Bartholomew did not know enough of military tactics to know whether Tulyet was right or wrong.
He insisted on going alone to Ayce’s cell, suspecting that Tulyet’s angry presence would be counterproductive. Ayce was sitting on the floor, rejecting the bed and stool that had been provided for his use. Bread and a greasy stew stood untouched by the door.
‘I will not talk to you,’ growled Ayce. ‘So do not waste your time with questions.’
‘It is the Sheriff who has questions, not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am just a physician.’
Ayce hesitated for a moment. ‘I was injured in the fighting, and it throbs horribly. Perhaps I shall accept your services, because I cannot think clearly through the pain.’
Bartholomew set about cleaning and binding the cut. When he had finished, he gave Ayce a potion to ease his discomfort, then indicated the food. ‘You might feel better if you eat, too.’
Ayce picked up the bread and took a tentative bite. ‘I should never have let myself be taken alive,’ he said, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘But I was stunned by a blow to the head …’
‘You are fortunate your comrades did not make an end of you,’ said Bartholomew, packing away his pots and potions. ‘I understand they dispatched one of their number who was too badly wounded to run away.’
‘It was what we had agreed before we began our mission. It is better that way.’
‘Better for the men who hired you, perhaps.’
Ayce shrugged. ‘We were well paid for it. Besides, I have not cared what happens to me since John was stabbed, and this seemed as good a way as any to make an exit from the world. I was more than happy to volunteer when they came hunting for recruits. And if we had been successful, I would have had enough money to drink myself to death.’
‘Who are these men?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘They did not say, and I did not ask. Not that they would have told me if I had.’
Bartholomew regarded him sceptically. ‘You expect me to believe that strangers came along, and you joined them without knowing who they were or what they intended?’
‘Oh, I knew what they intended. They said from the start that their aim was to attack the town.’
‘For the taxes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or the ribauldequin?’
Ayce regarded him blankly. ‘What is a ribauldequin?’ Then he held up his hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I do not care. However, I am glad our raid caused such consternation. Cambridge is where John was murdered, and I hate everything about it.’
‘People have been telling me about your son’s death. It is said that he often bullied scholars.’
Ayce regarded him with dislike. ‘And that gave a clerk the right to slaughter him?’
‘No, of course not, but it explains how it came about. It was self-defence.’
‘You would take Hildersham’s side – you are a scholar. The town found him guilty, though, and steps should have been taken to catch him after he escaped. Now go away and leave me alone. I do not wish to talk any longer.’
The interview had depressed Bartholomew, and he was in a gloomy frame of mind as he left the castle. Outside, one of his students was waiting to tell him that he had been summoned by Prior Etone. It was dusk and he was tired, but he began to trudge towards the Carmelite Friary anyway. When he arrived, it was to find Jorz sitting with his hand in a bucket of cold water.
‘It was Browne’s fault,’ the scribe twittered tearfully. ‘He came up behind me, and deliberately startled me out of my wits.’
‘He did,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘I saw it happen. Poor Jorz was boiling up a new recipe for red ink, when Browne came creeping in. He clapped his hand hard on Jorz’s shoulder, and made him spill it all over himself.’
Bartholomew inspected Jorz’s arm, but the cold water had already worked its magic, and although the scribe would be uncomfortable for a few days, he did not think there would be any lasting damage. He set about applying a soothing salve.
‘Browne laughed when he saw I was hurt,’ Jorz went on. ‘He is a vile fellow – cruel and sly.’
‘What was he doing in our domain in the first place?’ asked Etone. ‘I thought we had agreed that members of Batayl were barred, lest they stage some sort of revenge over the soot incident.’
‘He claimed he wanted to buy some ink,’ explained Riborowe. ‘But I know for a fact that he does not have any money – he is always saying that times are hard. So I imagine he was here to spy, to look around and see what might be done to repay us for our novice’s high spirits.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Etone worriedly. ‘We shall have to ask Michael’s beadles to keep a protective eye on us for the next few days.’
‘Or you could apologise for the soot, and offer a truce,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘Apologise?’ spluttered Riborowe. ‘Never!’
‘Actually, that is a good idea,’ countered Etone, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘I am weary of this dispute, and see no point in continuing it. I shall apologise, and Matthew will go with me, as a witness.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically.
‘Yes, now,’ said Etone. ‘Before I decide it is too great a burden for my pride to bear.’
Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after him, but when they reached Batayl it was to discover everyone out except Pepin, who had been left on guard. The Frenchman said that the students had gone to hear a sermon in St Mary the Great, while Coslaye and Browne were in Newe Inn.
‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I thought they disapproved of the library.’
‘They do,’ replied Pepin. ‘But Walkelate thinks he can win them over by showing them his finished lecterns. The man is a fool. His nasty library has deprived Batayl of better living conditions, and no amount of fine carving will ever make us overlook that fact.’
‘Well, I intend to overlook the wrong that has been inflicted on me,’ said Etone loftily. ‘I do not have the energy to hold grudges – not against Dunning for breaking his promise, and not against Batayl for challenging us about it.’
Once again, Bartholomew found himself in Etone’s wake, as the Prior strode towards Newe Inn. The door was open, so they entered.
‘Good God, it reeks in here!’ exclaimed Etone, waving his hand in front of his face. He grinned a little spitefully. ‘The guests at its grand opening are going to be asphyxiated.’
Bartholomew followed him up the stairs, where they could hear voices. They entered the room containing the libri distribuendi, and found Walkelate proudly displaying some finished mouldings to an unlikely audience that included Coslaye, Browne, Dunning and Bonabes. Meanwhile, Kente and Frevill, exhausted after yet another day of gruellingly hard work, were packing up their tools.
‘They are all right, I suppose,’ Coslaye was saying grudgingly. ‘But battle scenes would have been preferable to all this Paradise nonsense. And you should have made Aristotle more manly.’
‘We should not linger here, Coslaye,’ said Browne, also regarding the bust with contempt. ‘Libraries are dangerous. Five men have died in and around them already.’
‘I hardly think–’ began Walkelate indignantly.
‘Etone! What are you doing here?’ Browne’s instantly furtive expression suggested that he probably had intended to harm Jorz by slinking up behind him, and was now worried that the Prior intended to demand reparation.
‘I came to offer a truce,’ replied Etone. ‘We are even now: our novice should not have put soot on your mural, but you should not have startled Jorz when he was working with hot liquids. I should like to bring an end to our dispute. What do you say?’
‘I shall think about it,’ said Coslaye coldly. ‘And I will send you my decision later. Or perhaps I shall reject your slithering advances. You will just have to wait and see.’