A Deadly Brew (48 page)

‘No! Oh, no!’

Michael’s cry echoed around the Fens, causing some ducks to take to the air noisily, the panicky flapping of wings in the undergrowth loud in the ensuing silence. Langelee, Tulyet and his soldiers, Cynric, Michael and Bartholomew stood in a circle, looking down in horror at the dead hand and what it held. Harling might be dead, but he had taken Dame Pelagia with him. Bartholomew recalled Harling trying to throw him in the mill race and then attempting to force Cynric’s head under water just a short time before – Harling had been determined to drown someone.

‘Come on,’ said Tulyet, quickly coming to his senses, and clapping his hands to marshal his soldiers’ attention. ‘The others cannot be far away and I do not want them to escape. Cynric, take Master Langelee and search over to the south. I will look to the west with Justin, while the rest of my men can cover the ground to the north. Matt, you had better stay here with Brother Michael.’

‘Damn!’ shouted Langelee in frustration, kicking a rotten tree stump. ‘I wanted to take Harling alive to present to the King. All my hard work and it ends like this. It is not fair!’

‘It was not fair that Dame Pelagia died at Harling’s hands in a desolate marsh either,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Langelee glanced at Michael’s stricken face, and relented slightly. He stamped off through the undergrowth after Cynric, leaving Bartholomew and Michael alone with the grisly spectre of the drowned Vice-Chancellor.

‘Get it back from him, Matt,’ whispered Michael unsteadily, his eyes huge in his white face. ‘I do not want her veil in his filthy hand.’

Holding Michael’s arm for balance, Bartholomew leaned towards the bog, and grabbed the piece of white material. Harling’s grip on it was vice-like, and, as Bartholomew pulled, he felt the body moving with it. With a shudder, he let it go, so that the veil trailed in the mud, the crisp linen quickly becoming wet and brown. He was turning to suggest that they leave it until there was someone else to help, when the veil suddenly disappeared under the black surface of the water. Puzzled, Bartholomew stared at it. And then Harling exploded from the water with a sword in his hand and an evil smile on his face. Droplets and spray scattered everywhere, drenching the two scholars, who stood rooted to the spot with shock at the edge of the marsh.

Aghast, Bartholomew watched as the Vice-Chancellor landed on the dry land beside him, dashing the water from his eyes and drawing in great gulps of fresh air. Michael gave a howl of anger, and launched himself at him, murder written all over his face. Calmly, Harling seized Bartholomew, touching the tip of his sword against the physician’s throat.

‘Think again, Brother,’ he said softly. ‘Or you will be mourning more than your old nun.’

By the time Bartholomew’s numbed brain could make any sense out of what was happening, it was far too late to act, and all he could hear was the sound of Harling breathing heavily and hotly against his ear. He struggled, but felt the cold touch of metal on his neck.

‘Be still! I will not be so gentle with you this time, Bartholomew!’

‘But how could you hold your breath all that time?’ stammered Bartholomew, still not sure he believed what was happening, and half expecting to wake in his own bed at Michaelhouse and find it was all some dreadful nightmare.

Harling made an impatient sound. ‘Reeds, of course!’ he snapped. ‘This place is full of them, and I told you I had good water skills. Surely you did that as a child, used one as a pipe to breathe through while you stayed under the surface?’

‘I cannot say that I did,’ said Michael coldly. ‘What have you done with my grandmother?’

‘Your grandmother is it?’ asked Harling. ‘Well, that explains your uncharacteristic selflessness in protecting her – not that she needed anything from you, Brother. That woman had a mind cunning and devious enough to delight any scholar. It was she who led Edward and that dim-witted lay sister into this part of the Fens – where she knew they would flounder and make slow progress. How they allowed themselves to listen to her advice when she was their captive I cannot imagine.’

‘Where is she?’ demanded Michael unsteadily. The use of the past tense to refer to her had not escaped his attention.

Harling gestured carelessly to the marsh, where the very tip of the veil could be seen just under the brown surface of the water, disappearing into the blackness below. At that moment, Langelee and Cynric burst into the little clearing, alerted by Michael’s yell of fury. Bartholomew watched the bushes for signs that Tulyet might be close, but the Sheriff had left some moments before Langelee, and had probably been too far away to hear Michael’s shout.

‘Drop your weapons!’ Harling ordered Langelee and Cynric, tightening his grip on Bartholomew’s neck. ‘Throw them in the bog or I will kill him right now.’

‘Go on, kill him, then,’ said Langelee, drawing his own sword. ‘He is expendable. There are far higher stakes in this game than the life of an anonymous scholar.’

‘Put it down, Langelee,’ said Michael, taking a menacing step forward. ‘Do as he says.’

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.’