‘He was a dimwit!’ smirked Dickon. ‘He told me what he was going to do, because he thought it would make me sorry. So I told Gille and Elsham to kill the messengers – said I would tell everyone about their thievery otherwise. I took Huntyngdon’s letter from his purse without you seeing, along with a few coins, but Gille could not find Martyn’s.’
‘We have it,’ said Michael, jumping away from the sword and then lashing out with his foot at John. It connected, and the knight swore. ‘And it is all we need to hang you.’
‘We have more than that,’ said Bartholomew, lest Lucy had mentioned to Dickon that the ink had run and was virtually illegible. ‘We have Aynton’s dying testimony.’
‘He never said anything about me,’ stated Dickon. ‘I was there, remember?’
‘You were,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, ‘which is why he chose his words with such care. He said he was responsible for Huntyngdon’s death – he would probably have told me about Martyn, too, but you interrupted – which allowed us to make the connection between him and the missing men.’
‘Well, he was responsible,’ shrugged Dickon. ‘If he had not pestered me about learning to read, I would not have blurted the stuff about Baldok, and he would not have told Huntyngdon and Martyn to deliver his stupid letters.’
‘Then he lowered his voice, hoping you would not hear,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘I thought he whispered litteratus the first time, and non litteratus the second. But he actually said neither. The word he spoke was inlitteratus.’
‘Yes, that might have been it,’ conceded Dickon. ‘So what?’
‘It means ignorant or illiterate.’
‘If he called me names, then I am glad I killed him!’ spat Dickon, jabbing hard with his sword, and missing Bartholomew’s leg by a whisker.
‘But why did Aynton not just tell you what Dickon had done?’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He had nothing to lose at that point.’
‘No, but I did,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Dickon was listening, and Aynton knew that accusing him would put me in danger, too. He did his best to pass a message without Dickon realising, but I did not understand it. Until now.’
He grabbed Michael’s tile and used it to swipe at the sword, knocking it from Dickon’s hand. The boy howled in dismay as it cartwheeled into the black water and disappeared with a splash.
‘You will pay for that!’ he cried, reaching for another. ‘It was my favourite!’
‘You were fortunate with Elsham,’ said Michael, eyeing him with contempt. ‘Ulf and his rabble played their part perfectly, and your stone landed right on top of your victim.’
‘It was a brilliant shot,’ bragged Dickon. ‘No one else could have done it.’
‘It was a poor plan,’ countered John. ‘It left him alive long enough to say things that should have been kept quiet, while Gille escaped altogether.’
Dickon was stung by the criticism, so sought to redeem himself with some warlike posturing. He addressed Bartholomew and Michael.
‘You cannot escape, so surrender and I will kill you quickly. I have a potion that is almost painless. I already gave some to Narboro and Lucy, and they did not suffer much.’
‘You poisoned them?’ gasped Bartholomew, shocked anew.
‘John reminded me that they would be a threat to us as long as they lived. Just like you.’ Dickon turned to the knight. ‘I am tired of all this chattering, and the water is high enough for us to reach the roof now. Are you ready to finish them? Yes? Then charge!’
Chapter 20
Dickon’s howled order marked the start of a furious and sustained assault by John. He exploded upwards, ignoring a blow to the shoulder and a stabbed forearm, and forced the two scholars to scramble away fast. Dickon held back until he was sure there was no risk to himself, then followed, another sword in his hand and his eyes glittering with malice.
‘Stop!’ roared a commanding voice.
Bartholomew whipped around in alarm, thinking Dickon had recruited other soldiers to help him, then sagged in relief when he saw two boats ploughing towards them. Tulyet was in the first with four soldiers, while Brampton and five beadles were crammed into the second.
‘Bartholomew and Michael murdered Aynton,’ shrilled Dickon before anyone else could speak. ‘So me and John are trying to arrest them.’ He pointed accusingly at Brampton. ‘And he beheaded the Mayor and Lyonnes. His sister told us, so it must be true.’
While John was distracted, Michael lashed out with his fist. He caught the side of the knight’s head, causing him to lose his balance. With a howl of shock, John rolled off the roof and landed in the water. He surfaced, gasping, and Tulyet’s men were there to fish him out.
‘None of this was my idea,’ he spluttered, as he was bound hand and foot. ‘It was your hellion son’s. You should not have inflicted him on me, Sheriff. He is a monster!’
Dickon gaped his dismay at the betrayal, but John did not so much as glance at him, and only continued to protest his own innocence.
‘Dickon,’ breathed Tulyet, his voice hoarse with anguish. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing!’ snarled Dickon, gripping his sword in both hands. ‘But I have to kill these two scholars, because if I do not, they will tell lies about me – just like John is doing.’
‘Dickon, no!’ cried Tulyet, ashen-faced. ‘Put up your sword. At once!’
But Dickon ignored him, and went after Bartholomew with murder in his eyes. Bartholomew scrambled away fast.
‘We know him, Matt,’ called Michael urgently. ‘We have his measure. Remember?’
At first, Bartholomew had no idea what the monk was talking about, but then understanding dawned. He stopped trying to escape and turned to face the child, ignoring the exclamations of alarm from those in the boats. Michael was right: they had known Dickon for years, and they did have his measure – he was a bully, eager to hurt the weak, but afraid of anyone who fought back. He feinted with the little blade, smiling when Dickon faltered, sudden fear in his eyes.
‘Well?’ Bartholomew taunted. ‘All I have is a tiny knife, while you have a broadsword. Come on – attack.’
Dickon did not move. ‘It is a trick. You plan to kill me.’
‘How could I?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are a mighty warrior, are you not?’
He lunged again, causing Dickon to squeal his alarm and scuttle away.
‘I do not feel like fighting any more,’ Dickon declared petulantly. ‘Everyone put up their blades, and I will do the same.’
Bartholomew lowered the knife, and, exactly as he had predicted, Dickon charged, weapon raised for a killing blow. He heard Brampton’s howl of warning and Tulyet’s horrified cry, although Dickon’s vengeful scream was louder than both. He skipped neatly to one side, and Dickon’s sword hissed through empty air until it struck the roof, so hard that the boy was forced to drop it.
‘That hurt!’ Dickon cried, rubbing his hand. ‘And you cheated! You–’
He broke off as his father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
‘I have seen and heard enough,’ Tulyet said hoarsely. ‘It is over.’
‘It is not,’ countered Dickon, and twisted around to sink his teeth into Tulyet’s hand.
Tulyet cuffed him around the ear, which, judging by the boy’s screech of shock, was the first time it had ever happened. There was a resounding cheer from everyone else.
It was not over for the town, however, and the situation with the sluices was now critical. Bartholomew and Michael arrived on dry land to find the streets full of people toting belongings on their backs or on carts. The air rang with urgent shouts, church bells tolled the alarm, and terrified animals milled, as their owners frantically tried to drive them to safety.