how bitter the competition between merchants could be. Even though Deschalers was a grocer, Mortimer a baker, Cheney a spice-dealer and Stanmore a clothier, they were still rivals in the hard world of commerce. They fought over use of the river wharves, the size of their stalls in the Market Square and even their relative positions in the ceremonial processions through the town. Their dealings with each other appeared cordial enough, but in fact they watched each other like predators, waiting for signs of weakness. Deschalers and Cheney seemed to have taken young Edward Mortimer under their wings, but Bartholomew was certain it was not for altruistic reasons – they were probably already looking ahead to the day when Edward inherited his father’s business, and were securing their influence over him for the future.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ asked Michael, pouring the last of the wine into his cup. ‘I know the day is wearing on, and we have already taken up too much of your time, but I would appreciate any more information about this smuggling you might have.’
Stanmore frowned. ‘I really have little more to share with you, Brother. I am certain this has been a good year for smuggling. In the summer, the waterways teem with legally loaded vessels and the long hours of daylight make secret voyages difficult. In the winter, trading usually stops when the Fen waterways become frozen. But this year, the heavy rains have not only kept the ice away, but have provided deep water and more channels for the smugglers’ crafts. They have doubtless become more brazen because business is good and profits have been high – hence Deschalers’s lemons wherever you look.’
‘But why should these smugglers want to kill Michael and me?’ asked Bartholomew, shaking his head as Michael offered him the last piece of bread. ‘We had no idea that any of this went on until we arrived at Denny Abbey.’
‘You would know the answer to that better than I,’ said Stanmore. ‘It must be something to do with that poisoned wine you were investigating before you left. I suppose it is possible that the brew which caused all those deaths was smuggled through the Fens.’
‘It must have been,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Some rascal named Sacks was selling it in the Brazen George and, according to Matt’s students, Sacks seldom comes by anything honestly.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Stanmore. ‘In the wine lies the solution to all this. Discover more about that, and you will know who is prepared to kill you, rather than risk letting you make your inquiries.’
‘I do not care about smuggling and tax evasion,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I only want to make certain no more of this deadly claret is sold to our scholars.’
Stanmore picked up his cup, but then set it back on the table without drinking. ‘Do you think someone is trying to foul University–town relations? It would be an easy matter to sell tainted goods to scholars and make them think someone in the town was trying to kill them. I hope that is not the case – it would be devastating for commerce!’
‘I understand that trade is very good for most merchants at the moment, which is unusual for winter,’ said Michael conversationally.
Stanmore agreed. ‘The cloth trade is an exception – it is always better in the winter than in the summer because people need warm clothes in the colder months. Unfortunately for me, the open waterways mean that there are fewer travellers on the roads, and so my goods are more vulnerable. Two of my carts have been attacked on their way from London within the last month. The Sheriff is out daily looking for these outlaws, and I have had to place my merchandise under an armed escort.’
Bartholomew glanced at him guiltily, thinking that he would be two guards short following the loss of Egil and Jurnet.
Stanmore read his thoughts and patted his hand. ‘I do not blame you for their deaths, Matt. Egil came looking for work last autumn. He was an adequate guard, but hated life in the town. When I needed him here, he pleased himself whether he would come, and might spend the day fishing in the Fens if the mood took him. I was on the verge of dismissing him. And Jurnet has been with me only since Christmas. I needed a strong arm, and he served his purpose, but he was a lout. He bullied my apprentices, and I suspect his wife had good reason for not leaving her house in Ely to live with him here. I am sorry they are dead, and will help their families if I can, but I am not surprised either came to a violent end.’
That Stanmore did not like the men who had died was of small comfort to Bartholomew. He stood to leave. ‘I am sorry anyway. And next time I will pay more attention to my friends’ misgivings.’
‘In that case, Matt, heed this. The attack on you sounded well organised and elaborate. It is not cheap to hire men to commit murder. Either drop this poisoned wine business, or solve it quickly, because men who have organised one such ambush will easily be able to arrange another.’
Bartholomew did not need to be reminded. He gave his brother-in-law a weak smile and looked around for his cloak, before he realised he no longer had one. He picked up his gloves from where they had been drying near the fire and pulled them on.
‘Those are fine gloves,’ said Stanmore, regarding them with the eye of a professional. ‘Who gave them to you? I am sure you did not pay for them while there are still books in the world to be bought.’
‘Constantine Mortimer,’ replied Bartholomew, leaning down to retrieve his medicines bag from the floor. ‘Actually, he wanted to sell them to me, but his wife said they would compensate me for missing the installation.’
‘Then Mortimer must have felt wretched indeed,’ said Stanmore. ‘He rules that poor woman with a fist of iron and does not usually take heed of her suggestions. But how did he come to have such things to sell anyway? He is a baker not a glover.’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, uninterested. ‘I have not given it much thought.’
‘If I were you,’ said Stanmore, watching him stretch stiff limbs, ‘I would leave Cambridge until all this has died down. Come to Trumpington. Edith would love you to stay with her, and you know we will both fret over you until all this is resolved and you are safe again.’
‘They would find him,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The more I learn about these men, the more I fear them. The only way we will be safe from another attack is to catch them and hand them to the Sheriff.’
They left Stanmore to arrange for his steward to fetch Egil’s body, and collected Dame Pelagia from Deschalers’s house. She had borrowed a dark blue cloak from Julianna and removed part of her veil, so that she looked like any anonymous old crone and not a nun. Bartholomew was impressed that she had thought to disguise herself on the way to her hiding place, but then remembered that she was Michael’s grandmother and an agent of the Bishop. He glanced down at her and she gave him a beneficent smile, which made her look sweet and gentle. But when the smile faded and he looked at her again, he saw her hard green eyes taking in every detail as they walked and, although her progress was slow, there was nothing shaky or frail about her movements. Michael was walking awkwardly, stiff after his long walk, but Dame Pelagia showed no such weakness.
Bartholomew led the way up the High Street towards the area known as The Jewry, which had been the domain of Jewish merchants until their expulsion from England in 1290. It was here that Matilde had her small, neat house. Michael realised where they were heading in an instant, and rubbed his hands together in glee.
‘Excellent, Matt! Who would ever think that we would secrete an elderly nun in the house of the town’s most exclusive prostitute?’
‘No one, I hope,’ said Bartholomew, casting an anxious glance at the old lady. He was already beginning to have second thoughts. ‘Perhaps this is not such a good idea.’
‘Nonsense. It is a superb idea. She will have the time of her life.’
‘Who? Matilde or your grandmother?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at the door hesitantly.
Before Michael could answer, the door was opened and Matilde stood smiling at them. To Bartholomew, she was one of the most attractive women in Cambridge, with long silky hair that almost reached her knees, and bright blue eyes. Known as ‘Lady’ Matilde for her fine manners and literacy, she and Bartholomew had struck up an unlikely friendship that was proving increasingly valuable to both of them.
‘Have you come to barter for my services?’ she asked pertly, continuing the ongoing battle in which she and Michael attempted to embarrass each other. To her great astonishment, she succeeded, and he blushed and studied his feet in abashed silence. Matilde looked at Bartholomew with a startled grin.
‘This is Dame Pelagia from Denny Abbey,’ said Bartholomew, hiding his amusement, and gesturing to the elderly nun. ‘She is Brother Michael’s grandmother and needs somewhere to stay for a few days.’
For the first time since he had known her, Matilde was at a loss for words.
‘We wondered whether we might impose on your generosity for a brief while,’ Bartholomew continued, still
