Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

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.’

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.