Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

They arrived upstairs and peered around the door to see Walkelate in the larger of the two rooms. A number of men were there with him. All wore armour, and they were unquestionably the raiders. One was limping from what appeared to be a wound in his thigh. They were cloaked and hooded, and Bartholomew knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that they were the men who had ambushed him. Mentally, he cursed Rougham again for caving in to their threats, but then supposed it was irrelevant if Walkelate had discovered the formula independently, anyway.

‘There is no need to incinerate the castle, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘The pageant will provide a perfectly adequate diversion for you to leave Cambridge with the weapon.’

‘Unfortunately, the tales of our imminent arrival have made the Sheriff overly vigilant,’ replied Rougé. His French was flawless, indicating that he was a native speaker. Bartholomew gaped when the man turned, and he saw his face. ‘So bombarding the castle with fire-arrows is necessary to keep him busy. We cannot let him foil us – too much is at stake. Besides, I want the tax money.’

‘We cannot tackle all these soldiers alone,’ whispered Michael, drawing back a little to speak. ‘I am no coward, but I see no point in suicide.’

‘But you just said that Tulyet will be on his way,’ Langelee whispered back. ‘I am sure we can keep these paltry villains busy until he arrives. Eh, Ayera?’

‘He will not come if he is being barraged with burning arrows,’ hissed Michael, although Ayera raised his sword in a salute and grinned rather diabolically. ‘Come away. We cannot achieve anything by staying here.’

‘We will listen, then,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But if I say we must attack, you had better be ready. You, too, Bartholomew. The experience you gained fighting at Poitiers will be vital today.’

Bartholomew was horrified, knowing his meagre abilities would not match up to the Master’s expectations, but Langelee waved him to silence when he started to object, and eased forward again.

‘No one believes you will strike today, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘I enlisted Weasenham’s unwitting help – I got him to tell everyone that you are licking your wounds and will not be back. Even Oswald Stanmore believes it, and he is less gullible than most. My ploy worked.’

‘Why does he call him Rougé?’ whispered Michael. ‘That is Bonabes the Exemplarius.’

‘Bonabes is French,’ said Ayera in a low, disgusted voice. ‘And I can tell by the way he carries himself that he is a skilled warrior. Moreover, his weapons are of excellent quality, and well honed.’

Even Bartholomew could see that. He recalled the incident at the castle, when Bonabes had claimed to be out of practice when Holm had insisted that he wore an ancient sword to protect them. The Exemplarius was an accomplished liar, because he had been convincing.

‘The merchants might believe you,’ Bonabes was saying. His amiable demeanour had been replaced by something hard and ruthless. ‘But Tulyet does not.’

‘It does not matter what Tulyet thinks,’ said Walkelate impatiently. ‘My carpenter Frevill has used his family connections to ensure that the Guild of Corpus Christi has ignored Tulyet’s worries, leaving him effectively isolated. Besides, he is hopelessly confused. I was rather clever to start the rumour that your little army hails from inside the town, because he does not know where to look for his enemies and–’

‘Rumours!’ spat Bonabes in distaste. ‘There have been so many of them that even I have wondered which were truth and which were lies. But never mind this. Is the weapon ready?’

‘It is in the cista ,’ replied Walkelate. He smirked. ‘All manner of folk have used it as a table and workbench, but no one has thought to look inside. What a shock they would have had if they did! I always say that the best hiding places are those in plain sight.’

‘Yet it is an obvious feature, and people will ask where it has gone once we take it. How will you explain its disappearance without incriminating yourself?’

Walkelate’s smile was smug. ‘I shall set a small fire in the corner of this room – not enough to cause serious harm but enough to mask the departure of the cista . I shall say it was started by a stray fire-arrow. After all, we had better sustain some damage in this raid, or folk will be suspicious.’

‘A fire?’ asked Bonabes, startled. ‘With all this wood? Is that wise?’

‘I can control a small blaze,’ said Walkelate haughtily. ‘I am a skilled experimenter.’

‘Show me the weapon again,’ said Bonabes, shrugging to show he did not care what happened to the library. ‘I want to see it one more time.’

Walkelate opened the cista , and by craning forward, Bartholomew could just make out a compact machine with several barrels. It looked like the Poitiers ribauldequins, but Walkelate’s had bulbous mouths, presumably to allow the wildfire to splatter in a wider arc. There was a waft of something unpleasant, too.

‘This pot contains a sample of my other creation,’ said the architect, handing it to Bonabes. ‘I told you there was no need to bother with the physicians. Not only have I reinvented wildfire, but my recipe is far superior.’

‘And you did it alone?’ asked Bonabes. ‘We cannot afford witnesses.’

‘I had to enlist associates, but none are alive to tell the tale.’

Bonabes regarded him narrowly, and his voice turned soft and a little dangerous. ‘Do these dead associates include the London brothers and Northwood? I was fond of them.’

‘They were talented alchemists, and I needed their expertise,’ said Walkelate sharply. His expression became sly. ‘Their deaths were not my fault, anyway – any more than Adam was yours.’

Bonabes flinched, indicating that his affection for the boy-scribe he claimed to have loved like a son had been genuine. He turned his attention to the pot. ‘It took you long enough. Weeks. And even then, you only succeeded after I forced Rougham to name rock oil as the missing ingredient, and procured you some from Weasenham.’

Walkelate regarded him coolly. ‘You told me it was important not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, so of course I took longer than if I had been granted a free hand. Besides, I did better than you – you have come nowhere near a solution for making paper. And anyway, I was not aware that you were in a hurry.’

‘Of course I am in a hurry,’ snapped Bonabes. ‘Not only is France desperate for a miracle, but working for Weasenham has been torture. It was agony, pretending to be subservient to such a man. The only saving grace is Ruth, and I am coming back for her when this is over.’

‘I still do not understand why you hired all those mercenaries,’ said Walkelate after a moment. ‘Our business could have been managed much better without them.’

‘It could not. Pelagia’s spies would have discovered us in an instant without the confusion they provided. They were an absolute necessity. Moreover, I have enjoyed myself, doing to your town what Englishmen have been doing to France for the past three decades. Now your people know what it is like to live in constant fear.’

Bartholomew grabbed Langelee’s arm. The Master, patriotic soul that he was, was finding the discussion hard to stomach. Meanwhile, Bonabes nodded to his men, who sealed the cista , then lifted it, straining under its weight.

‘France owes you a debt of gratitude, Walkelate,’ he said with a smile that was neither friendly nor sincere. Bartholomew suspected the architect would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his labours. ‘This may turn the tide of the war.’

‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Walkelate. ‘I want your money. I spent funds I do not have perfecting my library, and I cannot allow it to be tainted with the reek of debt.’