‘But why did the King bother with you at all?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Michael is a good and loyal agent, and the University is under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely, not the Archbishop of York. Michael would have been well placed to expose Harling.’
Langelee shrugged. ‘When I was first given this mission, the identity of the mastermind behind all this was not known. It was better that an outsider looked into it. In fact, it was what Dame Pelagia recommended in the report that Thorpe carried to York – she suspected that the scholar she overheard plotting with the Abbess was a high-ranking University official, and considered it prudent to charge some stranger with the task of unveiling him.’
Bartholomew regarded the elderly nun with a new respect. No wonder spying and subterfuge were so deeply ingrained in Michael – not only was it in his blood, but he had probably been given some expert tuition. Bartholomew felt uncomfortable when he thought of how he had inflicted such a wily old character on Matilde and hoped his friend had not learned any bad habits.
Dame Pelagia looked as serene and unruffled as she had been when she had pretended to be asleep so she could overhear what the silly Julianna had to say. He studied her intently, watching the secretive glint in her green eyes, and suddenly felt sorry for the likes of Edward Mortimer and the lay sister for attempting to take on such a formidable opponent. She saw him staring at her and gazed back so that he felt as though she were reading his very soul. She gave him the slightest of smiles before allowing Michael to lead her back to the causeway.
‘Well, that is that,’ said Michael late the following afternoon, stretching his long, fat legs in front of the fire and selfishly stealing the warmth from Cynric. Cynric sighed and moved his stool to the other side of the hearth. Bartholomew sat between them, leaning forward with his arms on his knees and staring into the flames.
Agatha brought another plate of the cakes with the strange, crunchy texture, and Michael began to wolf them down. Bartholomew bit one cautiously, and realised it was pomegranate seeds that lent the cakes their peculiar taste and grittiness. Since Michael seldom chewed anything, the disconcerting cracking as the seeds splintered under the teeth did not deter him from eating them as it did most of the other scholars.
They were sitting in the conclave, the small, pleasant room off the hall in Michaelhouse. The weather had turned from wet to cold, and Master Kenyngham had at last given permission for fires to be lit nightly. The Fellows were in the conclave and the students were in the hall, singing some disgraceful song that had Father William pursing his lips in prim disapproval. He would have gone to silence them, but Langelee was relating the story of Harling and his monumental wickedness to Master and Fellows, and William was reluctant to miss out on such rare entertainment.
Bartholomew listened to the philosopher with half an ear, but, with the exception of some vivid details that seemed to have more to do with amusing his audience than truth, Langelee said nothing Bartholomew did not already know. Michael watched the philosopher and his increasingly sceptical audience, his baggy green eyes alive with sardonic relish, and Bartholomew was reminded of his terrifying grandmother.
‘We are heroes,’ said the monk drily. ‘Or, rather, Langelee is and we played a minor role in defeating one of the most evil minds the world has yet known. But it is all over, so there is no need for you to look so glum. You were even back in Cambridge in time to give your lecture at King’s Hall.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘But not early enough to change. I gave the best and most inspired lecture of my life, and all the audience could do was stare at the state of my tabard. What a waste!’
Michael chuckled. ‘I shall remember that the next time I am asked to speak on metaphysics. You know how I hate that subject! I shall roll around on the river bank so that my appearance distracts the class from my words, and I will be able to tell them anything I like. Have another cake, Matt. You look as though you need a little feeding up. Just like me.’
Bartholomew flexed his aching shoulders and took one of the cakes, wondering why he and Michael felt so battered by their experiences, but why Dame Pelagia had not seemed affected in the slightest. When they had arrived, exhausted, back in the town, the old lady announced pertly that she was going to visit Matilde, and asked Bartholomew to escort her. Warily, he accompanied her through the streets, certain that she would have been a good deal more effective at repelling cutpurses and thieves than he could ever hope to be, and found Matilde waiting in a state of high agitation.
‘At last!’ she cried, flinging herself into his arms. ‘I have been worried to death!’
‘Dame Pelagia is well following her unpleasant experience in the marshes,’ he said formally, startled by the intensity of her reaction. ‘Although we bungled our attempt to rescue her.’
Matilde waved her hand in dismissal, still with one arm looped around his neck. ‘Pelagia knows how to look after herself. It was you I was worried about.’
After Dame Pelagia had related their story in clear and unembellished phrases – so free of exaggeration that Bartholomew later wondered whether she and Langelee had even shared the same adventure – and Matilde had satisfied herself that he was unharmed, Bartholomew had taken the old lady to the Chancellor’s lodgings. Tulyet was to escort her back to the peace of Denny Abbey after a few days’ rest, when he would take the opportunity to arrest the Abbess for her role in smuggling the stolen treasure. Edward had confessed his part in the affair in a wailing voice all the way back to the town and, once again, Bartholomew wondered what Dame Pelagia had done or said to induce his almost frantic desire to confess.
Absently he took a bite out of the cake, and the loud crack of a seed between his teeth wrenched his thoughts back to the present.
‘So Denny Abbey provided a storage place for Harling’s treasure,’ Michael was saying. ‘It was a perfect choice. Who would have thought of looking for stolen treasure in the cellars of a nunnery?’
‘Who would have thought of looking for treasure at all is more to the point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If your grandmother had not overheard Harling’s conversation with the Abbess that prompted the King to place Langelee undercover here, we might never have guessed what the Vice-Chancellor was doing. We still would have been looking for pedlars of pomegranates and figs.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael, somewhat indignantly. ‘Do not try to give Langelee more credit than he deserves. You started to unravel the mystery when Harling tried to throw you in the mill race, and we both guessed about the treasure when we put all the clues – my new cross, the chalices at Valence Marie and the gold cake-plate at Denny Abbey – together. Neither Harling nor Langelee told us about that – we worked it out on our own.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It all happened so quickly, though. We had too little time to discuss it. We should have spent less time charging around and more time thinking.’
Michael gave him a playful poke with his foot. ‘Enjoy your victory, and do not dwell on what might have been,’ he preached. ‘As far as King and Bishop are concerned, it is another job well done on our part.’ He looked distastefully to where Langelee still entertained the Fellows with his tale of daring and danger, the exploits becoming increasingly outrageous as the level of wine in his goblet fell, and sniffed. ‘It is a pity Langelee was not implicated in all this. I still do not like him.’
‘He is going to ask the Archbishop to release him from his service so that he can stay here to teach philosophy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He finds a scholar’s life exciting compared to that of a mere agent. Perhaps we should exchange posts. I have had enough of spies and intrigue.’
‘You always say that,’ said Michael.
As they had been speaking, the volume of the students’ singing had been gradually rising, and Bartholomew saw that Alcote and Father William would not countenance their vulgarity much longer. He left his fireside stool and went to warn them to keep the noise down. Gray stood on the high table with a rug shoved up his tabard and a piece of rolled up parchment in his hand, leading his friends in a grotesque parody of Michael conducting his choir. Bartholomew hid his amusement and watched Gray jump from the table somewhat sheepishly.
‘He looks just like Brother Michael, do you not think?’ piped Deynman, brightly. The other students groaned and Gray gave him a withering look. Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward and went back to the conclave, closing the door behind him.
‘Langelee has just offered us a repeat performance of his adventures in the Fens,’ said Michael with a grin, watching the burly philosopher taking a break from his labours as he crammed one of Agatha’s cakes into his mouth.
‘What, again?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘He has only just finished enthralling us the first time.’
