An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

‘Come with me,’ instructed Michael. ‘I will never restrain Lincolne and fend off his students alone, and my beadles are struggling with the Dominicans.’

  Bartholomew followed the monk as he elbowed his way through the surging mass. Any control Tynkell might have commanded had been lost, and the church was filled with ringing shouts and threats. Michael reached Lincolne and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Let me go!’ howled the Carmelite Prior furiously, trying to free himself. ‘I will not stand here and be forced to listen to the lies of that wicked man.’

  ‘Leave,’ suggested Michael breathlessly. ‘Then you will not have to.’

  ‘Our Prior will not be forced from his University church by a nominalist,’ declared Horneby hotly, trying to push his way past Bartholomew. ‘It is unthinkable!’

  ‘I will kill him where he stands,’ vowed Lincolne, white-faced with anger.

  With a shock, Bartholomew saw that Lincolne had a knife in his hand, and the expression on his face indicated that he fully intended to use it. Even loyal Horneby’s jaw dropped in shock at the sight of his Prior armed and murderous in a church.

  ‘Wait!’ Horneby yelled, catching Lincolne’s sleeve and trying to pull him back. ‘This is no place for a fight, Father.’

  ‘It is the perfect place,’ snarled Lincolne, trying to free his arm from Horneby and the rest of him from Michael. It was easier said than done, and he started to lose his balance, threatening to drag his restrainers down with him.

  Lincolne was not the only one who had decided it was a good time for a debate with fists rather than wits. Here and there, small skirmishes had broken out in the nave, and Bartholomew found himself hemmed in tightly by a throng of struggling, shoving scholars. Lincolne began to topple and snatched at Bartholomew to try to retain his balance. But Bartholomew was being pushed, too, and he grabbed at Lincolne at about the same time. They both fell, surrounded by churning boots and shoes that threatened to trample them.

  A heavy foot planted on his hand convinced Bartholomew that the floor was no place to linger, but the press of bodies around him was such that he could not stand. Through the milling legs and swirling habits that surrounded him, he glimpsed the wooden platform that had been erected for Heytesbury to stand on. He made his way towards it on all fours.

  When he arrived, bruised and rather breathless, he eased himself into its sanctuary only to discover that he was not the only one determined to use it as a refuge. Lincolne was already there, filling most of it with his bulk.

  Michael saw that Bartholomew was still on the ground, and surged forward to try to pull him upright before he was injured. He snatched at a handful of the physician’s gown, and pulled as hard as he could. The rip was audible even over the frenzied yelling that filled the church, and the sudden removal of Bartholomew’s sleeve caused Michael to lose his balance. He staggered, crashing into Bartholomew, who was knocked forward into Lincolne. The physician reached out with both hands, instinctively grabbing at anything he could reach to save himself.

  Unfortunately, his flailing hands encountered Lincolne’s topknot. He was horrified, embarrassed and slightly revolted when it came off. He glanced up. Without it, Lincolne was just an ordinary-looking man with a bald, yellowish forehead.

  ‘Give that back,’ snapped Lincolne, snatching it from the physician and replacing it. He glowered furiously at Bartholomew, who felt he had committed a most frightful indiscretion.

  Mortified, the physician looked away, gazing at the hand that had deprived Lincolne of his hairpiece. He was confused to see that it was marked with a yellowish, sticky residue. He had seen a stain just like it on Walcote, and on Faricius before that. Bewildered, he stared at Lincolne.

  ‘I use gum mastic to keep my hair in place,’ explained Lincolne. ‘It is a better glue than anything else I have discovered, but it still has a habit of coming off in situations like this.’

  ‘“Situations like this”?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You mean situations in which you are trying to kill someone?’ He flinched as a Dominican, punched hard by a Carmelite, reeled into the platform, and scrambled further inside.

  ‘It has come off in public twice before today,’ confided Lincolne. ‘Is it on straight? I do not like to be seen without it. It is nice, do you not agree?’

  ‘Is it real?’ asked Bartholomew, ghoulishly curious, despite the fact that he knew he should be asking Lincolne about his role in the deaths of Faricius and Walcote, not discussing fashions.

  Lincolne nodded. ‘I had it made from my own hair, when I still had some.’

  ‘I have seen this glue before,’ said Bartholomew, glancing down at the vivid stain on his hand. ‘It was on the bodies of Faricius and Walcote.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘As I just said, it has a habit of coming off when I am trying to rid the world of people who should not be in it.’

  ‘You killed Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

  Lincolne pursed his lips. ‘The boy was writing the most scurrilous nonsense I have ever read. When he went out during the riot to retrieve it, I saw too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘You stabbed him and left him to die?’ asked Bartholomew in a sickened whisper.

  ‘I thought I had killed him, and I was going to bury that vile essay with him. But the Dominican Precentor must have stolen it from his body. You understand, do you not? I could not have the Carmelites’ reputation sullied by the filth of nominalism.’

  ‘It is only a philosophical theory,’ said Bartholomew, his shocked voice only just audible over the deafening racket of the fight that surged above him. ‘An idea. It is nothing to kill for. But you urged Michael to investigate the Dominicans, while all the time the killer was you?’

  ‘Of course I encouraged him to look at the Black Friars,’ said Lincolne testily. ‘I did not want him discovering it was I who killed Faricius, or even worse, him learning about the existence of the essay.’

  ‘But why did you not just confiscate Faricius’s work?’ asked Bartholomew, ducking as someone in a grey habit tried to kick him.

  ‘I tried, but Faricius would not be silenced,’ replied Lincolne, striking out at the grey habit with his knife. There was an agonised howl and blood dribbled on to the creamy yellow tiles of the floor. ‘When I confronted him on Milne Street, he told me he intended to go to Oxford with Heytesbury, so that he could become a better nominalist than ever.’

  ‘And you killed Walcote, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought Timothy and Janius did that, but the gum mastic stain on Walcote’s hand indicates otherwise.’

  ‘He declined to hand over the essay. We offered him a chance to live, but he refused to take it. We hanged him, and Michael generously furthered our plan by appointing Timothy in his place.’

  ‘But why should that matter to you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were only interested in retrieving the essay.’

  ‘Then you are wrong,’ said Lincolne. ‘I am concerned with wider issues, too, such as Michael’s cavorting with Oxford men and threatening the welfare of the entire University. I had to stop him, and Timothy and Janius were helping me.’

  ‘So Timothy was telling the truth after all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said someone else was in control, but we did not believe him, especially when Janius denied it. But I did not imagine it was you. To be honest, I suspected Heytesbury, given that he is always chewing gum mastic.’

  Lincolne snarled his disgust. ‘I am a decent man, who is prepared to act to see our University saved from men like Michael and Walcote. But that evil nominalist chews gum mastic to hide the fact that he is a heavy drinker.’

  ‘But what were you doing there when Walcote, Timothy and Janius caught Kyrkeby outside your friary?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘Did Timothy summon you?’

  ‘I was watching Kyrkeby,’ said Lincolne, stabbing at another pair of legs that came too close. He grimaced in annoyance when they moved before he could pierce them. ‘He was hovering outside our friary, as if he meant us harm. The
other three frightened him to death and Walcote suggested we should hide him in the tunnel. It was time it was sealed anyway.’

  ‘But you said you did not know about it,’ said Bartholomew. Then he recalled what Lincolne had said the first time they had met, when the Carmelite had been ranting about the death of Faricius: that he had been at the friary since he was a child. And if that were the case, then he would certainly have known about the tunnel. Masters were never told, but Lincolne had been a student.

  Lincolne saw the understanding in his face and sneered. ‘Did you imagine I was the only student ever to pass through the friary who was not party to the secret of the tunnel?’

  ‘Did you attend any of those meetings Walcote arranged at St Radegund’s Convent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And did you know that Timothy and Janius were going to kill Michael?’

  ‘Of course I attended Walcote’s meetings,’ snapped Lincolne impatiently. ‘I am the leader of the Carmelites, and an important man. It was I who recommended that he hold them at St Radegund’s.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is no place for decent men.’

  ‘Walcote did not invite decent men,’ said Lincolne reasonably. ‘He invited Pechem and Morden and Ralph. Holding the meetings there ensured they all came – they were all very sanctimonious about the venue, but I knew they would not attend if he held them anywhere less interesting. It was also the last place Michael would think to look for us.’

  ‘You are wrong about the others,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are the only one to cavort regularly with prostitutes.’

  ‘Lies!’ spat Lincolne. ‘I do no such thing.’

  ‘You have a long-standing arrangement with Yolande de Blaston,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Matilde had told him. ‘None of the others break their vows with such regularity. But I want to know more about St Radegund’s. Did Eve Wasteneys, Mabel Martyn or Tysilia help you?’

  ‘Tysilia?’ exclaimed Lincolne in genuine horror. ‘The woman is a half-wit in a pretty body. She killed my poor novice – Brother Andrew – by breaking his impressionable heart. She is vermin, who will not survive the Death when God sends it a second time to rid the world of evil.’

  ‘What about the other nuns, then?’ pressed Bartholomew, wincing as Michael tumbled against the platform, threatening to demolish it with him and Lincolne still underneath. ‘How much did they know about what was discussed?’

  Lincolne pulled his thoughts away from Tysilia. ‘Eve Wasteneys was too busy to be interested, while it was Dame Martyn’s task to arrange for services to be provided for those who required them. And I do not mean services of a religious nature, so do not tell me the likes of Pechem, Morden and Ralph are saints where women are concerned.’

  ‘Did you know that Timothy and Janius retrieved Faricius’s essay because they intended to have it published under their own names?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that would shock the friar.

  ‘Liar!’ snapped Lincolne.

  ‘They stole it from Father Paul. Janius is in the proctors’ cells, and doubtless will confirm it when you join him there.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Lincolne, lunging at Bartholomew with the knife. ‘I am going to no such place.’

  Bartholomew twisted to one side, and the gleaming blade made a long groove in one of St Mary’s beautiful decorated tiles. Lincolne stabbed again, and Bartholomew hurled himself against the Prior, aiming to crush the man against the side of the platform. Michael, however, intervened. Determined to haul the physician to his feet before he was trampled, he took a firm hold of Bartholomew’s arm and pulled with considerable force. Bartholomew found himself pinned against the platform himself, unable to move. With a grin of triumph as he saw his quarry rendered immobile, Lincolne began to move towards him.

  Just when Bartholomew thought that Michael would unwittingly bring about his death, Lincolne’s determined advance was brought to a halt by a group of skirmishing Dominicans and Carmelites, who collided with the platform, causing it to topple. Bartholomew struggled free of Michael as it fell with an almighty crash that hurt his ears. Lincolne suddenly found himself deprived of the relative safety of his refuge, and Bartholomew took advantage of the Prior’s moment of confusion by diving at him. One of the brawling Dominicans blundered into the physician at exactly the wrong moment, so that he fell awkwardly, and managed to end up underneath Lincolne rather than on top, as he had intended.

  There was a sudden shriek and a yell of ‘fire!’ The milling mass of bodies was still for an instant, and then there was a concerted dash for the door. Feet pounded and trampled as people rushed forward. Some tripped over the prostrate Lincolne, and Bartholomew’s attempts to struggle free and make his own way to the door were futile. He winced as someone kicked his leg in the frantic dash from the burning building, and then curled into a ball to protect his head to wait until the stampede was over. Fortunately, his position under Lincolne saved him from most of the bruising footsteps that pounded across the floor.

  Finally, the church was empty. Bartholomew pushed Lincolne away from him and sat up to see the last of the scholars disappearing through the great west door. One or two were limping and others were being helped by their friends, but at least everyone was walking. Recalling the reason for the panic, the physician gazed around him wildly, but could see no flames. He could not even smell smoke.

  ‘Where is the fire?’ he demanded, scrambling to his feet.

  ‘There is no fire,’ said Michael. ‘That was someone’s idea of a practical joke. Still, at least it put an end to all that fighting.’

  ‘Everyone is going home peacefully,’ reported Beadle Meadowman, running breathlessly back into the church to Michael. ‘I thought they would continue to fight outside, but too many of them have bruises already, and they are dispersing quite quietly.’

  ‘Lincolne!’ exclaimed Michael, staring down at the Carmelite friar when he became aware that the man was lying unnaturally still amid a spreading stain of blood. Horneby was next to him, kneeling and muttering the words of the final absolution.

  ‘Prior Lincolne killed Faricius,’ said Horneby, gazing up at them with a face that was pale with shock. ‘I heard what he told you, Doctor. We thought the Dominicans killed Faricius, but all the time it was him. Our own Prior.’

  ‘What is this?’ asked Michael in confusion. ‘And what is wrong with Lincolne?’

  ‘He fell on his knife,’ said Horneby quietly. He fixed Bartholomew with a calm, steady gaze that was impossible to interpret. Had Horneby killed the Prior, to avenge the death of his friend? Or had the murderous Lincolne been pushed on to his own dagger when so many feet had thundered across him?

  Bartholomew knelt next to Lincolne, and saw the knife protruding from his stomach. He stared at Horneby, noting his bloodstained hands, and wondered whether the fact that Lincolne had died in the same way as Faricius was significant. Horneby said nothing, but continued with his absolution. As he touched the body to anoint it, yet more blood darkened his fingers, and Bartholomew knew it would be impossible to tell whether Horneby had taken his own vengeance. Horneby knew it, too, and gave Bartholomew a small, bitter smile as he straightened the curious topknot that had provided Bartholomew with his final clue.

  ‘I told you I would clear the church within moments, if I spoke about life on other planets,’ said Heytesbury, coming to stand next to them. He was amused by the whole incident, and did not seem too concerned by the fact that a scholar lay dead at their feet. ‘I was right.’

  ‘It was you who shouted that there was a fire?’ asked Michael in sudden understanding.

  Heytesbury grinned at him in a way that made it clear he had been the one responsible. ‘But, although I may have been correct about emptying the church, I was wrong about one thing, Brother.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  ‘I thought today would be a dull experience. It was not. You Cambridge men certainly know how to organise a memorable debate!’

  Epilogue

&
nbsp; BARTHOLOMEW LEANED BACK AMONG THE SCENTED cushions in the chair nearest to Matilde’s fire and watched her bring mulled wine for him and Michael from the small parlour at the back of the house. It smelled rich and sweet, and the aroma of cloves and cinnamon mingled pleasantly with the pine needles that crackled and popped in the hearth.

  ‘So,’ said Michael with great satisfaction, leaning forward to see which of the three goblets was the fullest and then taking it. ‘We emerge victorious once more. You would think criminals and murderers would have learned by now that Cambridge is not the place to be if they want their nasty plans to succeed. They would do better going to Oxford.’

  ‘Speaking of Oxford, did Heytesbury leave on Sunday afternoon?’ asked Matilde, drawing a stool near the fire and perching on it as she cupped her goblet between both hands. Clippesby’s prediction of a spell of sunshine had proved uncannily accurate, but clear skies meant cold nights, and it was chilly once the sun had set, even in Matilde’s cosy home.

  Michael nodded. ‘He is now the proud owner of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, and he set off on it at noon, shortly after his unexpectedly brief lecture.’

  ‘Heytesbury bought that thing?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘I thought he was as wary of it as everyone else.’

  Michael chuckled happily. ‘Stanmore – ever the salesman – caught him in a tavern late one night when he was not at his most alert, and persuaded him to buy it. It was, after all, his to sell, not Richard’s. Meanwhile, all our suspicions that Richard was involved in something sinister were essentially unfounded. His father bought him the horse and the saddle, while his fine new clothes and fancy ear-ring came either from his own savings or from the money Heytesbury paid him.’

  ‘Why did Heytesbury pay him?’ asked Matilde curiously.

  ‘Because he did not trust any Cambridge-based lawyers to read the deeds relating to his arrangements with me,’ replied Michael. ‘And because he was strapped for choice, Richard could name any price he liked.’