A Deadly Brew (47 page)

Tulyet had sustained a cut over one eye in the skirmish near the river, and he told Bartholomew that reinforcements from his deputy had arrived in the nick of time. Langelee had apparently fought like the Devil, and it was only with his help that Tulyet and those soldiers who had remained loyal had managed to hold off the ambushers. The deputy’s force had tipped the balance, and those of Harling’s men who had not been killed in the fighting were now safely in the castle prison – among them Alan of Norwich and his mercenaries.

As Tulyet gave Bartholomew and Cynric this information, one of the soldiers said he knew where there was a track that led to the village of Fen Ditton through the marshes. He led the way a short distance to the north, and gestured at the undergrowth, but Bartholomew could see nothing that remotely resembled a path. Nevertheless, he followed the soldier through the tangle of vegetation with the others trailing behind, Cynric pointing out broken leaves and footprints that indicated someone had passed that way, although whether it was Harling and Dame Pelagia was impossible to tell.

‘So who
are
you?’ asked Bartholomew of Langelee as they walked together. The big philosopher looked pleased with himself, basking in the glory of having saved the Sheriff and his garrison from certain annihilation. ‘An agent of the King?’

‘Of sorts,’ said Langelee. ‘I work for the Archbishop of York. There is a grammar school master there by the name of Thorpe, who passed the Archbishop some disturbing information.’

‘Thorpe?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Robert Thorpe, the disgraced Master of Valence Marie? What could he know about this? He had gone from Cambridge long before winter started.’

‘He left in October. But do not interrupt if you want your questions answered,’ said Langelee importantly. ‘While Thorpe was travelling from Cambridge to take up his new position in York, he had occasion to seek refuge at Denny Abbey during a sudden storm. As he waited for it to pass, a nun told him of a conversation she had overheard between the Abbess and some unidentified University man, during which they discussed plans to bring treasure from sacked Brittany abbeys and convents into England.’

‘And I suppose this nun was Dame Pelagia,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Michael said she was spying there.’

‘This nun charged Thorpe to report the matter to the Archbishop when he reached York,’ continued Langelee, ignoring him. ‘Thorpe was only too pleased to oblige – thinking it might go some way to placing him more favourably in the King’s eyes after the mess he made of the Mastership of Valence Marie. He passed the message to the Archbishop as soon as he arrived in York. The Archbishop informed the King, and it was arranged that I should take a position within the University, so that I could work myself into this scholar’s confidences to uncover the identities of all his accomplices and recover this treasure.’

‘Yet another spy,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I am the only person at the University whose purpose is to teach.’

‘I have rather enjoyed teaching,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps I will leave the Archbishop’s service and stay at Michaelhouse. It is far more interesting – and exciting – than life as an agent.’

This Bartholomew could well believe. ‘But how did you know it was Harling that Thorpe overheard plotting with the Abbess? He was very careful to leave no such clues behind him.’

‘He told me himself,’ said Langelee with a casual shrug. ‘I arrived at the University, and put it about that I was not above being asked to perform certain duties in addition to my scholarly ones. Within weeks Harling asked me if I would be interested in a little extra-curricular activity involving trips into the Fens.’

‘How fortunate for you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And what would you have done if Harling had not been recruiting for his smuggling operation?’

Langelee gave a superior smile. ‘Since he was, that question is an irrelevancy. He has a number of clerks from St Mary’s Church, and even a couple of Fellows, in his pay. Including the outlaws he has hired, he probably has about fifty people working for him.’

‘Fifty!’ gasped Michael. ‘My God! His operation is vast.’

Langelee nodded. ‘And so are his profits, believe me. In fact, the whole organisation is remarkable. He only started this after you lot failed to elect him as Chancellor last year, and he has been extraordinarily successful. You scholars made a grave mistake by not using his talents to further the interests of the University. By now, Cambridge might have been rich beyond its wildest dreams – and even been in a position to take steps to suppress your rival University at Oxford!’

‘Most of us would rather not have a contrabander as Chancellor,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘We generally prefer academics.’

‘Then you are bigger fools that I thought,’ said Langelee earnestly. ‘Harling is a brilliant man. Not only did he have this huge operation up and running within a few weeks, but he knew when to stop. Had I not wormed my way into his confidences, he would never have been caught.’

‘And I suppose our little roles in all this count for nothing?’ asked Michael scathingly.

‘Precisely!’ said Langelee, with a superior grin. ‘And you would not even be alive now, if it were not for me.’ He beamed at them, oblivious of Michael’s indignation.

The air was still, damp and cold, and Bartholomew was painfully reminded of the last time they had ventured into the secret, mysterious world of the Fens. Somewhere a bird pipped and hooted and was answered by another in the distance, but otherwise the only sounds were their feet trampling through the undergrowth. A low mist was rising in the early dawn, sending ghostly fingers of white to ooze across brackish water and around the squat trunks of stunted alder trees.

Bartholomew shivered, realising for the first time that he had left his cloak wrapped around the branch of the tree where Cynric had been caught in the mud. Within the space of a day, he had managed to lose his new cloak and new gloves, and facing the rest of the winter without them was a bleak prospect. He felt drained, cold and miserable, acutely aware that Harling had bested him at every turn. His boots were full of icy water, his tabard was filthy with black mud and he was so tired he could barely walk. No such discomfort seemed to assail Langelee, who strode along buoyantly, as though he were on some pleasant countryside jaunt, thoroughly enjoying relating his tale to the dejected scholars who trailed beside him.

‘So, after Harling recruited me into his service, I made myself indispensable to him. Then, when you two started investigating the poisoned wine, Harling realised he needed to prevent you from looking into it any further, and so he arranged for you to be ambushed in the Fens. When that failed, he decided he had made enough money and that it was time to stop before he was caught. Obviously, I wanted to get
all
of Harling’s accomplices before he sent them to all four corners of the country, so I decided it was time to reveal my part in the affair and acquire Tulyet’s help.’

‘Did Tulyet know of your role in all this from the beginning?’ asked Bartholomew faintly, hoping that the Sheriff could not be numbered in the list of people who had lied to him or deceived him over the past few weeks.

‘No one knew except Master Kenyngham,’ said Langelee airily. ‘And he had been sworn to secrecy by the King himself. What I was doing was potentially very dangerous, and I did not want anyone to be aware of my real business at the University except the Master of my College.’

So Kenyngham had been instructed to hire Langelee as Master of Philosophy by no less than the King himself, thought Bartholomew. Michael had been right in his supposition that Langelee had a powerful sponsor. Smiling complacently at their surprise, Langelee continued.

‘I was on the brink of telling Tulyet all I knew, when events started to take on a momentum all of their own. I was in my room, in the very process of writing a report on my findings to present to him, when Harling himself paid me a visit. He said he needed my help to round up his men and to load the last of the smuggled treasure onto a cart.’

He swore as, not paying attention to where he was going, he trod in a puddle that was deeper than he anticipated and black mud bubbled up around his knees. He held out his hand to Michael to be helped out. Hands on hips, Bartholomew watched the fat monk haul and tug, while Langelee became muddier, wetter and increasingly frustrated at Michael’s incompetence. It did not cross the philosopher’s mind that Michael might well be pulling so inefficiently on purpose – although it was perfectly apparent to Bartholomew. Eventually, and entirely as a result of his own struggles and not Michael’s assistance, Langelee was free. He brushed himself down and continued with his story, unaware of Michael’s spiteful smile of gratification.

‘Before I left Michaelhouse to do Harling’s bidding, I charged Bartholomew’s student – that stupid Rob Deynman – with handing my report to Master Kenyngham. He tried to refuse, claiming he was off on some errand of mercy to save a patient’s life. I impressed on him the importance of my report and the dire consequences that would occur should it fall into the wrong hands. I must have impressed a little too firmly, because finding Kenyngham out, Deynman was too afraid to go to look for him. He simply settled himself in Kenyngham’s room to await his return. He was there most of yesterday.’

‘So he was not kidnapped by Harling at all?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee shook his head. ‘Gray told me you thought Deynman might be in some danger and, knowing Harling, I guessed he had told you he had the lad secreted away somewhere. Deynman spent most of yesterday asleep on Kenyngham’s bed, but had handed him my report with all solemnity when Kenyngham returned. Deynman never left the College, and your patient with winter fever was never tended.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, uncertain whether to be relieved that Deynman was unharmed or angry that he had been so single-minded. He could at least have told his friends what he was doing.

‘So why have you been so antagonistic to your Michaelhouse colleagues?’ he asked Langelee. ‘Why did you try to start a fight with me the other day? Surely that was not necessary?’

‘Sorry,’ said Langelee, with an unrepentant smile. ‘You see, Harling was becoming paranoid about the poisoned wine, and ordered me to search your rooms to see if you were withholding information from him. I had just finished searching Michael’s chamber, and was about to look in yours, when you returned to College clearly ready to go to sleep.’

Bartholomew recalled Langelee perched on his table, going through his scrolls and looking around at his few belongings with interest.

‘Surely there were easier ways of getting what you wanted than picking a fight?’

‘I needed the information quickly and you were about to go to bed. I did a preliminary search with you there, but I needed a closer look. It would have appeared suspicious had I knocked you senseless for no reason, and so I tried to goad you into a brawl. You showed admirable restraint, but then Kenyngham caught us.’

They walked in silence for a while, their feet squelching in the wet grass. The day was growing much lighter, a sensation enhanced by the pale mist that rose all around them. It was like walking in a great white bubble, the fog seeming to accentuate even more the deathly silence of the Fens. Cynric moved from side to side, absorbed in broken twigs and crushed blades of grass that no one else noticed. The soldier led them deeper and deeper into the marshes and Bartholomew found himself walking ever more slowly, alert to the possibility that they were being drawn into yet another of Harling’s complicated traps.

‘It was not easy, worming my way into Harling’s confidence,’ said Langelee after a while, wanting to ensure that the two scholars fully appreciated the magnitude of his achievement. ‘He drinks, you know, and often insisted I should join him, even early in the morning. I did not wish to arouse his suspicions and so complied. I can barely remember some days.’

Bartholomew remembered them, however, when Langelee had reeled belligerently around Michaelhouse, yelling at the servants and frightening the students. He also remembered the alcoholic fumes that had wafted into his face when Langelee had tried to force him to fight. Langelee may have been on the right side in the end, but Bartholomew strongly suspected much of his loutish behaviour was no act.

‘And you cultivated Julianna’s friendship because you imagined her betrothal to Edward might bring you information?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee stopped dead in his tracks and his brows beetled together. For a moment, Bartholomew thought the powerful philosopher was going to strike him, but the moment passed. Langelee began to walk again.

‘I knew nothing of this betrothal,’ he said shortly. ‘I “cultivated Julianna’s friendship”, as you so unpleasantly put it, because I find her company charming.’

Bartholomew shuddered.

‘Her uncle sent her away to Denny when he found out I had been paying her court,’ Langelee went on. ‘But she managed to find her way back.’ The admiration in his voice was crystal clear. Bartholomew dreaded to think what a meeting between this violent, aggressive, self-confident pair would involve: Langelee would probably find Julianna’s belligerence attractive while Julianna would consider Langelee’s pugilism manly.

The soldier ahead of them stopped sharply, gave a horrified yell and backed away, colliding with Bartholomew who walked behind him. Bartholomew edged forward nervously, wondering what could have caused the soldier’s sudden distress. Langelee shoved him, trying to squeeze past on the narrow path, but stopped abruptly.

In front of them was a bog, an evil morass of sloppy mud topped by a still layer of water. Protruding just above the surface was a smooth cap of black hair, the grease of which had kept it shiny and water-free. To one side of the cap was a pale, cold hand, its fingers still clenched around the branch of the tree with which it had attempted to haul its owner free. But it was the other hand that caught Bartholomew’s attention. It held the clean, white veil that Dame Pelagia had worn.

He twisted round, intending to prevent Michael from seeing it, but was too late. Michael’s green eyes became round with shock and he let out a great wail of grief.