Murder by the Book (49 page)

‘There is no need to incinerate the castle, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘The pageant will provide a perfectly adequate diversion for you to leave Cambridge with the weapon.’

‘Unfortunately, the tales of our imminent arrival have made the Sheriff overly vigilant,’ replied Rougé. His French was flawless, indicating that he was a native speaker. Bartholomew gaped when the man turned, and he saw his face. ‘So bombarding the castle with fire-arrows is necessary to keep him busy. We cannot let him foil us – too much is at stake. Besides, I want the tax money.’

‘We cannot tackle all these soldiers alone,’ whispered Michael, drawing back a little to speak. ‘I am no coward, but I see no point in suicide.’

‘But you just said that Tulyet will be on his way,’ Langelee whispered back. ‘I am sure we can keep these paltry villains busy until he arrives. Eh, Ayera?’

‘He will not come if he is being barraged with burning arrows,’ hissed Michael, although Ayera raised his sword in a salute and grinned rather diabolically. ‘Come away. We cannot achieve anything by staying here.’

‘We will listen, then,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But if I say we must attack, you had better be ready. You, too, Bartholomew. The experience you gained fighting at Poitiers will be vital today.’

Bartholomew was horrified, knowing his meagre abilities would not match up to the Master’s expectations, but Langelee waved him to silence when he started to object, and eased forward again.

‘No one believes you will strike today, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘I enlisted Weasenham’s unwitting help – I got him to tell everyone that you are licking your wounds and will not be back. Even Oswald Stanmore believes it, and he is less gullible than most. My ploy worked.’

‘Why does he call him Rougé?’ whispered Michael. ‘That is Bonabes the Exemplarius.’

‘Bonabes is French,’ said Ayera in a low, disgusted voice. ‘And I can tell by the way he carries himself that he is a skilled warrior. Moreover, his weapons are of excellent quality, and well honed.’

Even Bartholomew could see that. He recalled the incident at the castle, when Bonabes had claimed to be out of practice when Holm had insisted that he wore an ancient sword to protect them. The Exemplarius was an accomplished liar, because he had been convincing.

‘The merchants might believe you,’ Bonabes was saying. His amiable demeanour had been replaced by something hard and ruthless. ‘But Tulyet does not.’

‘It does not matter what Tulyet thinks,’ said Walkelate impatiently. ‘My carpenter Frevill has used his family connections to ensure that the Guild of Corpus Christi has ignored Tulyet’s worries, leaving him effectively isolated. Besides, he is hopelessly confused. I was rather clever to start the rumour that your little army hails from inside the town, because he does not know where to look for his enemies and—’

‘Rumours!’ spat Bonabes in distaste. ‘There have been so many of them that even I have wondered which were truth and which were lies. But never mind this. Is the weapon ready?’

‘It is in the
cista
,’ replied Walkelate. He smirked. ‘All manner of folk have used it as a table and workbench, but no one has thought to look inside. What a shock they would have had if they did! I always say that the best hiding places are those in plain sight.’

‘Yet it is an obvious feature, and people will ask where it has gone once we take it. How will you explain its disappearance without incriminating yourself?’

Walkelate’s smile was smug. ‘I shall set a small fire in the corner of this room – not enough to cause serious harm but enough to mask the departure of the
cista
. I shall say it was started by a stray fire-arrow. After all, we had better sustain some damage in this raid, or folk will be suspicious.’

‘A fire?’ asked Bonabes, startled. ‘With all this wood? Is that wise?’

‘I can control a small blaze,’ said Walkelate haughtily. ‘I am a skilled experimenter.’

‘Show me the weapon again,’ said Bonabes, shrugging to show he did not care what happened to the library. ‘I want to see it one more time.’

Walkelate opened the
cista
, and by craning forward,
Bartholomew could just make out a compact machine with several barrels. It looked like the Poitiers ribauldequins, but Walkelate’s had bulbous mouths, presumably to allow the wildfire to splatter in a wider arc. There was a waft of something unpleasant, too.

‘This pot contains a sample of my other creation,’ said the architect, handing it to Bonabes. ‘I told you there was no need to bother with the physicians. Not only have I reinvented wildfire, but my recipe is far superior.’

‘And you did it alone?’ asked Bonabes. ‘We cannot afford witnesses.’

‘I had to enlist associates, but none are alive to tell the tale.’

Bonabes regarded him narrowly, and his voice turned soft and a little dangerous. ‘Do these dead associates include the London brothers and Northwood? I was fond of them.’

‘They were talented alchemists, and I needed their expertise,’ said Walkelate sharply. His expression became sly. ‘Their deaths were not my fault, anyway – any more than Adam was yours.’

Bonabes flinched, indicating that his affection for the boy-scribe he claimed to have loved like a son had been genuine. He turned his attention to the pot. ‘It took you long enough. Weeks. And even then, you only succeeded after I forced Rougham to name rock oil as the missing ingredient, and procured you some from Weasenham.’

Walkelate regarded him coolly. ‘You told me it was important not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, so of course I took longer than if I had been granted a free hand. Besides, I did better than you – you have come nowhere near a solution for making paper. And anyway, I was not aware that you were in a hurry.’

‘Of course I am in a hurry,’ snapped Bonabes. ‘Not only is France desperate for a miracle, but working for
Weasenham has been torture. It was agony, pretending to be subservient to such a man. The only saving grace is Ruth, and I am coming back for her when this is over.’

‘I still do not understand why you hired all those mercenaries,’ said Walkelate after a moment. ‘Our business could have been managed much better without them.’

‘It could not. Pelagia’s spies would have discovered us in an instant without the confusion they provided. They were an absolute necessity. Moreover, I have enjoyed myself, doing to your town what Englishmen have been doing to France for the past three decades. Now
your
people know what it is like to live in constant fear.’

Bartholomew grabbed Langelee’s arm. The Master, patriotic soul that he was, was finding the discussion hard to stomach. Meanwhile, Bonabes nodded to his men, who sealed the
cista
, then lifted it, straining under its weight.

‘France owes you a debt of gratitude, Walkelate,’ he said with a smile that was neither friendly nor sincere. Bartholomew suspected the architect would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his labours. ‘This may turn the tide of the war.’

‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Walkelate. ‘I want your money. I spent funds I do not have perfecting my library, and I cannot allow it to be tainted with the reek of debt.’

At that point, Langelee wrenched away from Bartholomew and exploded into the room, sword at the ready. Ayera rolled his eyes, but went to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

‘This diabolical weapon is not going to France,’ Langelee snarled. ‘Your game is over.’

The men holding the
cista
dropped it in alarm, and fumbled for their weapons as Langelee tore towards them
with a battle cry that hurt the ears. Ayera dropped into a defensive stance as several mercenaries advanced on him, while Michael waved the cudgel around his head. Bartholomew gripped his childbirth forceps more tightly, although he did not hold much hope of besting trained warriors, and as far as he was concerned, Langelee had just signed their death warrants.

But it was no time to apportion blame, because Walkelate’s fine library was full of the sounds of a frantic skirmish. Langelee was yelling furiously, and the clash of his sword against his opponents’ was ear-splitting as he laid about him with wild abandon. Ayera fought more steadily and rationally, and two raiders quickly fell under his scientific blade.

Bartholomew and Michael were less adept, although the physician managed to knock one man senseless, and break the fingers of another. But the odds were too heavily stacked against them, and it was not long before both were pinned against the wall with knives at their throats.

His stomach lurched when he saw blood spurting from a wound in Ayera’s neck. Horrified, he tried go to his colleague’s aid, but his captor dealt him a stinging blow that made him see stars. By the time his vision cleared, Ayera was dead and Langelee was a prisoner, too, breathing hard and glowering furiously at the three soldiers who kept him in place with the tips of their swords.

‘You will not get away with this,’ the Master snarled. ‘Dame Pelagia knows all about you and your plans.’

‘You should have killed her when she fell into your hands, Rougé,’ said Walkelate angrily. ‘As I recommended. But no, you insisted on taking her to the marshes. And what happened? She escaped, and will continue to be a danger to us.’

Bonabes only indicated that his men were to lift the
cista
, but one of its handles had been broken in the scuffle, and he fretted impatiently while they fashioned a replacement with a belt.

‘Why does he call you Rougé?’ asked Michael. He sounded calm, although Bartholomew was in an agony of tension, appalled by what had happened to Ayera – and by what might befall their country now the ill-advised attack had failed.

‘I am Bonabes, Sire de Rougé et de Derval,’ replied Bonabes haughtily. ‘Vicomte de la Guerche and Châtelain de Pontcallec. And a loyal subject of His Majesty King Jean of France.’

‘But the Sire de Rougé was taken prisoner after the Battle of Poitiers,’ said Langelee in confusion. ‘And is locked in the Tower of London until a ransom can be paid.’

‘I escaped,’ said Bonabes coolly. ‘But I was still on Poitiers field when I determined to acquire a ribauldequin and learn the secret of wildfire. And God is with me, for it cannot have been by chance that I heard about your University and its scholars’ inventions.’

‘Northwood,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘He was at Poitiers:
he
told you about us.’

Bonabes inclined his head. ‘He came to the Tower a few months ago, to ask after my welfare – we had become acquainted on the journey there, you see. He was a chaplain, and had been given the care of the French captives’ souls. We became friends.’

‘He helped you escape,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘But why would he do such a thing?’

‘Academic glory,’ replied Bonabes. ‘I promised to finance certain alchemical projects.’

‘Do not waste time in idle chatter,’ hissed Walkelate. ‘They would not have burst in here if beadles and soldiers
were not far behind. Kill them, and take your weapon before it is too late.’

‘How will you explain the presence of corpses in your library?’ asked Bonabes, gritting his teeth in frustration when his soldiers grabbed the
cista
and the new handle snapped. ‘It is due to open soon.’

‘I shall dump them in the pond. I intend to live here and enjoy the adulation of grateful scholars, so you can trust me to do it properly. Not like last time, when I slipped up with Vale.’

‘Yes, kill them,’ came another voice from the door. ‘We cannot afford loose ends.’

‘You?’ gasped Langelee, while Bartholomew sagged in despair. How much deeper did the rot of treachery run in Cambridge?

‘We should have known that Dunning was involved,’ he said tiredly. ‘Developing weapons is expensive, and Walkelate has just said that he needs Bonabes’s blood-money to prevent the library starting its life in debt. Dunning funded the experiments. It explains why he was always here – not assessing the progress of the library, but the progress of the weapon.’

Dunning shrugged. ‘I never liked this building, and Walkelate needed somewhere to work. It was a convenient arrangement for all, and the University will benefit, so do not complain.’

‘Julitta,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘It was her idea to give us Newe Inn.’

‘She knows nothing of this,’ said Dunning sharply. ‘She would disapprove. She believes my generosity will leave me poor, but the money I shall make from selling Walkelate’s weapon today will make me fabulously rich. And then
I
shall head the Guild of Corpus Christi.’

‘So that is why you have insisted on a grand opening
ceremony today,’ said Langelee in utter disgust. ‘And why you have spent so much time planning the pageant. You have been preparing the ground for your election as Guild Master.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Dunning. ‘I do want the pageant and the opening ceremony to be a success – and the beadles you sent to order them cancelled have been dealt with, by the way, Brother – but I also need them to serve as a diversion for our other business today.’

‘At least we know now why everyone here was always so tired,’ muttered Michael. ‘Working on the library all day, and labouring over weapons all night …’

‘Iron filings,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Kente thought they were from metal brackets to fit bookcases to the walls, but they were from the ribauldequin.’

‘Tulyet’s blacksmith unwittingly provided me with a basic set of barrels.’ Walkelate was unable to resist a brag. ‘But it was still necessary to make one or two fine adjustments—’

‘Why did you not kill Michael and Bartholomew when they came here asking after Frevill yesterday?’ interrupted Bonabes, turning on Dunning. ‘You must have seen it was too risky to leave them alive.’

‘I did not have a sword with me,’ snapped Dunning. ‘Why do you think Walkelate sent them to the stationer’s shop? So you could do the honours. But you did not oblige, either.’

‘Ruth was there,’ said Bonabes angrily. ‘How could I?’

‘You are going to be disappointed, Dunning,’ said Langelee, making no effort to conceal his contempt. ‘Because any funds Bonabes has will be used to pay his mercenaries and to transport the weapon to France. Betraying your country will not make you wealthy.’