A Deadly Brew (22 page)

‘But why bring her at all?’

Michael lunged at Bartholomew suddenly, catching him by a handful of his tabard. ‘That is my affair and none of yours! Keep your questions to yourself!’

He thrust Bartholomew from him with such force that the physician lost his footing on the frozen soil and tumbled inelegantly to the ground. In an instant, Michael was kneeling next to him.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt! I am sorry! I did not mean … sometimes I do not know my own strength,’ he said apologetically, anxiety written all over his face.

‘What is wrong with you?’ demanded Bartholomew crossly, rubbing his leg. ‘If there is something distressing you, tell me. Do not just push me around!’

The fat monk let out a great sigh and looked up at the stars. ‘Dame Pelagia,’ he said in a low voice, ‘is my grandmother.’

‘So? That is no reason for belligerence.’ Bartholomew started to climb to his feet.

‘You do not understand,’ said Michael, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him up with ease. For all his obesity and lack of fitness, Michael was still a powerful man. ‘You see, like me, Dame Pelagia is an agent for the Bishop of Ely.’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly, trying to work some sense into Michael’s piecemeal revelations. ‘Are you telling me that spying runs in your family, or just that your Bishop is prepared to use anyone to further his own ends – even an old lady?’

Michael sighed again. ‘She is officially retired now. She was in all this business long before I was born, and was not always a nun.’

‘Evidently not,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if she is your grandmother. But why the secrecy? It is not such a terrible thing to have grandparents. Even I had some once.’

‘Because I know the Bishop would want me to leave her here to discover more about what is happening. But she is old and frail, and I am about to defy the Bishop and take her away,’ said Michael. ‘It is becoming too dangerous for her here.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, understanding. That Michael was about to incur the Bishop’s ire might have serious consequences for the advancement of the ambitious monk’s career. The Bishop would not be pleased that Michael had taken matters into his own hands and removed a potentially valuable spy: he was possessive about people who provided him with information, as his insistence that Michael was to remain Proctor and not become Master of Valence Marie attested.

‘But what makes you think she will not be safe here?’ Bartholomew asked eventually. ‘And why could you not have told me all this earlier?’

‘No one knows Dame Pelagia is my grandmother except the Bishop,’ said Michael. ‘He decided it would be safer for everyone concerned if only he and I know that.’

‘Dame Pelagia knows, I take it?’ asked Bartholomew facetiously.

‘Do not be flippant, Matt!’ snapped Michael. ‘This is no laughing matter!’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, with a sigh of resignation. ‘But I do not see why you deem all this secrecy so necessary.’

‘Although my grandmother came to Denny to enjoy a well-earned retirement, old habits die hard. She told me yesterday that she has suspected for several months that something untoward has been going on in the area and, like Julianna, has observed strange comings and goings in the night. She has known since she arrived that Denny Abbey lies on a smuggling route. Goods are brought down the Fenland waterways from the coast, because the dry land around here is ideal for storing the contraband until it is sent on.’

‘Smuggling?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Are you suggesting the Abbess is a smuggler?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped Michael. ‘How could she be? The smugglers are the Fenfolk, some of whom have kin among the lay sisters at the abbey. It was these men whom that silly Julianna heard in the kitchens last night. My grandmother knows the identities of some of them, and she wants me to pass their names to either the Bishop or the Sheriff. I was also hoping to learn something from the Abbess earlier today, but I could tell she is innocent and knows nothing of all this.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily of his conviction that Michael’s intentions for the Abbess that afternoon had been rather different.

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Michael sardonically. ‘You assumed I was trying to seduce the woman. You have a nasty imagination, Matthew! My intention was only to discover whether she might have heard or seen anything odd without raising her suspicions, or telling her why I wanted to know. I had to be subtle: I did not want her to endanger herself by beginning an investigation of her own, and so needed to be careful not to let slip that her abbey is the scene of untoward happenings.’

‘The oranges!’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘And the lemons Deschalers sold Mortimer.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Michael testily.

‘Smuggled fruit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The oranges we ate earlier tonight were probably smuggled through this route across the Fens.’

Michael considered. ‘You are doubtless right. But, oranges aside, I feel that it is no longer safe for my grandmother to remain here. She has been asking questions in the kitchens all afternoon, so that she could provide me with information when we met tonight, and I am afraid her actions will have aroused the suspicions of the smugglers. I suppose your Julianna is equally vulnerable.’

‘Not
my
Julianna,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘But you did not speak to your grandmother between the time we left the Abbess and the time you persuaded us to wait until tomorrow to leave. How did you know to meet her here tonight?’

‘The Countess of Pembroke is a powerful lady,’ said Michael, apparently changing the subject, ‘and, like all ladies, she confides her secrets to her most trusted ladies in waiting. She is careful, but she often overlooks the presence of an old nun dozing on a bench, or doddering feebly around the cloisters. I have met my grandmother here, under this tree, many times since I undertook to act as the Bishop’s agent. She often has vital information, which I then pass to him. My grandmother and I know each other well enough to arrange to meet without speaking.’

Bartholomew shuddered, appalled at the implications of Michael’s words. The Bishop even had a spy in the Countess of Pembroke’s bedchamber, and was using a frail old lady to obtain information that would enable him to manipulate his domain and maintain political power. But then, if Dame Pelagia acted in the way Michael described, she was anything but a frail old lady: she was a cunning manipulator – just like Michael himself – except that she seemed to have years of experience behind her. He was suddenly absolutely certain that she had not been asleep when Julianna spoke to him in the attic, and that the younger woman’s intelligence of curious happenings might well have prompted her to go ferreting for further information to pass to Michael. He remembered the soft creak outside the attic door: someone else had heard what Julianna had to say, too.

A low hiss told him that Cynric was back. Dame Pelagia was with him, leaning on his arm, and Bartholomew wondered how Michael thought they were going to get her back to Cambridge. Behind them was Julianna, her face aglow with vindication.

‘I told you so!’ she whispered to Bartholomew, raising her eyebrows arrogantly. ‘It is a good thing you heeded my advice, or you might now be dead.’

Bartholomew did not say that he and Michael had discounted her advice, and that it had been by chance they were away from the guesthall when the attack was made. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a cloak? It will be a long, cold walk.’

‘Walk?’ exclaimed Julianna in disbelief. ‘I cannot walk! Where are your horses?’

‘His is at the bottom of a bog,’ said Michael archly, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And so will you be if you cause us trouble. This is no jaunt we are undertaking, madam, but a flight for our lives.’

Julianna’s exuberance faded at Michael’s hostility and the prospect of a dismal walk, and Bartholomew thought she looked as though she was having serious second thoughts about the whole adventure. Although the rain had stopped, a chill wind cut across the Fens, blowing clouds over the moon and obscuring its dim light. It would not be an easy journey, nor a pleasant one.

‘Are you sure your uncle will take you in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if he refuses, we cannot take you to Michaelhouse. Women are not allowed in the Colleges.’

‘Are you monks then?’ asked Julianna in surprise.

‘Virtually,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour. He understood that it would not be wise to allow women to roam freely around the Colleges and hostels, but the rule was sometimes carried too far. If it were not for his patients and the occasional case with Michael, Bartholomew would not have met any women at all.

‘Listen,’ said Cynric, gathering the small group around him. ‘I will scout ahead and check all is clear. If something is amiss, I will make a sound like a nightjar – twice – and you should immediately take cover at the side of the road and stay there until I say it is safe to come out. You,’ he said, turning to Bartholomew, ‘should stay well behind and ensure we are not being followed, and Brother Michael can help the ladies in between.’

Without waiting for their agreement, he set off and almost instantly disappeared in the undergrowth. Julianna puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.

‘Am I to take orders from that grubby little man?’ she asked. ‘He cannot even sew!’

‘You do what he says or you can stay here,’ said Bartholomew coldly, angered at her attitude towards the man who was a loyal friend and whose judgement Bartholomew respected. He was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of taking Julianna with them. She was the Abbess’s niece, and would surely be secure under her care. But Julianna had seemed in genuine fear, and the more he came to know her, the more Bartholomew doubted her ability to look after herself. All he needed to do was to deposit her with Deschalers, and his responsibility would be at an end. If Deschalers thought Bartholomew had made a mistake, then he could return her to Denny with no harm done.

With Michael holding Dame Pelagia solicitously by the elbow and Julianna swaying along beside them, the small group set off. Bartholomew was about to drop behind, when Dame Pelagia caught his arm in a grip that was more powerful than he would have believed possible from someone who gave the appearance of being so frail.

‘That pickled eel and samphire,’ she whispered. ‘The dish was on the kitchen table when I went to collect my cloak. I tasted it, and I am almost certain it contained some soporific drug. Had you three been more adventurous in your tastes – or more alert to the fashions of court – you would have eaten the dish that is such a favourite of the King. And then nothing would have woken you when the fire broke out in the guesthall.’

Bartholomew felt vulnerable trailing behind the others. Their progress was painfully slow along the road, and he could see that this was largely because Julianna had put on the light shoes nuns wore in the abbey, which were wholly inadequate for the rutted, sticky mud of the road. Even from his position far behind, he could hear her shrill complaints ringing out across the Fens. After they had travelled about a mile, Michael stopped and waited for Bartholomew to catch up with him.

‘This is hopeless,’ he grumbled, casting a venomous look at Julianna. ‘We will never reach Cambridge if she is with us. She cannot walk and she will not be quiet.’

Julianna regarded him icily. ‘He is going too quickly, and my feet hurt.’

‘We must hurry, Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You said you were in fear of your life from these men, and you have good reason to be afraid. It is only a matter of time before they learn that we did not die in the fire – and they will guess where we are going, and will come after us. Do you want them to catch us?’

She shook her head miserably, and looked as though she was going to cry. Michael turned away in disgust and continued walking with his grandmother.

‘And he pays far more attention to that old crone than me,’ said Julianna bitterly.

So that was it, thought Bartholomew: spoiled Julianna resented not being the centre of attention.

‘Stay with me then,’ he said, reasoning that he might have better luck with her than Michael. ‘But no talking.’

She smiled at him in the darkness, and he took her hand and led her to the side of the road. He waited for a while, peering back along the track to ensure that no one was following, before walking briskly a short distance and repeating the process. When the moon was out, there was enough light to see the road quite clearly, but when it went behind a cloud, the darkness was all but impenetrable. To make matters worse, strips of ghostly white mist trailed across the causeway, sheathing the undergrowth in a murky veil that made Bartholomew’s task almost impossible.

It was not long before Julianna was bored, complaining that her wet feet became chilled during the periods of enforced stillness. She had opened her mouth to let off yet another litany of grumbles, when there was a sharp snap from the undergrowth, and she and Bartholomew froze into silence. At the same time, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and they were plunged into inky blackness.

Just when Bartholomew was beginning to think the noise had been made by an animal, and that it was safe to move on, he saw a shadow emerge from the bushes nearby and slip down the road after Michael.

‘What do we do?’ said Julianna, her voice high pitched with excitement. ‘Will you kill him?’

Bartholomew regarded her askance. For a woman who had spent her life with nuns, she had a curiously vicious trait in her personality. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move until I come back for you; you will be quite all right if you do what I say.’

‘And what happens if you are slain?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘Do I just wait here in this foul place for ever?’

Bartholomew gave her another look of disbelief, and left, creeping along the side of the road after the figure with as much stealth as he could muster. Ahead of him, the man kept to the middle of the road, but then was lost to sight as a wisp of Fen mist curled across the path and enveloped him. Intent on watching him, Bartholomew did not pay as much attention to where he was treading as he might, and he stumbled into a pothole. Through the shifting fog, Bartholomew saw the man dart into the undergrowth in alarm.