‘That the “friend” might disturb it if he spoke out,’ recalled Michael. ‘You thought that particular remark referred to Stasy and Hawick, the warlocks.’
‘And what does everyone say of Dickon?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘That he is the Devil’s spawn! It used to be figurative, but these days, folk believe it literally.’
Michael was still not convinced. ‘Then who killed Elsham? Not Dickon, if the man was under his control.’
‘Of course it was Dickon! Such men can never be trusted, and he is not a fool.’
‘But Isnard saw the killer’s arms – he said nothing about them belonging to a child.’
‘Dickon is already bigger than some adults – Clippesby, Aungel and Cynric to name but three. He gave Ulf a hat in exchange for creating a diversion on the bridge, and he shoved the stone down on the boat – unlike the other children, he is strong enough to do it. When I questioned them, I thought it was Ulf who had terrified them into silence, but it was Dickon.’
Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I later cornered them when Ulf was not there, but they still refused to talk. And who was with me at the time? Dickon’s father! Of course they could not reveal who had ordered them to run amok on the bridge! God only knows if Gille is still alive.’
‘But Dickon is a child!’
‘A very dangerous child. And if you need more proof, look at who is with him in the boat – John, released by Dickon from his castle cell.’
Bartholomew recalled the boy’s interaction with the wardens who had let the prisoners escape – he had not been menacing them for giving defiant answers to Tulyet’s questions, but to make sure they did not reveal his role in the affair. He swallowed hard, aware that John probably held him responsible for thwarting the plan to steal the bridge money with Morys, and live the rest of his life in luxury. He would want revenge.
‘I suppose this explains why Dickon failed to find Martyn’s body when he was sent to explore the riverbank,’ whispered Michael. He looked sheepish. ‘Perhaps we should have been suspicious when the beadle I sent to repeat the search complained that Dickon unsettled him by dogging his every step, making it impossible to do his job.’
Bartholomew was disgusted with himself. ‘Yes, we should.’
The boat bobbed closer, John rowing and Dickon kneeling in the bow. They reached Hoo Hall, and Dickon stood. He could just touch the edge of the roof by stretching upwards.
‘Brother Michael,’ he called sweetly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew. Come down. I will not hurt you, I promise. I just want to talk.’ His voice sent a cold shiver down Bartholomew’s spine, and he thought he had never heard anything so wicked.
‘How do we stop them from coming up here after us?’ asked Michael unsteadily. ‘Dickon has a sword, while John is a knight. We cannot defeat them in combat.’
Bartholomew considered quickly. ‘It will not be easy to climb from their boat to the roof – the distance is too great. So, we must prevent them from getting a handhold.’
‘But how? Moreover, the distance between the boat and the roof will not be “too great” if the water keeps rising.’
‘We will face that problem when it comes,’ said Bartholomew, although he knew in his heart that his plan would only postpone the inevitable. He pulled a tiny surgical blade from his scrip. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope they value their fingers.’
Michael prised a tile off the roof. ‘Very well. You cut their hands and I will bruise them. Ready? Because here they come.’
At first, it was fairly easy to fend off Dickon and John. The boy howled when Michael crushed his thumb, while John retreated after Bartholomew stabbed his hand. Then John rowed the boat to the other side of the building, looking for a better place from which to launch an attack. Bartholomew scrambled over the apex, and down the other side, driving the villainous pair away by kicking free two loose tiles that rocketed downwards and nearly decapitated them. They hastily retreated to a safe distance to review their strategy.
‘At least they cannot separate,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew waited tautly for the next assault.
The boat eased forward again, Dickon in the prow. The boy’s face was dark and angry, while John’s was calculating as he assessed the roof for weaknesses.
‘Come down,’ ordered Dickon sullenly, sucking his bruised hand. ‘Or when I catch you, I will chop off your ears and noses before I run you through.’
‘You should not be here, John,’ called Bartholomew, slithering down towards them, ready to stab again. ‘You had a chance to run – you could still take it.’
‘He is not going anywhere until we kill Brampton,’ shouted Dickon. ‘Lucy told us everything – how it was her brother who hit John over the head, and while he lay witless, beheaded Morys.’
‘He would have done the same to me,’ put in John, ‘but I came to my senses before he could start, and he ran away. He let Dickon take the blame for Lyonnes – a man he dispatched himself.’
‘So when we have dealt with you, we will pay Brampton a visit,’ said Dickon. ‘Then we will take all his money and go to France.’
‘Dickon, enough,’ shouted Bartholomew, stamping on the hairy hand that was trying to grab his ankle; John gave a grunt of pain. ‘Brampton is not the culprit – Narboro and Lucy lied to you. Now they are escaping.’
‘No one lies to me,’ declared Dickon. ‘I am a brave and mighty warrior.’
‘Enough of this foolery,’ snapped Michael. ‘Think of your parents. They will–’
‘I do not care about them,’ interrupted Dickon, and smiled at his companion. ‘John understands me much better.’
‘You killed Baldok,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him with chatter while he thought of a way to defeat them. ‘That is where all this started. You pushed him over the bridge. Why? For the money in his purse?’
He glanced up at the sky, wondering how long it would be until daylight, when someone might spot what was happening, and race to their rescue. But it was still pitch black, and he knew dawn would come too late.
‘He called me an ill-mannered brat,’ said Dickon indignantly. ‘Me, a powerful soldier! So I punched him and over he went. If he had stepped to one side to let me pass, like I ordered, none of it would have happened. It is all his fault for being stubborn.’
‘You killed him because he refused to give way to you?’ breathed Michael in disbelief.
‘He should not have challenged me,’ said Dickon, unrepentant. ‘But he was a thief anyway – when I went to look at his body, he had the bridge taxes up his sleeve. John is looking after them for me, and I shall spend them on armour when we reach France.’
Bartholomew glanced at John’s brutish face and wondered if Dickon would live that long. If the knight had any sense, he would dispatch this malevolent and unpredictable imp, and keep everything for himself.
‘What happened then?’ he asked. ‘Did Aynton witness the incident?’
‘No one did,’ said Dickon sullenly. ‘But later on, your Chancellor was nagging me about learning to read, and I accidentally threatened to do to him what I had done to Baldok. I tried to tell him it was a joke, but the stupid man took it as a confession.’
He drew his sword, and suddenly, it was not chubby fingers that were scrabbling at the edge of the roof, but a very sharp blade that swept back and forth. Bartholomew looked around for something to defend himself with, but there was nothing.
‘And as Aynton could not tell your father and your father’s friend what you had admitted,’ he went on, ‘he wrote to Teofle and Narboro–’