Michael gaped at him in disbelief. ‘They did what?’
‘I had to lie – tell them that it is out of commission due to a smoking chimney. Yet it is rash for me to make enemies of such powerful men – they could break me by deciding to drink here, as my other regulars would leave.’
‘Do not worry, Lister,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘They will never harm you or your business. I promise.’
Lister smiled wanly. ‘Thank you, Brother. Of course, it will be irrelevant if the town erupts into violence again. The streets felt more dangerous today than they have ever done.’
The moment Lister had gone, Michael embarked on a furious tirade. ‘How dare they! This is my refuge. I do not care about my office in St Mary the Great, but to invade a man’s tavern . . . I will not share it with de Wetherset and Heltisle!’
‘They do not want to share it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They want it all for themselves. It is another attempt to weaken you.’
‘Well, they will never interfere with the important business of victuals,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will not permit it. But there is the linkman calling the hour. It is time to meet Orwel.’
They trooped outside. Tulyet took up station near the back gate, which he said was the one Orwel would use, while Bartholomew was allocated the door at the side. Michael went to stand in the middle of the yard. It was very dark, and Bartholomew was just wondering how he would be able to help should there be trouble, when Michael gave a sharp cry.
‘What the— Help! There is a body!’
Bartholomew darted forward, but collided heavily with someone coming the other way. At first he thought it was Tulyet, but something caught him a glancing blow – aimed at his head but hitting his shoulder. He lunged blindly and grabbed a wrist, yelling for Tulyet. The arm was ripped free and he heard the side door open and slam shut again. Tulyet blundered past, fumbling for the latch in the dark. Then he was gone, too.
The commotion alerted Lister, who arrived with a lamp. It illuminated Michael crouching next to someone on the ground. Bartholomew hurried towards them.
‘It is Orwel,’ said Michael, rolling the body over to look at its face. ‘Is he dead?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Struck on the head – just like Wyse. Only this time the blow was powerful enough to kill him outright.’
They looked up as Tulyet arrived empty-handed, his face a mask of anger and frustration.
‘Who was it?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see?’
‘It was too dark,’ replied Bartholomew, and grimaced. ‘But I think we have just let Wyse’s killer slip through our fingers.’
‘I would keep that quiet, if I were you,’ advised Lister. ‘Or the town will lynch you.’
CHAPTER 12
The next day was Sunday, when bells all over the town rang to advertise their morning services. Scholars in academic or priestly robes hurried to and from their Colleges and hostels, while townsfolk donned their best clothes – if they had any – and stood in naves to listen to the sacred words that were sang, mumbled or bellowed, depending on the preference of the presiding priest.
Bartholomew had been summoned before dawn to tend one of the wounded at the Franciscan Priory. When he had finished, he went to St Edward’s, where Orwel’s body had been taken. This church celebrated Mass later than everyone else, so was empty, other than its ancient vicar, who was fast asleep on a tomb.
Bartholomew examined Orwel carefully, this time without the distraction of Michael and Tulyet clamouring questions at him. But there was no more to be learned in the cold light of day than there had been the previous night: Orwel had been struck, very hard, with a stone. Assailed by the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched – something he often experienced when he examined corpses on his own – Bartholomew put all back as he had found it, and hurried out into the warm spring sunshine with relief.
As he walked along the high street, he saw the Marian Singers assembling outside St Mary the Great, ready to bawl the Jubilate they had been practising. As Michael was late, Isnard assumed command, assisted by Sauvage. At first, the still-hoarse bargeman tried to impose order by whispering, and when that did not work, told Sauvage to relay his orders in a bellow. When he was satisfied with the way they looked, Isnard began to lead the choir inside – only to find his way barred by Aynton and some of Heltisle’s Horde.
‘Not today, Isnard,’ said Aynton apologetically. ‘Vice-Chancellor Heltisle is conducting the service, and he has opted for a spoken Mass – one without musical interludes.’
‘There is no music involved with the Michaelhouse Choir,’ quipped one of the Horde, a rough, gap-toothed individual whose name was Perkyn. ‘Just a lot of tuneless hollering. Master Heltisle plans to disband them soon, on the grounds that they bring the University into disrepute.’
‘The Michaelhouse Choir no longer exists,’ croaked Isnard loftily. ‘We are the Marian Singers. Moreover, we have nothing to do with the University, for which we thank God, because we would not want to belong to an organisation that is full of Frenchmen.’
‘And none of us is foreign,’ declared Pierre Sauvage. ‘Unlike you lot – we know you turned a blind eye when all them French spies escaped from the Spital.’
‘What are you saying, Sauvage?’ sneered Perkyn, giving the name a distinctly foreign inflection. ‘That we should have made war on women and children?’
‘The French do,’ stated Isnard. ‘They slaughtered them by the hundred in Winchelsea. Besides, unless you hate the whole race, it means you love them all, and you are therefore a traitor. Chancellor Suttone said so in a sermon.’
Bartholomew was sure Suttone had said nothing of the kind – the ex-Chancellor had had his flaws, but making that sort of remark was certainly not among them.
‘Suttone!’ spat Perkyn. ‘A rogue from Michaelhouse, who left Cambridge not because he was afraid of the plague, but because he wanted to get married.’
There was a startled silence.
‘You are mistaken, Perkyn,’ said Aynton, the first to find his voice. ‘Suttone is a Carmelite, a priest who has sworn vows of celibacy.’
‘He ran off with a woman,’ repeated Perkyn firmly. ‘I was there when de Wetherset and Heltisle discussed it.’
‘They would never have held such a conversation in front of you,’ said Aynton sternly. ‘Not that Suttone is guilty of such a charge, of course.’
Perkyn glared at him. ‘I was listening from behind a pillar, if you must know. They tried to keep their voices low, but I have good ears. And I am happy to spread the tale around, because I hate Michaelhouse – it is full of lunatics, lechers and fanatics.’
‘Not lechers,’ objected Isnard, which Bartholomew supposed was loyalty of sorts.
‘You cannot keep us out, Perkyn,’ said Sauvage, aware that he might not get his free victuals if the choir failed to fulfil its obligations. ‘St Mary the Great belongs to everyone.’
‘It is the University Church,’ argued Perkyn. ‘Not yours. Now piss off.’
‘It will not be the University’s for much longer,’ rasped Isnard. ‘It was ours before you lot came along and stole it, and the only reason we have not kicked you out before is because Brother Michael works here. However, now de Wetherset has ousted him, we are free to eject your scrawny arses any time we please.’
‘De Wetherset did not oust Michael,’ squawked Aynton, cowering as the choir surged forward threateningly. ‘They agreed to exchange rooms.’
Bartholomew could bear it no longer, so went to intervene. He was too late. Isnard shoved past the Commissary, and entered the church with the rest of the Marian Singers streaming at his heels. Aynton followed like a demented sheepdog, frantically struggling to herd them in the opposite direction.
Inside, Heltisle had already started the office, confidently assuming that Aynton was equal to excluding those he had decided to bar. He faltered when he heard the patter of many feet on the stone floor.
Moments later, a terrific noise filled the bui
lding – the Marian Singers had decided to perform anyway, regardless of the fact that they had no conductor. They plunged into the Jubilate, gaining confidence and volume with every note. Bartholomew put his hands over his ears, and imagined Heltisle was doing the same. Certainly, the Mass could not continue, because the president would be unable to make himself heard.
The music reached a crescendo, after which there was a sudden, blessed silence. Delighted by their achievement, Isnard indicated that the singers were to go for an encore. After three more turns, he declared that they had done their duty, and led the way outside. When they had gone, Michael stepped out of the shadows by the door.
‘Do not tell me you were there all along,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael grinned. ‘Just long enough to know that my choristers did themselves proud today, and annoyed Heltisle into the bargain.’
As it was Sunday, teaching was forbidden, but few masters were so reckless as to leave a lot of lively young men with nothing to do, so it was a Michaelhouse tradition that the Fellows took it in turns to organise some entertainment. Bartholomew usually opted for a light-hearted disputation, followed by games in the orchard or riddle-solving in the hall. Clippesby invariably contrived an activity that would benefit his animal friends – painting the henhouse or playing with dogs – while William always chose something of a religious nature.
That week, it was Theophilis’s turn, and his idea of fun was a debate on the nominalism–realism controversy, followed by him intoning excerpts from his Calendarium – the list of texts that were to be read out at specific times over the Church year.
‘Goodness!’ breathed Michael, unimpressed. ‘He will set them at each other’s throats in the first half, and send them to sleep in the second.’
‘Perhaps he wants them to quarrel, so he can tell everyone that we have a Master who cannot keep order in his own house,’ suggested Bartholomew.
Michael made a moue of irritation. ‘Hardly! He is in charge today, so if there are any unseemly incidents, the blame will be laid at his door, not mine.’
But Bartholomew looked at the Junior Proctor’s artful, self-satisfied face, and knew he had chosen to air a contentious subject for devious reasons of his own. He realised he would have to stay vigilant if he wanted to nip any trouble in the bud. Unfortunately, Michael had other ideas.
‘I need you with me today, Matt. I feel responsible for Orwel’s death, given that he was trying to talk to me when he was murdered. It seems likely that a scholar killed Wyse, and as Wyse and Orwel were both brained with a stone . . . well, we must catch the culprit as quickly as possible to appease the town. Then there is the killer of Paris and the others . . .’
‘Who is almost certainly not Alice, although she is arrested for it.’
‘If we can identify the real killer, it may ease the brewing trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I fear it is already too late, and we shall only have peace once we have torn each other asunder. And to top it all, I am obliged to waste my time fending off petty assaults on my authority from the triumvirate.’
Bartholomew was unhappy about leaving his College in hands he did not trust. He warned Aungel and William to be on their guard, but Aungel was too inexperienced to read the warning signs, while the Franciscan would be too easily distracted by the theology.
‘Our lads may misbehave because they are angry,’ said Aungel worriedly. ‘Offended by the town braying that we harbour French soldiers, who will slaughter them all.’
‘Whereas they are the ones whose patriotism should be questioned,’ added William venomously. ‘They looked the other way while Frenchmen lurked in the Spital. I wish I had known they were there – I would have driven them out.’
‘You would have ejected frightened women, old men and small children, whose only “crime” was to flee persecution?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
‘Why not?’ shrugged William. ‘We did it when I was with the Inquisition. And evil takes many different forms, Matthew, so do not be too readily fooled by “harmless” oldsters or “innocent” brats.’
‘I am offended by this nasty gossip about Master Suttone,’ said Aungel, before Bartholomew could inform William that he was not with the Inquisition now, and such vile opinions were hardly commensurate with a man in holy orders. ‘I know he enjoyed ladies on occasion, but he would never have run off to marry one.’
At that moment, the gate opened and Cynric cantered in on Dusty, having just given the horse a morning gallop along the Trumpington road.
‘Come quick,’ he gasped. ‘There is trouble at the Spital. When Orwel was killed, Sauvage was given the job of keeping it safe, but he abandoned it to sing in St Mary the Great. Now the Spital is surrounded by hostile scholars and townsfolk.’
‘They have united against a common enemy?’ asked William.
‘Not united, no,’ replied Cynric. ‘They each have their own ideas about what should be done, and spats are set to break out. The Sheriff has the town element under control, but he begs you to come and deal with the scholars. He said to hurry.’
The monk was not about to run to the Spital – it was too far, and he did not want to arrive winded and sweaty. He rode Dusty, shouting for Bartholomew to follow. It was not difficult for the physician to keep up with him at first, as no one could ride very fast along Cambridge’s narrow, crowded streets, but it was a different matter once they were through the town gate. Then all Bartholomew could see was dust as Michael thundered ahead.
By the time Bartholomew arrived, the crisis had been averted, largely due to the fact that the troublemakers remembered Dusty from the riot – some were still nursing crushed toes and bruised ribs from when the horse had bulled through their ranks, and they were unwilling to risk it again. Many scholars began to slink home, and townsmen followed suit when Leger galloped up in full battle gear. Eventually, only two clots of people remained: a motley collection of students who always preferred brawling to studying; and some patrons from the King’s Head, who were never happy unless they had something to protest about.
‘I can manage now, Sheriff,’ said Sauvage. He was pale – the near loss of control had given him a serious fright. ‘These few will be no problem, especially if Brother Michael leaves me some beadles to keep the scholars in line.’
Unfortunately, the only beadles available were Heltisle’s Horde, who had no more idea about controlling crowds than Sauvage. Michael gave them instructions, but was far from certain they could be trusted to carry them out. Tulyet finished briefing Sauvage and came to stand with Michael and Bartholomew. So did Sir Leger, whose sour expression showed he was disappointed that a skirmish had been averted.
‘The situation will not stay calm for long,’ he predicted with more hope than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to keeping the King’s peace. ‘Tangmer was stupid to take the enemy under his roof. He brought this on himself.’
‘The peregrini were not “the enemy”,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘They were civilians, who left France to avoid being slaughtered.’
‘They were Jacques,’ growled Leger. ‘And spies, who told the Dauphin when to attack Winchelsea. It was a pity they escaped that town before its Mayor could hang them.’
‘The Mayor lied,’ argued Bartholomew, more inclined to believe Julien’s version of events than the one given by a politician who was alleged to be a coward.
‘He did not,’ countered Leger. ‘But we will have our revenge, because the truth is that they have not vanished, but are still in the area. Sauvage spotted Delacroix behind Peterhouse last night, while I saw that priest near St Bene’t’s Church.’
‘Are you sure it was Julien?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what reason the group could possibly have for lingering somewhere so dangerous.
‘No,’ admitted Leger. ‘I gave chase, but lost him in the undergrowth – my armour is too bulky for slithering through bushes like a snake. However, I am sure that he and his friends mean us harm.’ He gestured to the Spital. �
��It would not surprise me if they were still in there.’
‘Then let us go and see,’ said Tulyet. ‘If they are, we shall take them to the castle – for their own protection as much as ours. If they are not, we will make sure that everyone knows the Spital is empty. Agreed?’
The moment Bartholomew, Michael, Tulyet and Leger stepped into the Spital, it was clear that something was wrong. As before, the staff guarded the gates and patrolled the walls, but there was no sign of Tangmer, Eudo or their wives. Moreover, there was a sense of distress among them that seemed to have nothing to do with the situation outside.
The cousin who had opened the gate led the visitors to the chapel without a word, where all four recoiled at the stench emanating from Amphelisa’s workshop. It was far more pungent than the last time they had been, and they saw that one workbench had been knocked over, spilling oils all across the floor. Amphelisa was mopping up the mess with a cloth, and her old burgundy cloak was soaked in it.
‘The fumes may be toxic in so confined an area,’ warned Bartholomew, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Open the windows and both doors.’
‘Come upstairs first,’ rasped Amphelisa; her eyes were bloodshot. ‘The balcony.’
She led the way to the room above, with its curious wooden screen. Tangmer was there with Eudo, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Goda lay on the floor like a discarded doll.
Bartholomew glanced at Amphelisa. ‘Is she . . .’
‘Dead,’ whispered Amphelisa. ‘She was supposed to be baking today, and when she failed to appear, Eudo went to look for her. He found her here.’
Bartholomew crouched next to the little woman. She had been stabbed, and the weapon was still in her chest. He could not bring himself to yank it out while her distraught husband was watching, but Leger had no such qualms. He grabbed it and hauled until it came free.
‘Not French,’ he said. ‘Just a kitchen knife. What happened?’
As Eudo was incapable of speech – he retreated to a corner, where he rocked back and forth, weeping all the while – Tangmer replied. The Warden’s face was ashen.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 27
