A Deadly Brew (49 page)

Bartholomew gaped at her. The hem of her cloak and her shoes were wet and muddy, but other than that she was spotless, a marked contrast to everyone else with their sodden cloaks and filthy, dirt-splattered clothes and faces. If she had engaged in some kind of struggle with Harling and the lay sister, then she had managed to do so with minimum effort and absolutely no disturbance to her immaculate appearance.

She chuckled, amused by his shock, and turned her attention back to Michael, clucking over a small scratch on his hand and setting his gold cross straight against his habit.

‘Is she really his grandmother?’ asked Langelee yet again, staring at them as they walked away together.

‘Yes. She really is,’ said Bartholomew, finally recovering himself, and taking the philosopher by the arm so Michael and Dame Pelagia might have some privacy. He failed to see why their relationship should be any concern of Langelee’s – or the Archbishop of York’s.

‘But that is Dame Pelagia?’ said Langelee in awe.

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew drily. He doubted he would ever forget it. Langelee continued to gaze at Michael and the old nun, resisting Bartholomew’s attempts to pull him away.

‘You have not heard of her, have you?’ said Langelee, shaking his head slowly. ‘Dame Pelagia is one of the greatest and most respected of all the King’s agents, and it is said that she is one of the few people who knows all the details of the mystery surrounding the death of Edward the Second – he was our current King’s father.’

‘Was he really?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. ‘I had no idea.’

‘You scholars!’ said Langelee, condescendingly chiding. ‘How can you expect to teach when you know so little of the world? But I was telling you about Dame Pelagia. It is not mere chance that Queen Isabella, whom we all know played a role in her husband’s murder, spends her days at Castle Rising near a Franciscan nunnery – a house of Poor Clares, which is Dame Pelagia’s Order. It is common knowledge at Westminster that the King would entrust the wardenship of his murderous mother to no one but Dame Pelagia.’

Bartholomew looked at the old lady with renewed suspicion. No wonder Michael was unwilling to take a post as a mere head of a University College with those kind of family connections!

‘A year or so ago,’ Langelee went on, ‘the King relieved her of that charge, and allowed her to retire into the less arduous service of the Bishop of Ely by living at Denny – she was supposed to keep an eye on the Countess of Pembroke when she visited. But it was not long before Dame Pelagia routed out trouble on the King’s behalf. As you concluded earlier, it was she who passed the message to Thorpe to give to my Archbishop.’

‘But why did she send this message with Thorpe to the Archbishop of York?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did she not tell Michael? He told me she meets him on occasion to pass the Countess of Pembroke’s secrets to the Bishop.’

‘I imagine because it was quicker to send a message with Thorpe. Denny is very isolated and it might have been some time before she could waylay anyone trustworthy enough to carry a message to tell Michael to meet her.’

‘But she did not inform Michael that she knew a scholar was behind all this,’ said Bartholomew, still confused, ‘or that she had sent a message to the King via Thorpe and the Archbishop of York.’

‘I have already told you,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘No one knew about my mission except Master Kenyngham and the King. Dame Pelagia doubtless guessed that someone like me was infiltrating the University, but she was not officially informed. And she is too professional to have risked endangering another agent and his duties by gossiping about what she had overheard to the Bishop of Ely – who did not need to know about it. She knows how to keep a secret.’

‘I am sure she does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what about when all this started to come together – when she came with us back to Cambridge to pass the information she had gathered more recently to the Sheriff? Why did she not tell Michael then?’

‘I imagine she did not have the chance,’ said Langelee. ‘She was hidden away most of the time that she was in Cambridge, and I know Michael did not visit her because Harling had him followed constantly. And she certainly would not have discussed the matter on the open road – she is too experienced an operator to make a silly error like that.’

‘But why, if she knew about this operation in October, did she wait until now to act?’

‘She
did
act in October,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘She was responsible for me being put in position. But recently she must have sensed that Harling was about to fold up his business, and decided to take precautions – by telling Michael she had information for the Bishop and the Sheriff – in case I failed. Do not forget that she was at Denny, cut off from outside news, and had no way of knowing whether I was even alive. I am sure she considered very carefully what course of action to take, and how best she might serve the interests of the King.’

‘But why did the King bother with you at all?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Michael is a good and loyal agent, and the University is under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely, not the Archbishop of York. Michael would have been well placed to expose Harling.’

Langelee shrugged. ‘When I was first given this mission, the identity of the mastermind behind all this was not known. It was better that an outsider looked into it. In fact, it was what Dame Pelagia recommended in the report that Thorpe carried to York – she suspected that the scholar she overheard plotting with the Abbess was a high-ranking University official, and considered it prudent to charge some stranger with the task of unveiling him.’

Bartholomew regarded the elderly nun with a new respect. No wonder spying and subterfuge were so deeply ingrained in Michael – not only was it in his blood, but he had probably been given some expert tuition. Bartholomew felt uncomfortable when he thought of how he had inflicted such a wily old character on Matilde and hoped his friend had not learned any bad habits.

Dame Pelagia looked as serene and unruffled as she had been when she had pretended to be asleep so she could overhear what the silly Julianna had to say. He studied her intently, watching the secretive glint in her green eyes, and suddenly felt sorry for the likes of Edward Mortimer and the lay sister for attempting to take on such a formidable opponent. She saw him staring at her and gazed back so that he felt as though she were reading his very soul. She gave him the slightest of smiles before allowing Michael to lead her back to the causeway.

‘Well, that is that,’ said Michael late the following afternoon, stretching his long, fat legs in front of the fire and selfishly stealing the warmth from Cynric. Cynric sighed and moved his stool to the other side of the hearth. Bartholomew sat between them, leaning forward with his arms on his knees and staring into the flames.

Agatha brought another plate of the cakes with the strange, crunchy texture, and Michael began to wolf them down. Bartholomew bit one cautiously, and realised it was pomegranate seeds that lent the cakes their peculiar taste and grittiness. Since Michael seldom chewed anything, the disconcerting cracking as the seeds splintered under the teeth did not deter him from eating them as it did most of the other scholars.

They were sitting in the conclave, the small, pleasant room off the hall in Michaelhouse. The weather had turned from wet to cold, and Master Kenyngham had at last given permission for fires to be lit nightly. The Fellows were in the conclave and the students were in the hall, singing some disgraceful song that had Father William pursing his lips in prim disapproval. He would have gone to silence them, but Langelee was relating the story of Harling and his monumental wickedness to Master and Fellows, and William was reluctant to miss out on such rare entertainment.

Bartholomew listened to the philosopher with half an ear, but, with the exception of some vivid details that seemed to have more to do with amusing his audience than truth, Langelee said nothing Bartholomew did not already know. Michael watched the philosopher and his increasingly sceptical audience, his baggy green eyes alive with sardonic relish, and Bartholomew was reminded of his terrifying grandmother.

‘We are heroes,’ said the monk drily. ‘Or, rather, Langelee is and we played a minor role in defeating one of the most evil minds the world has yet known. But it is all over, so there is no need for you to look so glum. You were even back in Cambridge in time to give your lecture at King’s Hall.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘But not early enough to change. I gave the best and most inspired lecture of my life, and all the audience could do was stare at the state of my tabard. What a waste!’

Michael chuckled. ‘I shall remember that the next time I am asked to speak on metaphysics. You know how I hate that subject! I shall roll around on the river bank so that my appearance distracts the class from my words, and I will be able to tell them anything I like. Have another cake, Matt. You look as though you need a little feeding up. Just like me.’

Bartholomew flexed his aching shoulders and took one of the cakes, wondering why he and Michael felt so battered by their experiences, but why Dame Pelagia had not seemed affected in the slightest. When they had arrived, exhausted, back in the town, the old lady announced pertly that she was going to visit Matilde, and asked Bartholomew to escort her. Warily, he accompanied her through the streets, certain that she would have been a good deal more effective at repelling cutpurses and thieves than he could ever hope to be, and found Matilde waiting in a state of high agitation.

‘At last!’ she cried, flinging herself into his arms. ‘I have been worried to death!’

‘Dame Pelagia is well following her unpleasant experience in the marshes,’ he said formally, startled by the intensity of her reaction. ‘Although we bungled our attempt to rescue her.’

Matilde waved her hand in dismissal, still with one arm looped around his neck. ‘Pelagia knows how to look after herself. It was you I was worried about.’

After Dame Pelagia had related their story in clear and unembellished phrases – so free of exaggeration that Bartholomew later wondered whether she and Langelee had even shared the same adventure – and Matilde had satisfied herself that he was unharmed, Bartholomew had taken the old lady to the Chancellor’s lodgings. Tulyet was to escort her back to the peace of Denny Abbey after a few days’ rest, when he would take the opportunity to arrest the Abbess for her role in smuggling the stolen treasure. Edward had confessed his part in the affair in a wailing voice all the way back to the town and, once again, Bartholomew wondered what Dame Pelagia had done or said to induce his almost frantic desire to confess.

Absently he took a bite out of the cake, and the loud crack of a seed between his teeth wrenched his thoughts back to the present.

‘So Denny Abbey provided a storage place for Harling’s treasure,’ Michael was saying. ‘It was a perfect choice. Who would have thought of looking for stolen treasure in the cellars of a nunnery?’

‘Who would have thought of looking for treasure at all is more to the point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If your grandmother had not overheard Harling’s conversation with the Abbess that prompted the King to place Langelee undercover here, we might never have guessed what the Vice-Chancellor was doing. We still would have been looking for pedlars of pomegranates and figs.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael, somewhat indignantly. ‘Do not try to give Langelee more credit than he deserves. You started to unravel the mystery when Harling tried to throw you in the mill race, and we both guessed about the treasure when we put all the clues – my new cross, the chalices at Valence Marie and the gold cake-plate at Denny Abbey – together. Neither Harling nor Langelee told us about that – we worked it out on our own.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It all happened so quickly, though. We had too little time to discuss it. We should have spent less time charging around and more time thinking.’

Michael gave him a playful poke with his foot. ‘Enjoy your victory, and do not dwell on what might have been,’ he preached. ‘As far as King and Bishop are concerned, it is another job well done on our part.’ He looked distastefully to where Langelee still entertained the Fellows with his tale of daring and danger, the exploits becoming increasingly outrageous as the level of wine in his goblet fell, and sniffed. ‘It is a pity Langelee was not implicated in all this. I still do not like him.’

‘He is going to ask the Archbishop to release him from his service so that he can stay here to teach philosophy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He finds a scholar’s life exciting compared to that of a mere agent. Perhaps we should exchange posts. I have had enough of spies and intrigue.’

‘You always say that,’ said Michael.

As they had been speaking, the volume of the students’ singing had been gradually rising, and Bartholomew saw that Alcote and Father William would not countenance their vulgarity much longer. He left his fireside stool and went to warn them to keep the noise down. Gray stood on the high table with a rug shoved up his tabard and a piece of rolled up parchment in his hand, leading his friends in a grotesque parody of Michael conducting his choir. Bartholomew hid his amusement and watched Gray jump from the table somewhat sheepishly.

‘He looks just like Brother Michael, do you not think?’ piped Deynman, brightly. The other students groaned and Gray gave him a withering look. Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward and went back to the conclave, closing the door behind him.

‘Langelee has just offered us a repeat performance of his adventures in the Fens,’ said Michael with a grin, watching the burly philosopher taking a break from his labours as he crammed one of Agatha’s cakes into his mouth.

‘What, again?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘He has only just finished enthralling us the first time.’

‘He is not a man for false modesty, apparently,’ said Michael. ‘And so he will relate once more the tale of how he single-handedly saved the kingdom, starting as soon as Cynric has replenished the wine in his audience’s goblets.’

‘That is rash of him,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘There will be discrepancies between the story he just told, and the one he will tell again. He will never recall all the lies he has already spoken. Father William will be on him in an instant, and will expose him as a fraud.’