‘We will listen, then,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But if I say we must attack, you had better be ready. You, too, Bartholomew. The experience you gained fighting at Poitiers will be vital today.’
Bartholomew was horrified, knowing his meagre abilities would not match up to the Master’s expectations, but Langelee waved him to silence when he started to object, and eased forward again.
‘No one believes you will strike today, Rougé,’ Walkelate was saying. ‘I enlisted Weasenham’s unwitting help – I got him to tell everyone that you are licking your wounds and will not be back. Even Oswald Stanmore believes it, and he is less gullible than most. My ploy worked.’
‘Why does he call him Rougé?’ whispered Michael. ‘That is Bonabes the Exemplarius.’
‘Bonabes is French,’ said Ayera in a low, disgusted voice. ‘And I can tell by the way he carries himself that he is a skilled warrior. Moreover, his weapons are of excellent quality, and well honed.’
Even Bartholomew could see that. He recalled the incident at the castle, when Bonabes had claimed to be out of practice when Holm had insisted that he wore an ancient sword to protect them. The Exemplarius was an accomplished liar, because he had been convincing.
‘The merchants might believe you,’ Bonabes was saying. His amiable demeanour had been replaced by something hard and ruthless. ‘But Tulyet does not.’
‘It does not matter what Tulyet thinks,’ said Walkelate impatiently. ‘My carpenter Frevill has used his family connections to ensure that the Guild of Corpus Christi has ignored Tulyet’s worries, leaving him effectively isolated. Besides, he is hopelessly confused. I was rather clever to start the rumour that your little army hails from inside the town, because he does not know where to look for his enemies and–’
‘Rumours!’ spat Bonabes in distaste. ‘There have been so many of them that even I have wondered which were truth and which were lies. But never mind this. Is the weapon ready?’
‘It is in the cista,’ replied Walkelate. He smirked. ‘All manner of folk have used it as a table and workbench, but no one has thought to look inside. What a shock they would have had if they did! I always say that the best hiding places are those in plain sight.’
‘Yet it is an obvious feature, and people will ask where it has gone once we take it. How will you explain its disappearance without incriminating yourself?’
Walkelate’s smile was smug. ‘I shall set a small fire in the corner of this room – not enough to cause serious harm but enough to mask the departure of the cista. I shall say it was started by a stray fire-arrow. After all, we had better sustain some damage in this raid, or folk will be suspicious.’
‘A fire?’ asked Bonabes, startled. ‘With all this wood? Is that wise?’
‘I can control a small blaze,’ said Walkelate haughtily. ‘I am a skilled experimenter.’
‘Show me the weapon again,’ said Bonabes, shrugging to show he did not care what happened to the library. ‘I want to see it one more time.’
Walkelate opened the cista, and by craning forward, Bartholomew could just make out a compact machine with several barrels. It looked like the Poitiers ribauldequins, but Walkelate’s had bulbous mouths, presumably to allow the wildfire to splatter in a wider arc. There was a waft of something unpleasant, too.
‘This pot contains a sample of my other creation,’ said the architect, handing it to Bonabes. ‘I told you there was no need to bother with the physicians. Not only have I reinvented wildfire, but my recipe is far superior.’
‘And you did it alone?’ asked Bonabes. ‘We cannot afford witnesses.’
‘I had to enlist associates, but none are alive to tell the tale.’
Bonabes regarded him narrowly, and his voice turned soft and a little dangerous. ‘Do these dead associates include the London brothers and Northwood? I was fond of them.’
‘They were talented alchemists, and I needed their expertise,’ said Walkelate sharply. His expression became sly. ‘Their deaths were not my fault, anyway – any more than Adam was yours.’
Bonabes flinched, indicating that his affection for the boy-scribe he claimed to have loved like a son had been genuine. He turned his attention to the pot. ‘It took you long enough. Weeks. And even then, you only succeeded after I forced Rougham to name rock oil as the missing ingredient, and procured you some from Weasenham.’
Walkelate regarded him coolly. ‘You told me it was important not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, so of course I took longer than if I had been granted a free hand. Besides, I did better than you – you have come nowhere near a solution for making paper. And anyway, I was not aware that you were in a hurry.’
‘Of course I am in a hurry,’ snapped Bonabes. ‘Not only is France desperate for a miracle, but working for Weasenham has been torture. It was agony, pretending to be subservient to such a man. The only saving grace is Ruth, and I am coming back for her when this is over.’
‘I still do not understand why you hired all those mercenaries,’ said Walkelate after a moment. ‘Our business could have been managed much better without them.’
‘It could not. Pelagia’s spies would have discovered us in an instant without the confusion they provided. They were an absolute necessity. Moreover, I have enjoyed myself, doing to your town what Englishmen have been doing to France for the past three decades. Now your people know what it is like to live in constant fear.’
Bartholomew grabbed Langelee’s arm. The Master, patriotic soul that he was, was finding the discussion hard to stomach. Meanwhile, Bonabes nodded to his men, who sealed the cista, then lifted it, straining under its weight.
‘France owes you a debt of gratitude, Walkelate,’ he said with a smile that was neither friendly nor sincere. Bartholomew suspected the architect would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his labours. ‘This may turn the tide of the war.’
‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Walkelate. ‘I want your money. I spent funds I do not have perfecting my library, and I cannot allow it to be tainted with the reek of debt.’
At that point, Langelee wrenched away from Bartholomew and exploded into the room, sword at the ready. Ayera rolled his eyes, but went to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder.
‘This diabolical weapon is not going to France,’ Langelee snarled. ‘Your game is over.’
The men holding the cista dropped it in alarm, and fumbled for their weapons as Langelee tore towards them with a battle cry that hurt the ears. Ayera dropped into a defensive stance as several mercenaries advanced on him, while Michael waved the cudgel around his head. Bartholomew gripped his childbirth forceps more tightly, although he did not hold much hope of besting trained warriors, and as far as he was concerned, Langelee had just signed their death warrants.
But it was no time to apportion blame, because Walkelate’s fine library was full of the sounds of a frantic skirmish. Langelee was yelling furiously, and the clash of his sword against his opponents’ was ear-splitting as he laid about him with wild abandon. Ayera fought more steadily and rationally, and two raiders quickly fell under his scientific blade.
Bartholomew and Michael were less adept, although the physician managed to knock one man senseless, and break the fingers of another. But the odds were too heavily stacked against them, and it was not long before both were pinned against the wall with knives at their throats.
His stomach lurched when he saw blood spurting from a wound in Ayera’s neck. Horrified, he tried go to his colleague’s aid, but his captor dealt him a stinging blow that made him see stars. By the time his vision cleared, Ayera was dead and Langelee was a prisoner, too, breathing hard and glowering furiously at the three soldiers who kept him in place with the tips of their swords.