Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

Bartholomew smiled. ‘They did better than I expected.’

‘They performed magnificently, thanks to your tyranny in the classroom. However, you might consider being a little more gentle on the next batch. And if you have any affection for Julitta, incidentally, you will stop this farce of a marriage. The priest has not reached the vows yet.’

‘How am I to do that?’ asked Bartholomew, tiredly.

‘By telling her the truth about Holm. It would be a kindness. She deserves better.’

‘She will never forgive me if I make a scene on her wedding day. And he is the town’s only surgeon – I am obliged to work with him.’

‘Clippesby is so sure she will be miserable that he tried to persuade the priest not to conduct the ceremony. Unfortunately, he took the rat to support his case, so the man declined to listen.’

Bartholomew looked at Julitta, and for a moment considered doing what Michael suggested, but then she turned to Holm and gave a smile of such blazing happiness that his resolve crumbled.

‘I cannot. And even if I did, she would spend the rest of her life wondering what she has lost. As I do with Matilde.’

‘Very well, but you will come to regret your faintheartedness. Bitterly, I think. Still, one good thing came out of all this unpleasantness.’

‘A new Junior Proctor?’ A volunteer, inspired by the service Michael had performed for the country, had stepped forward as the beadles were helping Tulyet to round up the last few mercenaries.

‘Well, yes,’ said Michael. ‘But I was thinking of something else.’

‘You were?’ Bartholomew could not think of anything.

‘The Common Library is a pile of smoking rubble,’ said Michael with a wicked grin. ‘Julitta offered to fund another, but I persuaded her against it.’

‘But a central repository for books is a good idea.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Michael. ‘Incidentally, Holm told me yesterday that he will be so wealthy after his marriage today that he need never pick up a surgical blade again. You will have to return to your old ways of sawing and stitching.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew smiled suddenly. ‘Then perhaps you are right: something good has come out of this affair!’

Two months later, Rouen

It had been a scorching hot day, and the evening air smelled of burnt earth and parched vegetation. Two men stood together in a quiet grove, within sight of the mighty cathedral. Bonabes, his burned face still swathed in bandages, felt a surge of excitement.

All had not been lost that terrible day in Cambridge, when the ridiculous Walkelate had lit his fire. The specially adapted ribauldequin had been destroyed, of course, its metal barrels melted unrecognisably in the heat, and Walkelate’s wildfire had also gone. But Bonabes had managed to snag two items before he had crawled to safety. One was Walkelate’s design for the weapon, and the other was the scrap of parchment containing the physicians’ formula for wildfire. Walkelate had taken his own recipe to the grave, of course, but Bonabes had the feeling that the compound contrived by the medici was better anyway.

After his escape, Bonabes had lain low for a while. He had expected Ruth to nurse him back to health, but she had turned her back on him when she had learned his real identity. So much for love! But she did not matter any more, because something far more important was about to take place. Bonabes had commissioned a French blacksmith to reconstruct Walkelate’s ribauldequin, and he had undertaken to mix the wildfire himself. Well, he had required a little help.

‘Are you sure we added enough rock oil?’ he asked of Gyseburne, who stood beside him.

‘Quite sure,’ replied the physician. ‘Your mixture looks identical to the stuff we created in Meryfeld’s garden all those months ago, although this is superior, because I added urine, which is highly combustible under the right circumstances.’

‘But you told me you could not remember a thing about that particular night,’ said Bonabes, rather accusingly. ‘If you had, I would not have had to waylay Bartholomew and Rougham.’

‘It all came back to me once we put the ingredients together,’ replied Gyseburne coolly.

‘Well, let us hope your memory is reliable.’ Bonabes pointed into the trees, where a shadowy figure was emerging. ‘Because the general is here, and I have promised him a miracle.’

‘And he shall have it. Are you sure he has enough money to pay me? If not, there are plenty of other commanders who will not baulk at the sum I have requested.’

‘Quite sure. How did you explain your absence from Cambridge, by the way?’

‘My mother needs me,’ said Gyseburne gravely. ‘And when I told him I was unsure how I would finance the journey, Matthew gave me the five marks he had won from Holm. It was guilt-money, of course, to apologise for the fact that a Michaelhouse scholar, namely Ayera, started a rumour that my mother is a witch.’

‘Weasenham told me.’ Bonabes glanced cautiously at the physician. ‘And is she?’

‘She likes to cast the occasional spell.’

‘I thought Bartholomew and the monk would guess that you were among the men who helped Walkelate,’ said Bonabes wonderingly. ‘I heard Michael had you high on his list of suspects.’

Gyseburne shrugged. ‘I think they were so appalled to learn that Walkelate, Northwood, the London brothers, Vale and Jorz had been dabbling with wildfire that they could not bring themselves to think ill of any more colleagues. They never once asked me about it.’

‘Ayera was suspicious of you, though,’ said Bonabes. ‘I saw him watching you several times. Of course, I did not know he was Pelagia’s spy at the time, or I would have killed him.’

Gyseburne grimaced. ‘He unnerved me, so I told Bartholomew the tale about Langelee’s poisoned guests in York, placing the blame firmly on Ayera. I also told him that Ayera was one of your raiders.’

‘That was reckless! I was too wary of anyone to confide my plans, so he knew little to harm us, but it was a risk that should not have been taken.’

‘I had to protect myself,’ said Gyseburne sharply. ‘Besides, I have long been afraid that Ayera might know that it was I who exchanged garlic for lily of the valley all those years ago at Langelee’s house in York, and I felt the need to take precautions.’

‘I heard you gave up Willelmus, too.’

Gyseburne shrugged. ‘He was a low worm, and I distrusted him intensely. I could not kill him – he was a friar, and I have scruples about dispatching men of God – so I decided to let Tulyet do it for me. I was afraid that he might tell someone it was I who persuaded him to turn traitor, and not some fictitious juror.’

‘You almost died, too,’ observed Bonabes, watching the general approach and then glancing around again to ensure that all was ready. ‘Walkelate.’

Gyseburne nodded. ‘Yes, he certainly would have killed me, as he did his other helpmeets. It was fortunate that an excursion to see a patient in Girton put me out of harm’s reach that night. I–’

‘Is it ready?’ asked the newcomer, breaking brusquely into their conversation. As one of France’s highest-ranking military men, the general considered himself far too important to waste time with polite greetings.

‘The wildfire is loaded, and all we need do is touch a flame to this fuse,’ said Bonabes. His heart thudded with excitement. This was the culmination of all he had worked for since that terrible day at Poitiers. It was his revenge on the English for the humiliation his country had suffered, and for the continued marauding of the Prince of Wales and his greedy rabble.

‘Then do it,’ said the general. Prudently, he took up station some distance away.