‘I spent the entire night rethinking the pageant, making changes in the light of yesterday’s raid,’ he confided. ‘Julitta, Ruth and Weasenham helped – none of us went to bed. And Holm longed to join us, of course, but he was here all night, tending the wounded. Just as he did at Poitiers.’
Bartholomew said nothing, but Holm had disappeared long before sunset the previous evening, and had not shown his face again until he had accompanied his entourage shortly before. He could only suppose that the surgeon had lied to secure himself a good night’s sleep. He itched to say so to Dunning – along with the fact that if Holm had indeed tended the injured at Poitiers, they would have been Frenchmen, and almost certainly only after he had fled to a safe distance – but it would have sounded like sour grapes, so he held his tongue.
‘I am not very impressed with Tulyet,’ said Dunning idly. ‘He virtually invited those villains to attack, with his lax security and his cavalier attitude to essential repairs.’
‘That is untrue,’ objected Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts from Holm’s penchant for fabrication to defend his friend. ‘No one could have predicted what happened.’
‘No? There have been numerous reports of armed men sneaking around after dark, while several people have vanished or been murdered. How could Tulyet not see that all this pointed to something sinister? Is that your colleague Ayera striding towards us? What does he want?’
‘Michael said you would be here, tending the injured,’ said Ayera to Bartholomew as he approached. ‘So I came to see whether I could help.’
Bartholomew shook his head, although he was touched that his colleague should have made the effort to ask. No one else had bothered, except Michael. ‘But thank you.’
Ayera sighed. ‘What a dreadful business! Langelee posted student-guards all around Michaelhouse’s walls last night, and he and I were up all night supervising them. How is Tulyet’s hunt proceeding? Is there any news?’
‘No, but he rode out again this morning, while it was still dark.’
‘Rather him than me. Tracking men who do not want to be found is nigh on impossible in the Fens. I see he has tightened his defences here, though. It was not easy to get in this morning.’
‘But too late,’ said Dunning acidly. ‘It is like bolting a door after the horse has fled.’
‘It is not too late for next time,’ Bartholomew pointed out shortly.
Dunning stared at him. ‘There will not be a next time! The raiders were repelled, and they will not come again. I doubt such cunning fellows are stupid.’
‘No,’ agreed Ayera. ‘But Tulyet did well yesterday, given the unexpectedness of the assault. A number of his men were killed or wounded, but soldiers are expendable and it is the castle that is important. And Tulyet still holds it.’
Bartholomew supposed it was true from a military perspective, but was uncomfortable with the remark even so. ‘Tulyet would not agree,’ he said. ‘He is protective towards his people.’
‘An unwise trait in a commander,’ said Ayera. ‘He must learn indifference. Incidentally, do you know how many of the enemy were dispatched by his warriors?’
‘I heard five,’ replied Dunning. ‘Four outright, and one by his own comrades when they saw they were going to have to leave him. These men are extremely ruthless.’
Bartholomew thought about Tulyet and Cynric in the marshes, and hoped they were safe.
The sun was only just beginning to show its face when he and Ayera left the castle and began to walk down the hill together. Bells were ringing everywhere, because it was Trinity Sunday, and an important day in the Church’s calendar. St Clement’s was full of white flowers for the occasion, and their sweet scent wafted out as they passed it. Ayera inhaled deeply.
‘I have always liked flowers. They are one of life’s great pleasures.’
Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. It was not the sort of sentiment he would have expected from the manly geometrician, especially after his comment about the expendability of soldiers.
‘Many are poisonous,’ Ayera went on gleefully, indicating that he did not have a sensitive side after all. ‘Although they present a pretty face to the world. There is much to admire in flowers.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond to such a declaration.
‘Were there any by Newe Inn’s pond? It might explain what happened to those four dead scholars. Michael said there was no obvious cause of death, you see, so I have been mulling over possible explanations for him.’
‘I did not notice. Besides, toxic plants are unlikely to kill four men simultaneously.’
‘Why not? It has happened before – when Langelee was living in York, several guests died at his dinner table. The culprit was found to be lily of the valley, which the cook had mistaken for wild garlic and had made into a soup.’
‘His guests died, but he did not?’ Bartholomew vaguely recalled Langelee telling him the same tale when they had travelled to York together a few weeks before, but the details eluded him.
Ayera nodded. ‘He had decided to forgo the broth, to save himself for the meat that was to follow. So he survived, but all his visitors perished horribly.’
Bartholomew stared at him, a sudden vivid recollection of the garden flashing into his mind. ‘Actually, there were lilies of the valley by the pond. I picked some.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Ayera with a shrug. ‘I have solved the case.’
‘But there is nothing to say that Northwood and the others ate them. And even if they did, they would not have been overcome at the same time.’
Ayera shrugged a second time. ‘Oh, well, it was just an idea. Let us talk of happier matters, then. What do you think these raiders wanted from the castle?’
‘The tax money,’ replied Bartholomew, not convinced that this constituted a ‘happier matter’.
Ayera considered his reply. ‘Yet it is going to be transported to London in a week. If I were a thief, I would have waited until it was on the road, not attempted to snatch it from a fortress.’
It was a valid point.
When Langelee saw the dried blood that stained Bartholomew’s skin, hair and clothes, he ordered him to the lavatorium, a shed-like structure built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself. Gratefully, he scoured away the gore, donned fresh shirt, leggings and tabard, and went to hand the soiled ones to Agatha the laundress.
Women were not usually permitted inside Colleges, although laundresses were exempted if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to tempt scholars into an amour. Agatha fitted the bill perfectly, because not even the most desperate of men was likely to mount an assault on her – her ferocious temper was legendary, and she had a powerful physique to go with it. She regarded the stained clothes Bartholomew handed her with a dangerous expression.
‘Have you been committing surgery again? You know you are not supposed to do that.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. There was no point arguing, because Agatha was not a lady to lose confrontations.
‘I shall overlook it this time,’ she went on. ‘But only because one of my nephews was among the casualties, and he said he would have died had you not been to hand.’
Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised to learn that Agatha had kin at the castle. She was related to at least half of Cambridge. ‘Which one is he?’
‘Robin, who had an arrow through his neck. It is a pity that Holm is so useless, because people will say you are a warlock as long as you flout tradition and perform the procedures that he should be doing. And one day it will see you banished from here. Or worse. I should not like that, and neither would your patients.’