‘I do not know what to think,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Just be careful. And do not forget that the Jacques might take advantage of the unrest to harm the town that killed their friends. They will be used to this sort of turmoil, given their penchant for insurrection.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘And you be careful at the Spital. The peregrini will still be there, because Leger cannot have led them to safety with so many indignant “patriots” milling about outside. I wish I could help you, but my duty lies here.’
‘So does mine,’ said Michael wretchedly. ‘Perhaps I should stay and let Matt—’
‘Go,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘But please come back soon. It will take every good man we can muster if we aim to prevent University and town from wiping each other out permanently.’
Michael dared not take beadles to the Spital, knowing he would be deposed for certain if it emerged that he had left the University vulnerable in order to rescue foreigners. He hurried to the proctors’ cells and gave Heltisle’s Horde a choice: to prove themselves worthy of the uniform they wore or to be charged with affray. Most sneered their contempt for the offer, obviously expecting Heltisle or de Wetherset to pardon them, but half a dozen accepted, one of whom was Perkyn.
‘How do you know they will not turn on us?’ asked Bartholomew, uneasy with such a pack trotting at his heels. ‘Or refuse to obey your orders?’
‘I do not,’ replied the monk. ‘But the sight of an angry Senior Proctor with six “trusty” beadles may make some scholars see sense. It is a forlorn hope, but it is better than nothing.’
They hurried through the Trumpington Gate, Michael wheezing like a winded nag. Then a familiar figure materialised out of the darkness: Cynric. Bartholomew was glad to see him, because Heltisle’s Horde was growing increasingly agitated as they began to understand the dangers that lay ahead of them. Cynric was more likely to prevent them from bolting than him or Michael.
‘You cannot stop what will happen there,’ the book-bearer said, nodding to where the Spital was a pale gold smear in the distance, illuminated eerily by the torches of the besieging force. ‘It will only end with a spillage of French blood.’
‘I am not giving up,’ rasped Michael. ‘Not yet.’
They set off along the Trumpington road, cursing as they stumbled and lurched on its rutted surface. At the Gilbertine Priory, lights blazed from every window and the canons gathered at their gate, distressed by the tumult in a part of the town that was usually peaceful.
‘Brother!’ called Prior John urgently, his huge mouth set in an anxious grimace. ‘I have some things you should see.’
‘Not now,’ gasped Michael. ‘There is trouble at the Spital.’
‘I know,’ said John drily. ‘At least two hundred scholars have stormed past, and we lost count of the number of townsfolk. All were howling about killing Frenchmen.’
‘Please,’ begged Michael, trying to jig around him. ‘We do not have time to—’
‘It concerns Abbess Isabel,’ persisted John, grabbing his arm and shoving a letter at him. ‘She compiled a report for the Bishop, and left it with me two days ago. She told me to read it if anything happened to her. Well, I heard she was dead, so . . .’
Michael looked from the missive to the Spital, then back again, agonising over what to do. His eyesight was poor in dim light, and it would take him an age to decipher what was written. Seeing his dilemma, Bartholomew took the letter and scanned it quickly.
‘The first part is about Alice,’ he summarised briskly, ‘and contains hard evidence that will see her on trial for theft and witchery. The second half is about the killer.’
‘Which killer?’ demanded Michael. ‘De Wetherset or the one who stabbed Paris and the others?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Who may be Aynton.’
‘Isabel says the key to the mystery is a comb, which was lying next to Paris’s body when she happened across it.’
‘There was no comb at the scene of the crime,’ said Michael. ‘I would have seen it.’
Bartholomew read on. ‘It was familiar, and when she realised where she had seen it before, she fainted in horror. When she came to, the comb had gone. She wanted proof before making accusations, so she charged Alice to steal it so she could look at it more closely. In return, she promised to get Alice reinstated as Prioress of Ickleton.’
‘A promise she had no intention of keeping,’ noted Michael, ‘given the first half of her letter.’
‘Which she justifies with the claim that Alice broke the terms of the agreement by sending her tainted gifts. But that is irrelevant. What matters now is that she says the killer is the owner of the comb.’ Bartholomew looked up. ‘She accuses Prioress Joan.’
‘Then she is wrong,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Perhaps the comb was at the scene of Paris’s murder, and someone did retrieve it while Isabel swooned. However, there is nothing to suggest that Joan is the culprit. It is more likely that someone left it there to incriminate her – someone like Alice, in fact.’
‘That is what Isabel thought at first,’ said Prior John, waving a second letter. ‘Especially when she heard you say that Joan had an alibi for the Spital murders and has promptly promised to identify the murder weapon for you. So Isabel spent two days praying and reflecting in a church, and sent this addendum to her report today.’
Bartholomew read it quickly. ‘She begs the Bishop’s forgiveness for not speaking out at once, but she is now certain that Joan killed Paris and the others. She claims that Joan’s alibi will not stand up to serious scrutiny and urges him to probe it rigorously.’
‘What nonsense!’ snapped Michael. ‘We do not have time for—’
‘I think Isabel might be right,’ interrupted Bartholomew urgently. ‘Goda and Katherine both said that Joan was horrified when she discovered the comb was stolen – more than either would have expected from a woman who cares nothing for trinkets . . .’
‘She explained why,’ barked Michael. ‘Her horse liked to be groomed with it. Isabel was wrong. Why would Joan hurt Paris? Or any of the victims?’
‘Perhaps she does not like Frenchies,’ suggested Cynric, who had been listening agog. ‘Like lots of right-thinking folk. However, I can tell you that she collected Dusty from our stables about an hour ago, and was very agitated while she did it. I got the impression that something was badly wrong.’
‘It is,’ said Michael tersely. ‘She is in a town that is set to destroy itself and anyone in it. Of course she was agitated – she has her nuns to keep safe.’
‘I saw her not long after that,’ put in Prior John. ‘She told me that she was off to Lyminster, and when I remarked that dusk was an odd time to begin such a long journey, she suggested I mind my own business. Then she galloped away like a whirlwind.’
‘But why would she—’ began Michael.
‘We can discuss her motives later,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘After we have prevented a massacre.’
‘If you can prevent it,’ said John grimly. ‘Joan was staying at the Spital, was she not? I imagine she guessed that the “lunatics” are really Frenchmen in hiding, and I have a bad feeling that she has not finished with them yet.’
‘And I have a bad feeling that you are right,’ said Bartholomew.
CHAPTER 16
Bartholomew was glad when Heltisle’s Horde was augmented by half a dozen Gilbertines, led by Prior John. The canons carried no weapons, so would be of scant use in a fight, but there was always the chance that the presence of priests would make a mob think twice about what it was doing. He glanced behind him, and noted that the six beadles were now down to five, as one had slunk away rather than face what lay ahead.
The glow from the Spital was brighter now, and he realised with despair that there were hundreds of torches – which meant hundreds of folk baying for ‘enemy’ blood. What could he, Michael, Cynric, five reluctant beadles and a handful of unarmed canons do against so many? Tulyet had been right: the Spital was already lost, and they should have stayed in the town,
where they might have done some good.
‘I still do not believe it,’ Michael gasped as they hurried along. ‘The culprit cannot be Joan. She is too bluff and honest for so sly a scheme. It seems to me that someone has gone to a lot of trouble to see her accused.’
‘Katherine?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘She is the Bishop’s sister, and we all know how devious and ruthless he can be. Perhaps it runs in the family.’
As far as Michael was concerned, that was a worse solution than Joan. ‘We only have Isabel’s word that a comb was by Paris’s body, and she was deceitful, as evidenced by her questionable dealings with Alice. Besides, there was no time for Joan – or anyone else – to reclaim the thing while Isabel lay insensible.’
‘There was,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘When Isabel swooned a second time – at the disturbing sight of a wantonly low-cut bodice – she was out for several minutes. If it was a repeat of her first episode, there would have been ample time for the killer to act.’
‘I still do not believe—’
‘And there is something else. We crossed Joan off our list of suspects because Goda said she could see Joan in the stables while she herself was in the kitchen. But did you check that is actually possible? I did not.’
‘Nor did I,’ said Cynric, who had been listening with unabashed interest. ‘But I know the answer: you cannot see one from the other, because the chapel is in the way.’
‘Goda lied,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘She did not mention seeing Joan when we first spoke to her – she only “remembered” during a second interview, by which time Joan had realised that she needed help.’
‘There is a flaw in your argument,’ pounced Michael. ‘Goda claimed she could see the shed from the kitchen, too – which is possible, because I have a vivid recollection of a tray of cakes being carried from the kitchen when I was examining the burnt shed. But Goda made no mention of Joan slinking inside with a fancy French dagger – and remember that this was before anyone would have had a chance to bribe her.’
‘Goda cannot have been gazing out of the door every moment that morning,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At some point she would have looked away to put bread in the oven or fetch ingredients from the pantry. Or perhaps Goda did see Joan, but did not know it – she said the Girards “popped in and out”. Well, one “Girard” may have been Joan in disguise.’
Michael remained unconvinced. ‘But why would Goda lie? She cannot have known Joan well enough to warrant that sort of devotion.’
‘She did not do it for friendship, she did it for money. We know she was greedy – she coveted the dagger that killed the Girards, and she asked to be paid for answering questions. Joan capitalised on that avarice and bought herself an alibi.’
‘He may be right, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘Ever since the Spital murders, Goda has been flush with cash – new clothes, new shoes, new hair-frets. And that is suspicious, because the Tangmers are broke. She did not get her windfall from them.’
‘No, she got it from the oils she stole from Amphelisa,’ countered Michael.
‘Not even the best oils would fetch the kind of money Goda has been laying out,’ stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘They—’
‘But Goda began to sport these new purchases before Joan knew she needed an alibi,’ Michael pointed out irritably. ‘I repeat: Matt’s logic is flawed.’
‘Not so,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Hélène’s milk was dosed with a soporific, and as I seriously doubt that Joan thought to pack some when she left Lyminster, it means she got it here – from someone with access to Amphelisa’s supplies. I imagine Goda charged her a small fortune.’
‘And may have blackmailed her about it after,’ put in Cynric.
‘Which means Joan knew that Goda would do anything for money,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘while Goda knew that Joan had deep pockets. A deal was made and we looked no further at either suspect.’
‘Moreover, Goda hated the French,’ said Cynric. ‘I heard her say so several times. She would have had no problem looking the other way while Joan dispatched a few.’
‘But people like Goda can never be trusted to keep their mouths shut,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘So Joan killed her, too. She is tying up loose ends, ready to return to her priory and her life as a servant of God.’
‘What about Delacroix and his friends?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Are they to be forgotten in all this? I thought we had agreed that they were our most likely suspects.’
But Bartholomew was still thinking about Joan, and something else became clear to him. ‘We have assumed it was Alice who told Norbert about the peregrini – that she guessed what they were on one of her visits to the Spital. But Joan and her Lyminster sisters also recognised them as displaced Frenchmen.’
‘It was Alice!’ snapped Michael. ‘She betrayed herself by scratching.’
‘Precisely! Joan knew that if she clawed at herself as she dispensed her treacherous news, everyone would assume that Alice was the guilty party. And we did.’
‘Then what about the Rouen daggers?’ pressed Michael. ‘Joan said they were familiar. Why would she do that if she had been the one to wield them?’
‘And has her testimony led us to the killer? No, it has not! What it has done, however, is make us think she is on our side, valiantly striving to dig solutions from her memory.’
‘But why?’ cried Michael. ‘There has been no hint of Joan doing anything like this before. I would have heard if there were lots of unsolved murders around her priory.’
Bartholomew knew the answer to that, too. ‘Because of Winchelsea. She was appalled by what she saw there, and Katherine said she is building a chantry chapel for the victims – a massive undertaking that reveals how deeply she was affected by the experience.’
‘She was distressed by it,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘She mentioned it several times when we rode to the Austin Priory together. But—’
‘She is avenging the victims by killing Frenchmen: Paris, Bonet, the Girards, Bruges and Sauvage. Although she made an erroneous assumption with the last two.’
‘And tonight will see the remaining peregrini slaughtered,’ finished Cynric. ‘She will not even have to bloody her own hands, because our town will do it for her.’
When they reached the Spital and saw the baying mob outside, Bartholomew’s heart sank. Spats sparked between the different factions – mostly scholars against townsfolk, but Maud’s and Corner hostels were engaged in a vicious shoving match, while the bakers and the grocers harangued each other nearby. No one was listening to anyone else, and tempers everywhere ran high. There was no sign of Leger, and the scant troops Tulyet had spared to protect the place were under the less experienced command of a sergeant.
‘I do not know where Sir Leger went,’ the man said apologetically when Michael demanded an explanation. ‘He just told me to take over.’
‘He must have gone inside,’ murmured Michael, and brightened. ‘Maybe he has sneaked the peregrini out already.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Cynric. ‘They would have been spotted.’
‘Have you seen Prioress Joan?’ Bartholomew asked the sergeant.
The man nodded to where the Trumpington road snaked south. ‘She went that way an hour ago, like the Devil was on her tail. I called for her to stop – it was stupid, riding so wild with night approaching – but she ignored me.’
He hurried away when a quarrel by the gate resulted in drawn daggers. Perkyn watched him go with mounting alarm.
‘I am not staying here to be cut down in my prime,’ he gulped. ‘I—’
‘Stand your ground!’ barked Michael, although the Horde had now dwindled from five to three. ‘You will be quite safe as long as you follow my orders.’
‘He will not,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘There must be upwards of four hundred armed men here, all spoiling for a fight. You cannot reason with them, because they are long past listening, even if you could make yourself heard.’
‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘They
could have broken inside by now, but they hesitate out here. That means there is still a chance that we can persuade them to—’
‘They are not “hesitating”, Brother, they are thwarted,’ countered Cynric, assessing the scene with a professional eye. ‘The Spital was designed for this sort of situation – to repel folk who want to get at its lepers. The walls are high and the gates are sturdy, like a fortress.’
‘So the people inside are safe?’ asked Bartholomew in relief.
‘Not safe,’ replied Cynric. ‘Just bought a bit more time. The defences will be breached tonight, and then the Spital and its inhabitants will burn.’
‘But there must be something we can do,’ said Bartholomew in despair. ‘We cannot just stand here and watch innocents being butchered.’
‘There is one thing,’ said Cynric hesitantly. ‘When I thought Satan was coming to live here, I made a thorough reconnaissance of the place, just to know what resources he would have at his disposal, like. There is a tunnel at the back . . .’
‘A tunnel?’ blurted Michael. ‘Why would—’
‘He just explained why,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘The Spital was built like a fortress, to protect it from attack. Fortresses have sally ports, lest its defenders should ever need to slip out unseen.’
Cynric nodded. ‘Unfortunately, the Tangmers cannot use it now, because the Spital is surrounded by hostiles. Anyone creeping out will be caught and killed.’
‘Are you sure they did not leave earlier?’ asked Bartholomew, hopefully. ‘Before there were so many besiegers?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Cynric. ‘I can see one of them from here, watching us from the top of the wall. They are in there all right.’
‘So if this sally port cannot help us, why mention the damned thing?’ demanded Michael curtly.
‘Because they could use it if we make sure they are not seen sneaking out,’ explained Cynric. ‘In other words, if we create a diversion for them.’
‘Two diversions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘One for us to get inside so we can round them up, and one to bring them out and spirit them away.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 34
