Michael was pale. ‘I hope to God you are wrong.’
‘So do I.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am anxious about Langelee, too. He has also been leaving Michaelhouse at odd times and was strangely defensive of Ayera.’
‘They are friends – of course he was defensive. And there will be a good reason for his disappearances. The College is in debt, so perhaps he is working to raise new funds.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘That is what worries me.’
Beadle Meadowman came with urgent documents for Michael to sign, and while he waited for the monk to finish, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and took his new bestiary to Deynman. The Librarian was sitting in the corner of the hall, making an inventory of his books, although as he rarely let anyone, not even Fellows, remove them for personal study, it was hardly necessary.
‘I am never lending anything to anyone again,’ Deynman declared angrily. ‘No one knows how to treat books.’ He pointed accusingly at the volume Bartholomew held. ‘And to prove my point, look at that one. It is drenched in blood.’
‘Hardly drenched,’ said Bartholomew, handing it over. ‘Just a smear or two. If you do not want it for Michaelhouse, you can take it to Newe Inn.’
‘I do want it,’ said Deynman, clutching it possessively. ‘I shall clean it off and keep it safe.’
‘You do not know what it is yet,’ said Bartholomew, amused.
‘I do not care. It has pages and a cover, so it is a book. And books belong with me, because I am Librarian.’ Deynman pronounced the last word grandly, still delighted with the way it sounded. ‘No one is going to write “arse” in this little beauty.’
Bartholomew regarded him in bafflement. ‘Has someone–’
‘Yes, someone has!’ snapped Deynman. ‘In Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘I do.’ Suddenly, Deynman’s indignation evaporated, and he reverted to the likeable but dim-witted lad Bartholomew knew and loved. ‘My remit is to care for these books, but when a senior member desecrates one, what am I supposed to do?’
‘A Fellow?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to think of who might have done such a thing.
‘Langelee,’ confided Deynman in an agonised whisper. ‘He asked to borrow it last week, and I let him, because he is the Master. But when it came back … look!’
He opened the offending tome, and there was the word scrawled in the margin, definitely in Langelee’s untidy hand. The fact that it was in the vernacular, not Latin or Greek, spoke volumes, too. Langelee’s grasp of classical languages was not the best.
‘Why did he want such a book?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He teaches philosophy, and he, unlike the rest of us, tends not to venture into other disciplines.’
‘He is not clever enough,’ said Deynman, blithely oblivious of the fact that he was in no position to criticise anyone’s intellect. ‘The rest of us like to hone our minds, but he would rather play camp-ball. He has never asked to borrow a book before, and I should have thought of an excuse not to let him have it.’
‘You cannot prevent the Master from using his own library.’
‘I can and I will,’ vowed Deynman. ‘I saw him reading it with Ayera later. Now he would never deface a book. He cares too deeply about them.’
Bartholomew was puzzled and worried. Langelee was not a man for academic chitchat, especially with someone who possessed an intellect as formidable as Ayera’s, so what had they really been doing? He patted the Librarian’s shoulder, and bent to read what had prompted Langelee to do such a terrible thing. It was the chapter on devices that could be used to attack a castle. A wash of cold dread flooded over him as he scanned descriptions of siege engines, weapons for undermining rocks, and recipes for making things that exploded.
‘Langelee borrowed this last week?’ he asked.
Deynman nodded. ‘Yes, why? What is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost.’
Bartholomew gripped Deynman’s arm urgently. ‘Forget about this. Do not mention it to the Master or to anyone else.’
‘Why?’ pressed Deynman. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Neither do I,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I do know we need to be careful.’
When Bartholomew found Michael, the monk was just finishing a discussion with Clippesby. The Dominican was agitated, and shot towards the stables when Bartholomew approached, muttering something about needing a sensible conversation with a horse to calm his nerves. Michael’s expression was one of exasperation and bemusement in equal measure.
‘What did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘That the rat declines to visit libraries any more, because they are too dangerous; the Carmelite Friary’s blackbirds have a low opinion of Riborowe; and the College cat reports that Langelee and Ayera have taken to going out at strange times, sometimes together but usually alone.’
Bartholomew watched Clippesby disappear into the stable, and wondered what to do about the cat’s intelligence in particular.
‘There will be a grain of truth in it all,’ sighed Michael. ‘There usually is, although it is difficult to extract fact from fiction where he is concerned. The man is a lunatic, and I often wonder why we do not dismiss him and appoint someone sane.’
‘Because he is gentle and good, and that is worth a great deal.’
‘I suppose so. But I can tell from the expression on your face that something else is wrong now. Did Deynman refuse you access to some text?’
‘Ayera and Langelee have been reading up on warfare. And things that explode.’
Michael swallowed hard. ‘What you said earlier has jogged my memory – I noticed Ayera’s limp, too. Could he have been one of the trio my grandmother drove away from you on Wednesday? She told me later that she thought she had injured two of them enough to slow them down.’
‘She hit one in the foot and the other in the thigh. Coslaye had a damaged foot …’
‘And Ayera walked as though his injury was higher up. Yet I cannot see him joining forces with the likes of the Principal of Batayl. But having said that, Ayera has always been something of an enigma. I hope to God he has not led Langelee astray.’
‘No one “leads” the Master anywhere he does not want to go.’
Michael was sombre. ‘True. And we must not forget that he was the chief henchman for a powerful churchman with a lot of enemies. He must have been very good at it – those sorts of occupations tend to have a short life expectancy, and he did it for years.’
‘Not as long as your grandmother, though,’ remarked Bartholomew.
‘She is a remarkable woman, is she not?’ said Michael fondly. ‘There cannot be many elderly ladies who played a role at the Battle of Poitiers.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. The victory had been attributed to the skill of English and Welsh archers, the lie of the land, and the reckless over-confidence of the French commanders, but now he wondered whether the Prince of Wales had had a secret weapon – not ribauldequins or wildfire, but Dame Pelagia. He frowned. ‘Weapons and warfare.’
‘What about them?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Langelee and Ayera have been reading about them; Northwood and the others may have been experimenting with them; Riborowe and Coslaye drew them; Chancellor Tynkell professes to know about them; while any number of scholars were at Poitiers – Northwood, Holm, Walkelate and Riborowe …’
‘And Pepin of Batayl says he was not there, although you caught him out in inconsistencies about the area. Moreover, he is a Frenchman in a hostel that is named for the English victory, which must be uncomfortable to say the least.’