Susanna Gregory - A Deadly Brew

‘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.’