‘I cannot–’
‘Again,’ ordered Tulyet.
Dickon vanished a second time, and everyone peered down to watch him squeeze himself through the opening that held the turning mechanism. To their surprise, he surfaced a few moments later with a delighted grin.
‘It was easy!’ he crowed, before it occurred to him that it was a mistake to downplay his achievement. ‘Although it required great skill and courage, of course.’
While Bartholomew hauled Dickon out of the water, Zoone grabbed the spindle end, and worked quickly to secure it to the winch with a complex system of ropes and tackle. When he was satisfied, he called to William:
‘Try turning it. Gently now.’
William obliged, and there was an immediate explosion of bubbles from the other side of the dam, as the gate opened a crack. The onlookers broke into a spontaneous cheer, although Zoone continued to watch intently, calling warnings to William when he felt the friar was working too fast. Soon, even Bartholomew could see that the water in the Mill Pond had stopped rising.
‘I did it!’ yelled Dickon victoriously. ‘I am a hero! I saved the town.’
‘We need to do the same to the East Dam,’ said Zoone. ‘Bring the winch and another handle. Quickly now!’
Pleased with himself, Dickon trotted towards it almost eagerly. He slid into the water without being told, but surfaced a few moments later shaking his head. Tulyet started to order him to try again, but Dickon had dived before he could finish.
The second time, he was gone for much longer, and when he reappeared – some distance away – he was smirking. Everyone understood why when he waved the rope he had untied from around his waist. Furious, Tulyet stepped forward to leap in after him, but Bartholomew grabbed his arm.
‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘You can catch him later.’
‘You never will,’ taunted Dickon. ‘I shall escape, and you can all go to the Devil!’
And with that, he kicked out with his strong legs, swimming into the darkness and laughing in delight at the dismayed expressions on the faces of those he left behind.
‘Now what?’ whispered Tulyet, shocked that his son had bested him with such consummate ease. ‘Who else can we send to–’
‘No one,’ interrupted Zoone, peering down at the water. ‘Luckily, what we have done already is enough to let us control the flow. It will just take longer than it would with three operational sluices.’
‘So we are safe?’ asked William, and when the engineer nodded, he embraced him in a victorious hug. ‘And the rain has stopped, too! We have averted disaster.’
‘Then I had better go to St Mary the Great to announce the end of term and the name of Aynton’s killer,’ said Michael, then grinned. ‘Not to mention the good news concerning the Province of Canterbury. Our scholars will go home with a song in their hearts.’
But Tulyet and Bartholomew were staring at the tiny splashes of white that showed where Dickon was still making his escape. They watched them until he vanished from sight.
Epilogue
Bartholomew and Matilde were married in St Michael’s Church the day after the end of term. Father William and Clippesby performed the ceremony, while Michael gave a sermon that was both touching and amusing. Afterwards, so many people wanted to join the happy couple that Matilde’s house proved to be far too small, so the celebratory feast was held in Michaelhouse instead. All Bartholomew’s students had stayed on to wish him well, while the Marian Singers had been secretly practising for weeks. The rumpus could be heard from as far away as the castle, but no one complained.
Bartholomew was glad the Tulyets were among the guests: they were pale and strained, but also lighter-hearted, as if a great burden had been lifted from them. He feared Tulyet’s bitten hand might fester, but it was still clean and pink, so he was hoping for the best. Tulyet would carry the scar for the rest of his days, although it was nothing compared to the one that Dickon had inflicted on his heart.
Tulyet had sent patrols to hunt for the boy as soon as it was light, but none of his soldiers much liked the idea of being the one to catch the brat, so their searches were not as assiduous as they had led him to believe. When the last one returned empty-handed, he resigned as Sheriff.
‘That will be a blow to you, Brother,’ yelled Bartholomew, shouting to make himself heard over the choir’s deafening rendition of ‘Summer is a-coming in’. ‘You always say that no other royally appointed official will be as easy to work with as him.’
‘And I am right,’ Michael hollered back. ‘But I have written letters to several powerful acquaintances, and I am confident that Brampton will be appointed in his place.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Brampton? He could barely function as Senior Proctor. I cannot imagine him running an entire shire.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael smugly. ‘He will require advice, and has promised to come to me for it. Besides, while he may be feeble at keeping law and order, he is excellent at administration. The King’s taxes will always be delivered on time, which is enough to keep us away from unwanted royal scrutiny.’
Bartholomew shook his head in grudging admiration. ‘You do not need an abbacy or a bishopric now, Brother. You are Chancellor of a University that will reap students from all over the Province of Canterbury, and you will have a Sheriff under your control. Your authority extends over half the country!’
Michael smiled comfortably. ‘Hardly half, Matt, but enough. I shall not have to worry about the Great Bridge either, as Zoone informs me that Shardelowe’s creation will last for years. And the money Baldok stole – which Dickon gave to John to look after – was used to pay the builders the bonus they were promised, so everyone is happy.’
‘Stasy and Hawick are not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were found dead in their cell yesterday morning. They had died by poison.’
Michael blinked. ‘They killed themselves to avoid answering for their crimes?’
‘Dickon did it. After they were arrested on Friday, he visited their cell and made them an offer: he would help them escape in exchange for a bottle of poison. You see, even then, he guessed he would need to kill more people to protect himself …’
‘And God forbid that he should do it in a fair fight,’ muttered Michael in distaste.
‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poison: the coward’s weapon. Anyway, they agreed, and told him where to find some in their dispensary.’
‘Which he then used on Narboro and Lucy,’ surmised Michael. ‘At least, that is what he claimed, although there is no sign of their bodies.’
‘Then he visited Stasy and Hawick a second time, and took them some wine. Not long after finishing it, they realised they had been treated to a dose of their own medicine.’
‘But why?’ asked Michael, frowning. ‘They had done nothing to hurt him.’
‘I imagine he wanted to make sure they never told anyone about the poison. Or perhaps to spare him the bother of organising an escape. Regardless, they managed to gasp a confession to the gaoler before they died.’
‘And I only find out about this now?’ asked Michael, unimpressed.
‘The gaoler tried to tell someone, but you were too busy with all the end-of-term formalities, while Dick has been working to put all to rights after the flood. He told me that Stasy and Hawick recanted their witchery in the end, and asked for a priest.’
‘Folk will claim they died because of Margery Starre’s curse.’ Michael was obliged to yell again as the choir reached an unexpected crescendo. ‘I should be sorry, but their antics nearly killed Meadowman and made dozens of people ill – all to make themselves rich. They would have done it again, in another town, if Dickon had let them out.’