Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

‘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.

‘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.’