could waylay anyone trustworthy enough to carry a message to tell Michael to meet her.’

  ‘But she did not inform Michael that she knew a scholar was behind all this,’ said Bartholomew, still confused, ‘or that she had sent a message to the King via Thorpe and the Archbishop of York.’

  ‘I have already told you,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘No one knew about my mission except Master Kenyngham and the King. Dame Pelagia doubtless guessed that someone like me was infiltrating the University, but she was not officially informed. And she is too professional to have risked endangering another agent and his duties by gossiping about what she had overheard to the Bishop of Ely — who did not need to know about it. She knows how to keep a secret.’

  ‘I am sure she does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what about when all this started to come together — when she came with us back to Cambridge to pass the information she had gathered more recently to the Sheriff? Why did she not tell Michael then?’

  ‘I imagine she did not have the chance,’ said Langelee. ‘She was hidden away most of the time that she was in Cambridge, and I know Michael did not visit her because Harling had him followed constantly. And she certainly would not have discussed the matter on the open road — she is too experienced an operator to make a silly error like that.’

  ‘But why, if she knew about this operation in October, did she wait until now to act?’

  ‘She did act in October,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘She was responsible for me being put in position. But recently she must have sensed that Harling was about to fold up his business, and decided to take precautions — by telling Michael she had information for the Bishop and the Sheriff — in case I failed. Do not forget that she was at Denny, cut off from outside news, and had no way of knowing whether I was even alive. I am sure she considered very carefully what course of action to take, and how best she might serve the interests of the King.’

  ‘But why did the King bother with you at all?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Michael is a good and loyal agent, and the University is under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely, not the Archbishop of York. Michael would have been well placed to expose Harling.’

  Langelee shrugged. ‘When I was first given this mission, the identity of the mastermind behind all this was not known. It was better that an outsider looked into it. In fact, it was what Dame Pelagia recommended in the report that Thorpe carried to York — she suspected that the scholar she overheard plotting with the Abbess was a high-ranking University official, and considered it prudent to charge some stranger with the task of unveiling him.’

  Bartholomew regarded the elderly nun with a new respect. No wonder spying and subterfuge were so deeply ingrained in Michael — not only was it in his blood, but he had probably been given some expert tuition. Bartholomew felt uncomfortable when he thought of how he had inflicted such a wily old character on Matilde and hoped his friend had not learned any bad habits.

  Dame Pelagia looked as serene and unruffled as she had been when she had pretended to be asleep so she could overhear what the silly Julianna had to say. He studied her intently, watching the secretive glint in her green eyes, and suddenly felt sorry for the likes of Edward Mortimer and the lay sister for attempting to take on such a formidable opponent. She saw him staring at her and gazed back so that he felt as though she were reading his very soul. She gave him the slightest of smiles before allowing Michael to lead her back to the causeway.

  ‘Well, that is that,’ said Michael late the following afternoon, stretching his long, fat legs in front of the fire and selfishly stealing the warmth from Cynric. Cynric sighed and moved his stool to the other side of the hearth. Bartholomew sat between them, leaning forward with his arms on his knees and staring into the flames.

  Agatha brought another plate of the cakes with the strange, crunchy texture, and Michael began to wolf them down. Bartholomew bit one cautiously, and realised it was pomegranate seeds that
lent the cakes their peculiar taste and grittiness. Since Michael seldom chewed anything, the disconcerting cracking as the seeds splintered under the teeth did not deter him from eating them as it did most of the other scholars.

  They were sitting in the conclave, the small, pleasant room off the hall in Michaelhouse. The weather had turned from wet to cold, and Master Kenyngham had at last given permission for fires to be lit nightly. The Fellows were in the conclave and the students were in the hall, singing some disgraceful song that had Father William pursing his lips in prim disapproval. He would have gone to silence them, but Langelee was relating the story of Harling and his monumental wickedness to Master and Fellows, and William was reluctant to miss out on such rare entertainment.

  Bartholomew listened to the philosopher with half an ear, but, with the exception of some vivid details that seemed to have more to do with amusing his audience than truth, Langelee said nothing Bartholomew did not already know. Michael watched the philosopher and his increasingly sceptical audience, his baggy green eyes alive with sardonic relish, and Bartholomew was reminded of his terrifying grandmother.

  ‘We are heroes,’ said the monk drily. ‘Or, rather, Langelee is and we played a minor role in defeating one of the most evil minds the world has yet known. But it is all over, so there is no need for you to look so glum. You were even back in Cambridge in time to give your lecture at King’s Hall.’

  Bartholomew winced. ‘But not early enough to change. I gave the best and most inspired lecture of my life, and all the audience could do was stare at the state of my tabard. What a waste!’

  Michael chuckled. ‘I shall remember that the next time I am asked to speak on metaphysics. You know how I hate that subject! I shall roll around on the river bank so that my appearance distracts the class from my words, and I will be able to tell them anything I like. Have another cake, Matt. You look as though you need a little feeding up. Just like me.’

  Bartholomew flexed his aching shoulders and took one of the cakes, wondering why he and Michael felt so battered by their experiences, but why Dame Pelagia had not seemed affected in the slightest. When they had arrived, exhausted, back in the town, the old lady announced pertly that she was going to visit Matilde, and asked Bartholomew to escort her. Warily, he accompanied her through the streets, certain that she would have been a good deal more effective at repelling cutpurses and thieves than he could ever hope to be, and found Matilde waiting in a state of high agitation.