Murder by the Book (44 page)

‘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 indignant 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.’

‘That would not be wise,’ said Pelagia softly. ‘You will not catch them, and your absence will leave the town vulnerable. They will launch another raid tomorrow, and you must be here to meet them.’

‘You seem to know a lot about them, madam,’ said Tulyet suspiciously.

‘I have been listening to rumours and questioning travellers. Stay here, and help my grandson defend the University when they strike again.’

‘Are you sure they will come?’ asked Shropham. ‘You do not think they have learned that we are no easy pickings? That they will leave us alone now?’

‘I do not,’ stated Pelagia firmly. ‘They will appear again tomorrow – during the celebrations, almost certainly, when everyone is distracted.’

‘Then we shall cancel the pageant,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘The Guild of Corpus Christi will have to listen to me now. And if they refuse, I shall declare a state of military law, one that will last until all these villains are safely inside in my gaol.’

‘These brigands are nothing if not patient,’ said Shropham, thinking like the soldier he had once been. ‘Look how long they have spent reconnoitring and planning.
Ergo
, I suspect that if you do cancel the festivities, they will simply wait for another occasion. And we cannot remain in a state of high alert indefinitely.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Tulyet angrily. ‘That we carry on as normal, and let them saunter in to take whatever they please?’

‘That we carry on as normal as a way to lure them here,’ replied Shropham. ‘And then launch an attack of our own, to ensure they do not “saunter” out again.’

‘It might work,’ said Pelagia. ‘But then again, it might not.’

While Pelagia, Shropham, Tulyet and Michael argued over tactics, Bartholomew set about carrying the dead to All Saints’ Church. There were too many of them, and even though most were raiders, he deplored the carnage.

‘I need a drink,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew had finished. ‘I know it is the middle of the night, but Landlord Lister will accommodate me, and we should discuss what has happened.’

If Lister was surprised to receive guests at such an hour, he hid it well. He brought wine and a plate of pastries, then left them alone to talk.

‘Lord!’ said Michael, scrubbing his face with his hands. ‘What a terrible night!’

‘Tomorrow will be worse,’ came a soft voice from the door. Both scholars leapt in alarm as Dame Pelagia glided into the room and casually took a seat.

‘How did you get in?’ Bartholomew’s nerves were raw. ‘I saw Lister lock the door behind us.’

Pelagia merely smiled. ‘Is there a spare cup of wine? It has been a long evening, and I am not as young as I was.’

She looked perfectly sprightly to Bartholomew.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were discussing battle tactics with Tulyet.’

‘He can manage without me,’ replied Pelagia, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the claret. ‘And I wanted to talk to you, because it is time to use your clever wits – you have more than enough information to identify the villain who has been murdering scholars in libraries. And you are right: if we present a culprit it may avert trouble.’

‘We have nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Michael, stunned by the claim. ‘Or I would have made an arrest already.’

‘You have failed to analyse the facts with your usual acuity,’ countered Pelagia. ‘And it is time to rectify the matter. So think!’

Bartholomew struggled to push his disgust at the recent slaughter to the back of his mind, and do as she ordered. ‘The first murders were the four men who died in Newe Inn’s pond,’ he began.

‘No,’ said Pelagia. ‘You are allowing a coincidence of location to mislead you, and I do not believe they are all the same case. Whose was the first death connected to a
library
?’

‘Sawtre’s,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was crushed under a bookshelf.’

‘Good,’ said Pelagia, sipping more wine. ‘Continue.’

‘It was an accident. It cannot have been murder, because that would have entailed Sawtre waiting patiently while the rack was hauled on top of him, but people talked about it as though it were retribution for him supporting the Common Library.’ Bartholomew glanced at Pelagia, encouraged to see her nodding. ‘So it gave someone an idea?’

Pelagia clapped her hands. ‘There! You have it at last!’

‘The next to die was Rolee,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Dead of a broken neck. This looked like a mishap, but it would not have been difficult to tamper with the steps.’

‘Not difficult at all,’ agreed Pelagia.

‘The third victim was Coslaye, brained with Acton’s
Questio Disputata
. He was followed by Teversham, who choked to death when he became entangled in a book-chain. Teversham’s demise might have been bad luck – but it is more likely that a killer was on hand to ensure his victim fell in such a way as to strangle himself.’

‘Next was Kente, dead of a snake bite,’ said Michael, joining in. ‘The snake was in the bale of hay that Walkelate had bought to eliminate bad odours.’

‘Was it?’ asked Pelagia. ‘And was Kente the intended victim, or did the killer hope to bag another scholar? Walkelate himself, for example?’

‘And last was Jorz, drowned in ink,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Probably not after a seizure.’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘Just tell us the killer’s name. I am too tired for games.’

But Pelagia declined to make it easy for him. ‘Your choices are limited. It must be a scholar, because no townsman could have gained access to King’s Hall, Bene’t, Gonville, the Common Library, the Carmelite Priory and Batayl, where all these deaths occurred.’