‘He is not the only one,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Holm was useless when my men were injured. Incidentally, were you aware that he keeps a lover? Clippesby knows, so I imagine he told you. He stumbled across them when he was debating some lofty theological tract with a goat. Or was it a pig? I cannot recall now.’
‘Did Clippesby give you a name?’ asked Michael. ‘Prudishly, Matt stopped him from revealing it when they discussed the matter, and I keep forgetting to ask.’
‘Browne of Batayl Hostel.’
‘Browne?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I was not expecting that! Still, I suppose it explains why Holm seems immune to Julitta’s very considerable beauty, and why Clippesby is so certain their union will be unhappy. You will have to prevent her from marrying him now, Matt. Make her fall in love with you instead. It would be a kindness.’
‘How will you catch the individual who killed Adam, Dick?’ Bartholomew asked, before the monk could embarrass him further.
‘I have every available soldier out scouring the Fens. Unfortunately, these raiders are elusive and extremely well organised, and I am not hopeful of nabbing them before they next attack.’
‘Speaking of their next attack, there is a tale that the tax money has been moved from the castle and hidden in the University,’ said Michael. ‘Do you have any idea who invented such a lie?’
‘No, but the story is all over the town. There is gossip about Gyseburne, too – namely that his interest in urine stems from the fact that it can be made to explode. Is it true?’
‘Urine does contain combustible–’ began Bartholomew, but then stopped abruptly.
‘He is still horrified by Rougham’s capitulation,’ explained Michael to the Sheriff. ‘And he is loath to discuss substances that blow up with anyone now. Even you.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘It was a secret that should have been carried to the grave, and he had no right dabbling in such matters in the first place. If that vile concoction is ever used against my men, I shall … well, let us hope it does not happen.’
‘Christ!’ groaned Bartholomew when Tulyet had gone. ‘What if it is? What if the raiders manage to create some?’
‘They cannot, not when you say rock oil is difficult to obtain and dangerous to distil. But perhaps we are taking too bleak a view of the situation. There may be no raid – the robbers may have given up after their rout on Saturday.’
‘That is not what everyone else seems to think,’ said Bartholomew, aware that several High Street houses had boards over their windows. ‘Including your grandmother.’
‘But they may be wrong. There is nothing except rumour to suggest there will be an attack. I am sure this tale did not come from the culprits, and they are the only ones who really know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, although he was far from convinced.
The interview with Willelmus was delayed yet again when Michael was intercepted by a beadle saying that Walkelate needed some requisitions to be signed as a matter of urgency. Bartholomew went with him to Newe Inn, still worrying that wildfire might play a role in the looming trouble.
The clouds had lifted and it was hot by the time they reached Cholles Lane. The streets were clogged with dust, and Bartholomew wished it would rain, to dampen it down. People were already complaining about the heat, worried that the crops might fail again. The town’s children were happy, though, and frolicked in the river’s shallows, squealing their delight amid fountains of brown spray. Bartholomew hoped it would not make them ill, because they had chosen to play not far from where the Carmelites discharged their sewage.
Bartholomew and Michael entered Newe Inn, where they met Dunning in the basement, just leaving. He was whistling cheerfully to himself, and smiled when he saw Michael.
‘You are prompt,’ he said approvingly. ‘Walkelate has the documents ready, and I appreciate you coming so quickly. Time is of the essence now that Corpus Christi is only two days away.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael gloomily.
Then Dunning’s face darkened. ‘I wish I did not have to waste so much of it quashing these ridiculous tales about a raid, though. Of course there will not be an attack! These villains are still Christians, and know better than to risk the wrath of God by interrupting religious ceremonies.’
‘Opening a library is hardly a religious–’ began Bartholomew.
‘Nonsense!’ interrupted Dunning. ‘Prayers will be said, will they not? And monks and friars will be in attendance? I want it to be a day to remember – and I do not mean because everyone skulks at home, too frightened to come out and admire what we have achieved here.’
He bustled away before they could argue, leaving them to climb the stairs to the upper rooms. When they arrived, they could not help but notice that the reek of oil was just as powerful as it had been the last time they had visited, and Holm’s ‘remedy’ sat ineffectually in a bowl on the windowsill. Aristotle, now affixed in his permanent position atop the first bookshelf, seemed to be grimacing his disapproval at the stench.
Walkelate and Frevill were at the cista, anxiously studying the plans that were spread across it, but the architect’s face broke into a smile when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.
‘We are almost ready,’ he said, eyes dancing with delight as he handed the monk the documents that needed his approval. ‘There is no question at all now that we will make the Corpus Christi deadline. We shall present the University a building that every scholar can be proud of.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, looking around appreciatively. ‘But where is Kente? Have the fumes made him ill again?’
‘He has not arrived yet. He must be mixing more wood-grease in his workshop at home. He likes to employ it liberally, which is why there is something of an aroma.’
‘Or perhaps he is with the libri concatenati,’ suggested Michael.
‘No, that room has been locked up since yesterday.’ The eager gleam was back in Walkelate’s eyes. ‘Would you like to see it? It is completely finished, and–’
‘No,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could say he would.
‘We have been discussing that nasty attack on Langelee,’ said Frevill, both hands to the small of his back. ‘But we have come up with nothing useful. We were not here when it happened, more is the pity – he may have been assaulted by the same villain who did away with Northwood and the others, and it would have been good to catch the rogue.’
‘It would,’ agreed Walkelate fervently. ‘Unpleasant incidents on the eve of our opening are not good news. Are you sure you two would not like to see the finished chamber?’
‘I would,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could decline a second time.
Michael heaved an impatient sigh as, with a happy grin, Walkelate took a key from a chain around his neck. He inserted it in the door, but it did not turn, and he frowned his puzzlement.
‘It is unlocked,’ he said, rattling it impatiently. ‘Yet it will not open. What is wrong?’
Bartholomew pointed to a small wedge at the bottom of the door. He kicked it out of the way, and the door opened easily.
‘We must have forgotten to secure it last night,’ said Frevill anxiously. ‘That is not good! I would not like one of our enemies to get in and damage something.’
‘You believe someone would be so petty?’ asked Bartholomew, yet as soon as the question was out, he knew it was a foolish one. He could name at least a dozen scholars who would think nothing of despoiling the place. Walkelate could, too, and began to do so.
‘Some of the Carmelites, Browne and that Batayl rabble, the Master and Fellows of Bene’t College, the Fellows of King’s Hall, Doctor Rougham of Gonville–’
‘Quite a lot, then,’ interrupted Bartholomew, suspecting the list was likely to continue for some time. He stepped into the room and looked around in awe. ‘It is splendid! I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather read.’