The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Bartholomew never fought at Poitiers,’ sneered Bruges. ‘What rubbish you believe! Next you will claim that Sauvage is English, when it is obvious that he is a filthy French—’

  ‘You dare question the origin of another man’s name?’ demanded Norbert, his face hot with indignation. ‘You, who has one that the King of France would be proud to bear?’

  ‘I am Flemish,’ declared Bruges, offended. ‘Only imbeciles cannot tell the difference.’

  ‘How about a wager, Frenchie?’ called Orwel. ‘A groat says that four of us can beat any four of you.’

  ‘A whole groat,’ drawled Bruges caustically, while on the University side, a frantic search was made for Heltisle. ‘I am dizzy with the excitement of winning such a heady sum. How shall we give our best when the stakes are so staggeringly high?’

  ‘So you can pay then?’ called Orwel, not a man to appreciate sarcasm. ‘Good.’

  Unfortunately for the scholars, Heltisle was nowhere to be found, so four King’s Hall men – Bruges, Koln and two local students named Foxlee and Smith – stepped up to the line. They ignored the anxious clamour from the other scholars, who pointed out that while Bruges was a decent shot, the other three were only average, so room should be made for a trio from Valence Marie. Meanwhile, four townsmen were chosen and stood waiting.

  ‘Ready your bows,’ shouted Cynric quickly, when King’s Hall refused to yield and tempers on the University side looked set to fray. ‘Nock! Mark!’

  There was a flurry of activity as all eight participants scrambled to obey.

  ‘Draw! Loose!’

  Thuds followed hisses, and everyone peered down the field. All the targets bristled with arrows, and it was clear that the result would be very close. The eight archers trotted off to inspect them more closely. Meanwhile, someone yelled that one round was not enough, so two more teams were assembling, ready to shoot the moment the targets were clear.

  ‘Which of you will pay the groat?’ demanded Leger triumphantly. ‘Because we won.’

  ‘You cannot know that!’ objected Cynric. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I can see all our arrows clustered together,’ argued Leger. ‘Whereas your bowmen are hunting in the grass for theirs. We did win!’

  ‘Lying scum!’ yelled someone from White Hostel. ‘We won and I will punch anyone who claims otherwise.’

  ‘Come here and say that,’ roared Leger. ‘Now give us the groat or—’

  ‘Ready your bows!’

  Bartholomew was not sure who had called the next archers to order, because the speaker was deep in the shadows. However, it came from the town side, and mischief was in the air, as the first teams were still down at the targets.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Nock! Mark! Draw! Loose!’

  The commands came in a rapid rattle, so authoritatively that eight arrows immediately flew from eight bows. A good part of butts training was conditioning men to follow orders immediately and unquestioningly, so it was no surprise that the second teams had reacted without hesitation. There was a collective hiss, followed by several thuds and a scream.

  ‘Down bows! Down bows!’ howled Cynric frantically, snatching the weapons away before anyone could reload. ‘No one shoot! Down bows!’

  Bartholomew did not wait to hear if it was safe to go. He set off towards the mound at a run, aware of others sprinting at his heels. He aimed for the shrieks.

  He arrived to see that Foxlee had been shot in the leg, while Koln – mercifully unhurt – lay on the ground with his hands over his head, crying for a ceasefire. Others had not been so fortunate. Bruges and Smith from King’s Hall were dead, as was one townsman.

  De Wetherset was among those who had hurried after Bartholomew. He scrambled up the mound, breathing hard, his face a mask of horror. Then Tulyet arrived.

  ‘Christ God!’ the Sheriff swore when he saw the bodies. ‘Who gave the order to shoot?’

  ‘A townsman,’ replied de Wetherset shakily. ‘But I cannot believe he intended anyone to die, as his own side was down here, too. Clearly, it is a prank gone badly wrong.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure. Nor was Koln, now on his feet and shaking with fury.

  ‘Of course the culprit meant there to be bloodshed!’ he yelled. ‘It was brazen murder! Someone will pay for this!’

  ‘Just stop and think,’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘The town would never hurt one of—’

  ‘I want revenge,’ howled Koln. ‘Well, lads? What are you waiting for? Will you allow town scum to dispatch our friends?’

  There was a short silence, then all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  There were moments during the ensuing mêlée when Bartholomew wondered if he was dreaming about Poitiers. He still had nightmares about the battle, and the screams and clash of arms that resounded across the butts were much the same. He yelled himself hoarse calling for a ceasefire, but few heard, and those who did were disinclined to listen.

  ‘Stay with me, boy,’ gasped Cynric, whose face was spattered with someone else’s blood. ‘Back to back, defending each other. You were wise to take the high ground – it will be easier to fight them off from here.’

  Bartholomew knew there was no point in explaining he had not chosen the mound for strategic reasons but because it was where the first victims lay.

  ‘No killing, Cynric,’ he begged. ‘Try to disarm them instead.’

  ‘Right,’ grunted Cynric, as he swung his cutlass at a stave-wielding townsman with all his might. ‘After all, they mean us no harm.’

  ‘Norbert!’ gulped Bartholomew, watching in shock as a lucky thrust by a baying Bene’t student passed clean through the knight’s lower body. ‘I must help—’

  Cynric grabbed his arm before he could start towards the stricken man. ‘You will stick with me if you value your life. And the lives of others – your skills will be needed later.’

  ‘Goodness!’ cried Aynton, stumbling up to them. He carried a bow in his uninjured hand, which he was waving wildly enough to deter anyone from coming too close. His face was white with terror. ‘What do we do? How can we stop it?’

  ‘You cannot,’ gasped Cynric. ‘Now stay behind us. You will be safe there.’

  Bartholomew watched in despair as a phalanx of flailing swords from King’s Hall, led by the enraged Koln, cut a bloody swathe through a contingent of apprentices. Then his attention was caught by a seething mass of townsfolk, all of whom were howling for French blood, and seemed to think it could be found on the mound. None of them believed Aynton’s frightened bleat that he had none to offer, and they surged upwards with murder in their eyes.

  Just when Bartholomew thought his life was over, there came a thunder of hoofs. It was Tulyet on a massive warhorse, next to Michael on Dusty and several mounted knights from the castle. None slowed when they reached the skirmishers, so that anyone who did not want to be trampled was forced to scramble away fast. The riders wheeled their destriers around and drove them through the teeming mass a second time, after which most combatants broke off the fight to concentrate on which way they would have to leap to avoid the deadly hoofs. Tulyet reined in and stood in his stirrups, towering over those around him.

  ‘How dare you break the peace!’ he thundered, his voice surprisingly loud for so slight a man. ‘Is this how you serve your country? By fighting each other? Disarm at once!’

  ‘But we were fighting French scholars,’ shouted a potter, too full of bloodlust to know he should hold his tongue. ‘They are the enemy. We were—’

  ‘Arrest that man,’ bellowed Tulyet, pointing furiously at him.

  Two of his soldiers hurried forward to oblige, much to the potter’s dismay.

  ‘We did not start this,’ shouted Koln, whose face was white with rage in the flickering torchlight. ‘They did – the town scum.’

  ‘You are under arrest, too,’ snarled Michael. ‘See to it, Meadowman.’

  The beadle bundled the startled King’s Hall man away bef
ore he could draw breath to object. Then de Wetherset spoke, begging his scholars to disperse. Most did, although the livid faces of Michael and Tulyet did more to shift them than any of the Chancellor’s nervous entreaties. Soon, all that were left were the dead and wounded.

  ‘Casualties?’ demanded Tulyet in a tight, clipped voice.

  ‘Eight dead,’ replied Bartholomew, not looking up from the miller he was struggling to save. ‘Three scholars and five townsmen. There will be others before morning.’

  ‘Eight,’ breathed Michael, shaking his head in disgust. ‘All lost for nothing.’

  ‘Take the wounded to the Franciscan Friary,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘And spread word that if anyone, other than soldiers or beadles, is out on the streets tonight, he will hang at dawn.’

  ‘Not scholars,’ said de Wetherset hoarsely. ‘You do not have the authority to impose that sort of sanction on us. Tell him, Brother.’

  ‘Then I will impose it,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because he is right – anyone out tonight will be presumed guilty of affray and punished accordingly.’

  Tulyet nodded curt thanks, then hurried away to organise stretchers and bearers, while Michael went to give what comfort he could to the dying – he was not a priest, but had been granted dispensation to give last rites during the plague and had continued the practice since. Bartholomew turned to Cynric, knowing he needed the help of other medici.

  ‘Fetch Rougham and Meryfeld. Then go to Michaelhouse and tell my students to bring bandages, salves, needles and thread.’

  Fleetingly, it occurred to him that when de Wetherset recommended that he stockpile medical supplies, he had not imagined that he would be needing them that very night.

  Cynric nodded briskly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes – go to the Spital and ask Amphelisa for a supply of the strong herbs that she uses for pain. I do not have nearly enough to do what will be necessary this evening.’

  ‘Then thank God Margery found out that the Devil does not live there,’ muttered the book-bearer, crossing himself before kissing a grubby amulet. ‘I would not have been able to go otherwise, as I have no wish to encounter Satan.’

  ‘You already have,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I am sure he was here tonight.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The bells were chiming for the night office by the time Bartholomew and his helpers had carried all the wounded to the Franciscan Priory. Despite their best efforts, another three men died, bringing the death toll to eleven – four scholars and seven townsfolk. Their bodies were taken to the chapel, where the friars recited prayers for their souls.

  Rougham and Meryfeld, physicians who only ever tended paying customers, quickly bagged the wealthy victims, leaving Bartholomew with the rest. This did not bother him, as he had always been more interested in saving lives than making money. However, he was pleasantly surprised to learn that Amphelisa felt the same way – she not only donated her pain-dulling herbs for free, but stayed to help him saw and stitch. She was a constant presence at his side, always ready with what was required and enveloping him in the sweet scent of the distilled oils that had soaked into her burgundy work-robe.

  ‘It is a good thing I sent Eudo and Goda to replenish my stocks today,’ she murmured, helping Foxlee to sip a poppy juice cordial. ‘Or we would have run out by now.’

  ‘For Hélène.’ Bartholomew spoke absently, because he was removing the arrowhead from Foxlee’s leg, and it was perilously close to an artery. ‘To help her sleep.’

  Amphelisa shot him a startled look. ‘Hélène will have camomile and honey. I am not in the habit of dosing small children with henbane and mandrake.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at her. ‘Then why did Eudo and Goda tell me—’

  ‘I cannot control what they say when I am not there to correct them,’ she interrupted shortly. ‘Goda is a fey soul who probably misheard, while Eudo is slow in the wits.’

  ‘He is not too stupid to convince the town’s favourite witch that he was Satan.’

  Amphelisa scowled. ‘That was your fault! Until then, we had kept the curious away by jigging bits of gauze around on twine. But did you run away screaming? Oh, no! You had to poke about in the bushes for evidence of trickery. We had to devise another ruse, and claiming that Satan had moved in was the best we could manage in a hurry.’

  ‘What will you do now that Margery is telling everyone the truth? Ask for your money back? I understand that “Satan” paid a handsome fee to ensure her cooperation.’

  ‘It no longer matters, because the peregrini have gone,’ said Amphelisa. ‘Someone started a rumour about French spies, so they decided to leave at once.’

  ‘All of them? Delacroix was ill the last I heard.’

  ‘I gave him nettle root to stop his bowels, and he was first through the gate.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Then I started a tale of my own – that our patients went to London for specialist treatment. London is south, but the peregrini went north, so if anyone gives chase . . .’

  ‘So the Spital no longer has “inmates”?’

  ‘None, and anyone may come to check our hall. Indeed, I hope they do. Then they will see it is a good place, and will give us some real lunatics to look after.’

  ‘And you need fee-paying patients,’ said Bartholomew, dropping the arrowhead into a basin, and pressing a clean cloth to the wound.

  ‘How do you . . .’ She trailed off, then shook her head in disgust. ‘Mallett! I thought I saw him sneaking about with one of the nuns, and he is your pupil. He told you!’

  Bartholomew glanced to where Mallett was arguing with two tailors over payment for services rendered. He had no doubt that the student would win. He turned back to his own patient. Foxlee barely flinched as he began to sew, which was testament to Amphelisa’s skill – she had administered enough medicine to blunt the pain, but not enough to send their patient into too deep a sleep.

  ‘If Eudo and your husband were pretending to be denizens of Hell when the Girards were murdered, we can cross them off our list of suspects,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes on his stitching. ‘While the rest of the staff have alibis in each other . . .’

  ‘But I was alone,’ finished Amphelisa, guessing exactly where he was heading. ‘I am not your culprit, though. I was the one who offered them sanctuary.’

  Tulyet had said the same, Bartholomew recalled, and had claimed that she would not have taken such loving care of Hélène if she had murdered the girl’s family. He said nothing, and Amphelisa grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.

  ‘Henry and I founded the Spital – a place of comfort and healing – because we wanted to do some good, as well as to make amends for the wrongs of the past. Do you really think we would undo all that by committing murder?’

  It was a good point, but hardly the time to discuss it. Bartholomew left her to bandage Foxlee’s leg and moved to his next patient, who had suffered a serious gash across the chest. After that there were more wounds to clean and sew shut, so many that he began to wonder if anyone had escaped the mêlée unscathed. He finished eventually and slumped on a bench, flexing shoulders that were cramped from bending. By then, all his helpmeets had gone except two of his senior students.

  ‘Go home now,’ he told them tiredly. ‘You did well tonight.’

  ‘No, you go home sir,’ said Mallett, whose purse looked a lot fuller than it had been before the skirmish. ‘It will be light in a couple of hours, at which point you will have to examine this lot again. So snatch a bit of sleep, while Islaye and I mind things here.’

  ‘Everyone is resting peacefully now anyway,’ put in Islaye, who had wept every time a patient had died, and had been unable to look at some of the wounds Bartholomew had been obliged to repair. ‘Except Norbert, who is in too much pain.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ muttered Mallett, who had not uttered a word of comfort to anyone. ‘He called me a Frenchman yesterday.’

  Bartholomew was too exhausted to point out that such an ‘insult’ hardly warranted
being fatally stabbed through the bowels. He went to tend Norbert himself, thinking that neither student was suitable company for a man on the verge of death. The knight opened pain-filled eyes as Bartholomew knelt next to his pallet.

  ‘Give me medicine to ease the agony,’ he whispered. ‘And stay with me awhile.’

  Bartholomew set about preparing a potion so strong that Norbert would be unlikely to wake once he had swallowed it. It would not kill him – the wound would – but Norbert would sleep until he breathed his last. He cradled the dark, greasy head in his arm, and helped him drink until every drop was gone. Norbert lay back, his face sheened in sweat.

  ‘And now I shall confess my crimes.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to rise. ‘You need a priest.’

  Norbert gripped his arm. ‘I said crimes, not sins. The Franciscans have already given me absolution, so I do not fear for my soul. But I want to tell you what happened tonight, because it was me who called the order to ready bows. However, I did not call the order to shoot.’

  Bartholomew reflected on what he could remember of the sequence of events. ‘Yes – the voice of whoever shouted the first order was different from whoever bellowed the second. But both came from the town’s side of the butts.’

  ‘It was someone behind me. I looked around, but it was too dark to see, and there were so many people . . . It was some fool mouthing off without considering the consequences.’

  ‘Even fools know that if you shoot at people you might hit them.’

  Norbert winced. ‘I wanted to give those arrogant King’s Hall bastards a fright by making them think they were about to be shot. I never meant for it to actually happen.’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what to think. ‘Sleep is not far off now.’

  ‘I have not finished. You should also be aware that the Spital’s secret is out. By morning, everyone will know the place is full of Frenchmen. A nun told me last Monday.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Which nun?’