‘You will not get away with this,’ the Master snarled. ‘Dame Pelagia knows all about you and your plans.’
‘You should have killed her when she fell into your hands, Rougé,’ said Walkelate angrily. ‘As I recommended. But no, you insisted on taking her to the marshes. And what happened? She escaped, and will continue to be a danger to us.’
Bonabes only indicated that his men were to lift the cista, but one of its handles had been broken in the scuffle, and he fretted impatiently while they fashioned a replacement with a belt.
‘Why does he call you Rougé?’ asked Michael. He sounded calm, although Bartholomew was in an agony of tension, appalled by what had happened to Ayera – and by what might befall their country now the ill-advised attack had failed.
‘I am Bonabes, Sire de Rougé et de Derval,’ replied Bonabes haughtily. ‘Vicomte de la Guerche and Châtelain de Pontcallec. And a loyal subject of His Majesty King Jean of France.’
‘But the Sire de Rougé was taken prisoner after the Battle of Poitiers,’ said Langelee in confusion. ‘And is locked in the Tower of London until a ransom can be paid.’
‘I escaped,’ said Bonabes coolly. ‘But I was still on Poitiers field when I determined to acquire a ribauldequin and learn the secret of wildfire. And God is with me, for it cannot have been by chance that I heard about your University and its scholars’ inventions.’
‘Northwood,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘He was at Poitiers: he told you about us.’
Bonabes inclined his head. ‘He came to the Tower a few months ago, to ask after my welfare – we had become acquainted on the journey there, you see. He was a chaplain, and had been given the care of the French captives’ souls. We became friends.’
‘He helped you escape,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘But why would he do such a thing?’
‘Academic glory,’ replied Bonabes. ‘I promised to finance certain alchemical projects.’
‘Do not waste time in idle chatter,’ hissed Walkelate. ‘They would not have burst in here if beadles and soldiers were not far behind. Kill them, and take your weapon before it is too late.’
‘How will you explain the presence of corpses in your library?’ asked Bonabes, gritting his teeth in frustration when his soldiers grabbed the cista and the new handle snapped. ‘It is due to open soon.’
‘I shall dump them in the pond. I intend to live here and enjoy the adulation of grateful scholars, so you can trust me to do it properly. Not like last time, when I slipped up with Vale.’
‘Yes, kill them,’ came another voice from the door. ‘We cannot afford loose ends.’
‘You?’ gasped Langelee, while Bartholomew sagged in despair. How much deeper did the rot of treachery run in Cambridge?
‘We should have known that Dunning was involved,’ he said tiredly. ‘Developing weapons is expensive, and Walkelate has just said that he needs Bonabes’s blood-money to prevent the library starting its life in debt. Dunning funded the experiments. It explains why he was always here – not assessing the progress of the library, but the progress of the weapon.’
Dunning shrugged. ‘I never liked this building, and Walkelate needed somewhere to work. It was a convenient arrangement for all, and the University will benefit, so do not complain.’
‘Julitta,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘It was her idea to give us Newe Inn.’
‘She knows nothing of this,’ said Dunning sharply. ‘She would disapprove. She believes my generosity will leave me poor, but the money I shall make from selling Walkelate’s weapon today will make me fabulously rich. And then I shall head the Guild of Corpus Christi.’
‘So that is why you have insisted on a grand opening ceremony today,’ said Langelee in utter disgust. ‘And why you have spent so much time planning the pageant. You have been preparing the ground for your election as Guild Master.’
‘Yes and no,’ replied Dunning. ‘I do want the pageant and the opening ceremony to be a success – and the beadles you sent to order them cancelled have been dealt with, by the way, Brother – but I also need them to serve as a diversion for our other business today.’
‘At least we know now why everyone here was always so tired,’ muttered Michael. ‘Working on the library all day, and labouring over weapons all night …’
‘Iron filings,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Kente thought they were from metal brackets to fit bookcases to the walls, but they were from the ribauldequin.’
‘Tulyet’s blacksmith unwittingly provided me with a basic set of barrels.’ Walkelate was unable to resist a brag. ‘But it was still necessary to make one or two fine adjustments–’
‘Why did you not kill Michael and Bartholomew when they came here asking after Frevill yesterday?’ interrupted Bonabes, turning on Dunning. ‘You must have seen it was too risky to leave them alive.’
‘I did not have a sword with me,’ snapped Dunning. ‘Why do you think Walkelate sent them to the stationer’s shop? So you could do the honours. But you did not oblige, either.’
‘Ruth was there,’ said Bonabes angrily. ‘How could I?’
‘You are going to be disappointed, Dunning,’ said Langelee, making no effort to conceal his contempt. ‘Because any funds Bonabes has will be used to pay his mercenaries and to transport the weapon to France. Betraying your country will not make you wealthy.’
‘The King’s taxes are more than enough to cover all our needs,’ said Dunning comfortably. ‘The rest of Bonabes’s men are securing them for us as we speak.’
‘If they can find them,’ goaded Langelee. ‘Tulyet has hidden them, and not even his most trusted warriors know where. You will never have them. He has concealed his ribauldequin, too.’
Bonabes regarded Dunning in alarm, and there was consternation among the mercenaries, too. ‘Is this true? Our arrangement stipulates that I am to have both weapons.’
‘Langelee is lying,’ said Dunning coldly. ‘And I want to hear no more of his tales. Kill them.’
There was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or Langelee could do as they were forced to kneel in a line. One mercenary stood behind them, executioner style, and drew his sword. His cool proficiency indicated it was a task he had performed before.
‘Wait!’ shouted Michael. ‘You have not killed anyone, Walkelate. It is not too late to turn back.’
‘But I do not want to turn back,’ said Walkelate, grabbing a handful of kindling from the hearth. ‘I have learned a lot from my experiments, and I can make a significant contribution to the alchemical sciences now. And what is more important than the advancement of knowledge?’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Dunning, watching the architect in bemusement.
‘He has killed, Michael,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘He poisoned his helpmeets. You just heard him admit that he hid their bodies in the pond.’
‘It was an accident,’ objected Walkelate, casting an uneasy glance at Bonabes, whose eyes had narrowed. ‘How was I to know that red lead is toxic when heated?’
‘Of course you did,’ said Bartholomew scornfully. ‘It is basic alchemy. You knew exactly what would happen, and you even persuaded Holm to hire singers to drown the sounds of their final agonies. You condemned them to horrible deaths with calculated and ruthless efficiency. And Northwood and the London brothers were men Bonabes was fond of.’
But his effort to cause friction failed: Bonabes was too determined to have his weapons to allow himself to be distracted by the mere murder of friends.