Chozaico regarded him in horror. ‘You admit it? But Harold was your friend!’
‘He was a colleague,’ corrected Wy. ‘Not a friend. And he was going to tell Penterel that I am a French spy. What else could I do but dispatch him? Besides, I am ready to begin a new existence. It has not been easy, living the life of a mendicant all these years.’
‘You are not a Carmelite,’ said Michael flatly.
‘He is a pedlar with a talent for gathering information,’ explained Chozaico. ‘He learned about us from some clerk who had died – a man who had taken a dictation from Zouche on his deathbed.’
‘You killed Zouche’s clerk!’ exclaimed Langelee in understanding. ‘Myton assumed nothing had happened with that list because of the confusion that followed the Archbishop’s death, but—’
‘But the clerk had decoded it himself, and was on his way to tell Mayor Longton,’ said Wy, grinning smugly. ‘He stopped in a tavern for a drink to calm his ragged nerves, and was relieved to confide his terrible secret to a sympathetic listener. Then I ensured that he would inform no one else, and visited Prior Chozaico with a proposal. We have worked profitably together ever since.’
‘But why hurt Anketil?’ asked Chozaico weakly. He looked as if he might be sick; obviously, he had not known about the clerk’s murder. ‘He was no threat to you.’
‘On the contrary: he was going to abandon me.’ Wy glared at the soldiers, toting the crossbow in a way that told them there would be more casualties if they made a hostile move. They gazed back sullenly. ‘I caught him with Odo, arranging matters so I would be left behind.’
‘He was wary of you,’ acknowledged Odo coldly. ‘We all are. But he understood that it would be unwise to leave you here. You would not have been deserted. You killed him for nothing!’
‘How many more?’ whispered Chozaico, slumping on to a sack of flour as if his legs would no longer hold him. ‘The clerk, Harold, Anketil … Your immortal soul, Wy!’
‘I have earned plenty of money for obits,’ shrugged Wy, unrepentant. ‘And I am sure you will help me set them up when we are all safely in France.’
‘How could you use such a man, Chozaico?’ Michael’s voice dripped with disgust.
Wy replied when the Prior did not to answer: he seemed wholly unmoved by Michael’s distaste. ‘Because they needed me. The attacks on their priory were growing rather too hot, so I devised a way that would see them ease.’
‘By spreading lies about the Carmelites,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The Order you infiltrated.’
‘What?’ breathed Chozaico, paler than ever. ‘The vicious tales about the White Friars were your doing?’
‘We would have been destroyed years ago if Wy had not arranged for them to share some of the hatred,’ said Odo, defensively. ‘We had no choice. You saw the ferocity of the riot the other day.’
‘And I know how he did it,’ said Michael. ‘Courageously, the Carmelites stand up to dishonesty, tackling people like the vicars-choral who stole their topsoil, Elen Duffield who bought wine that she then refused to pay for, and that arrogant potter who throws mud.’
‘Wy encouraged these spitefully vociferous villains to protest their innocence.’ Langelee took up the tale. ‘Thus shedding doubt on the Carmelites’ other victories. It was sly, dishonourable and it worked brilliantly.’
‘And the feud between Longton and Gisbyrn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how Wy had always been more outspoken and less charitable than his fellows. He wondered how Penterel had not seen through him, but then supposed that the Prior was a gentle man who would be disinclined to think badly of anyone. ‘Did you exacerbate that for the same reason?’
Chozaico groaned when Wy grinned gloatingly.
‘The odd word to a merchant one day, and a wealthy landowner the next,’ Wy said. ‘It has been easy to keep them at each other’s throats. And Dalfeld helped. I just happened to mention that he could claim more money in fees from both parties if they were enemies, and he obligingly did all he could to intensify their hatred.’
‘But we did not anticipate that the quarrel would end in Sir William being shot, Prior Chozaico,’ said Odo quickly. ‘We would never have sanctioned that.’
Wy’s expression hardened. ‘But, pleasant though it is to review my cleverness, we cannot waste what little daylight is left. Odo? Kill these meddling scholars and let us be on our way.’
‘No,’ said Chozaico, standing abruptly, although Odo had made no move to obey Wy anyway. ‘We shall lock them in the cellar. It will not be long before people come to raid this place for food, and our guests will be rescued then – after we are safely away.’
‘But then they will tell everyone about me,’ objected Wy. ‘And I might want to come back here one day. Dispatch them, and let us make a clean end of this business.’
Suddenly, the crossbow was swinging round to point at Bartholomew, who saw there was nothing he could do to prevent Wy from shooting him. He braced himself to die.
Chozaico’s yell of horror rang through the chamber, and Langelee surged to his feet, but Odo’s reactions were faster. He dived at the pedlar so the shot went wide. Wy spat and struggled as they rolled on the floor, furious at being thwarted, but then his eyes bulged and an expression of abject disbelief flashed across his face. Odo held him for a moment, then let him go.
‘I am sorry,’ the soldier said, scrambling to his feet as Chozaico gaped in shock. ‘But we could not have taken such a man with us anyway. He was too selfish and unpredictable, and would have endangered all our lives.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Chozaico in a small voice.
‘No, but he soon will be,’ replied Odo dispassionately. ‘Would you like the physician to ease his last moments? Or will you grant him absolution?’
‘Both.’ Chozaico’s hand shook when he indicated that Bartholomew was to oblige. ‘And then we had better leave before it really is too late.’
‘It is already too late,’ warned Langelee, as Bartholomew knelt next to Wy and Odo handed him his bag. ‘Marmaduke is fetching help as we speak.’
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, and Wy released a vengeful chuckle.
‘Marmaduke,’ he whispered, pulling Bartholomew towards him with a bloodstained hand. ‘Fitting he … destroys … spies.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with rummaging in his pack for a potion to ease the dying man’s final moments than in listening to another bout of gloating vitriol.
‘Cotyngham,’ Wy breathed, almost inaudible as the life drained out of him. ‘I saw him … dead. Marmaduke … in plague pit …’
Bartholomew wondered if he had misheard. Langelee had embarked on a diatribe, berating Chozaico for his years of deceit, and it was difficult to hear what Wy was trying to say.
‘… ad Valvas,’ gasped Wy. He was fading fast, but his eyes were still bright with malice. ‘Marmaduke … a man … to watch. I should have … worked with him.’
Bartholomew had no idea what he was talking about, but before he could say so, the breath hissed between Wy’s lips and he went limp. The physician glanced up at Chozaico, who sagged in despair and waved Langelee to silence.
‘Lock them in the basement,’ he said to Odo. ‘It has food enough to last several days. And I do not think water will be a problem.’
Without further ado, the scholars were bundled towards a door in the corner of the hall. It was enormously thick, designed to keep rats at bay. Open, it revealed a flight of steep stone steps, and smelled of bad drains. The stairs were pitch black, and there was no indication that the prisoners were going to be provided with a lamp. As Bartholomew was shoved forward, he heard the lap of water.
‘Wait!’ he cried, trying to struggle free of the soldiers who held him. ‘We will drown.’
‘You will not,’ snapped Odo. ‘I doubt it is more than ankle deep.’
Chozaico’s response was kinder. ‘I will send word of your whereabouts when we reach the coast, just in case you have not been rescued.
You will not be here more than a day or two.’
‘We may not live that long,’ shouted Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. ‘The river is rising, and water will pour into—’
‘We did not say it would be comfortable,’ said Odo, becoming impatient. ‘But it is better than what Wy had in mind. Besides, Bestiary Hall is two hundred years old – it would not have survived so long if it was liable to flood. You will be perfectly safe.’
One of the soldiers gave Bartholomew a shove that propelled him down the stairs faster than was comfortable, especially in the dark, and he was hard pressed to keep his balance. He did not descend all the way, and turned after he had staggered down five or six steps.
‘Traitors,’ snarled Langelee, when it was his turn to be prised through the door.
‘We cannot be traitors,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘England is not our country, and we have never professed to be anything other than loyal to France. But Wy was right – time is passing, and you are going in the cellar whether you like it or not. Please do not make us use force.’
Michael stalked past him with his head held high, flinging off the soldiers who attempted to assist him, although Langelee fought wildly. But even the burly Master could not hold out against so many, and it was not long before all three scholars were through the door. Once they were, Chozaico sketched a blessing at them, but then hesitated.
‘The answer to Huntington, Sir William’s shooting and Zouche’s chantry lies in Myton,’ he said, glancing behind him uneasily, as if he feared his warriors’ disapprobation. ‘I am not sure why. However, the day before he died, he came to talk to me. I realise now that it was because he had learned what we had been doing, and wanted to confirm details before taking action.’
‘And?’ snapped Langelee, starting to move up the stairs again.
‘And he made a sort of confession,’ Chozaico went on quickly, raising his hand when his men reached for their weapons. ‘He was a deeply troubled man, and I did my best to comfort him, but I did not understand what he needed. I was left with the impression that he might have taken something, and it troubled his conscience. Regardless, perhaps this knowledge will help you win Huntington.’
‘Why should you care about that?’ demanded Langelee. Chozaico smiled wanly. ‘Let us say it is to compensate you for not catching your French spies.’
And then the door slammed, plunging the cellar into darkness.
CHAPTER 11
Langelee elbowed Bartholomew and Michael out of the way, and began kicking and pounding on the door for all he was worth. But it had been built to last, and his assault made no impression whatsoever. His lack of success caused his efforts to grow more frenzied and less systematic. Knowing no sensible discussion could take place until the Master’s fury was spent, Bartholomew put the time to use by descending the stairs to explore their prison.
He was alarmed when he reached water almost immediately. In the pitch darkness, he rested one hand against the wall for balance, and moved down to the next step, to gauge how deeply the place was flooded. After three stairs, it was past his knees, and by six, when he finally reached the bottom, it was almost to his chest. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he pushed away from the stairway, and began to wade forward.
He could touch the ceiling by raising his hands above his head, and it sloped at the far end, forcing him to stoop. The walls and floor were stone, and with the exception of several narrow grilles – through which water was pouring at an alarming rate – there was no other opening except the door. The basement had originally been built to store foodstuffs, and he found three cheeses and several hunks of smoked meat suspended from the ceiling in cloths. They would not starve. However, the water was rising fast, and he wondered how long it would be before they would drown.
He began to grope his way back towards the door, using Langelee’s racket as a beacon. Then the Master stopped his assault abruptly, and all that could be heard was water surging through the vents. It echoed eerily.
‘The only way out is through the door,’ Bartholomew called. There was no answer, and he found himself disoriented, uncertain which way to go. ‘Brother?’
‘Is there anything to eat?’ came the monk’s voice.
In other circumstances, Bartholomew might have laughed, but he was far too cold and fraught for levity. As he waded, he wished he had stayed in the dry, because the lower half of his body was numb, and the water smelled rank. Moreover, his fingers brushed against something furry, and he knew it was a rat, driven from its nest by the rising tide. He jerked away in revulsion.
‘The door is too thick to batter down.’ Langelee sounded angry and dispirited in equal measure. ‘And it is secured from the other side by a bar. Ergo, the only way we are going to leave is if someone lets us out.’
Shivering, Bartholomew reached the stairs and clambered up them, eager to be out of the wet. He climbed as high as he could, jostling with Langelee for a place at the top. Once there, he rubbed his legs hard in an effort to warm them.
‘Chozaico has left me here to die,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘Me, a fellow Benedictine!’
‘Actually, I believed him when he said he would send word when he reached the coast,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall be rescued then, if not before.’
‘But we might be drowned by then,’ said Michael, an edge of panic in his voice. ‘Odo said Bestiary Hall is not liable to flood, but he is clearly wrong. It would have been better if he had killed us upstairs, because this fate will be far worse. I cannot swim!’
‘We will not die,’ said Langelee with grim determination. ‘I have things to report to Thoresby and Longton, and I cannot do that if I am a corpse. I want them to know they have been nursing a nest of vipers in their bosom all these years.’
‘They will know eventually,’ said Michael weakly. ‘Matt asked Marmaduke to tell the Abbot, and we left those documents in the library.’
Langelee’s laughter was bitter. ‘Bartholomew did not have time to explain all we had learned to that stupid ex-priest, and Multone has heard accusations against Holy Trinity before. He will ignore them. And if you think anyone is going to find anything in that library …’
‘We left the box sitting on a shelf,’ argued Michael. ‘In plain view.’
‘You think it will be there now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The fact that it was there this afternoon, but not this morning, suggests that someone intended it to be found at a specific point in time – wanted us to come here and confront Chozaico, knowing we would be bested.’
‘Talerand?’ asked Langelee. ‘Fournays? Dalfeld? Multone and Oustwyk? One of the vicars-choral? Gisbyrn or Longton? God knows, we have enough suspects.’
‘Well, whoever it is,’ said Bartholomew grimly, ‘he is cleverer than us.’
When Langelee, in angry frustration, turned his attention to the door again, Bartholomew joined in, hoping the exercise would drive the numbing chill from his body. It worked for a while, but the creeping cold began again when he stopped. They sat in silence, listening to the sound of the water change as the cellar filled.
‘Perhaps you are right, Brother,’ said Langelee eventually. ‘We will drown. And that is a pity, because I have much to offer the world.’
‘We all do,’ said Michael. Suddenly, he squawked and flailed around violently, drenching his companions in spray. ‘Something touched my leg!’
‘Rats,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘They are being driven out of their dens by—’
‘Please keep such hypotheses to yourself,’ pleaded Michael. ‘I do not want to hear. And I do not want to think about our predicament, either, so we shall talk about something else. Tell me what you thought about our confrontation with Chozaico.’
‘I think he is a genius to have outwitted us for so many years,’ obliged Langelee. ‘And I am all admiration for the scale of his deception. I visited Holy Trinity many times when I lived here, but it never once occurred to me that his monks were actually soldiers. I shall never forgive myself f
or defending this place when the mob attacked.’
‘Even if Abbot Multone does believe Marmaduke, Chozaico will still escape,’ said Michael. ‘As we discovered earlier, everyone is too preoccupied with saving the city to worry about spies.’
‘I am not sure Marmaduke was the best person to tell, anyway,’ said Bartholomew resignedly. ‘Wy said he was a man to watch, and then started muttering about him, the plague pit at St Mary ad Valvas, and Cotyngham.’
‘The church where Sir William was shot,’ mused Michael, heaving his bulk on to a higher step. It meant Bartholomew was crushed, but he did not complain, grateful for the warmth of the monk’s body against his legs. ‘The sooner it is demolished, the better. Not only is it an eyesore, but Helen was right when she said it is cursed – it seems to attract evil happenings.’
‘Cynric does not think it is haunted,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite the fact that he is the first to detect questionable atmospheres—’
‘Then Cynric is wrong,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because even I sense something nasty about the place.’
They lapsed into silence again, Bartholomew’s teeth chattering so violently that he feared they might crack. Then he began to drowse, and when Langelee spoke, startling him awake, he had no idea how much time had passed. He was immediately aware that something had changed, though: it was the sound of the water, which had gone from gushing to a low roar.
‘Something has broken,’ explained Langelee. ‘The river has burst its banks, or some reservoir of water has been released. The cellar is filling faster now.’
Bartholomew knew Langelee was right when Michael shifted positions and he could hear that the monk was sitting in water. He tried to force himself to think, although he had stopped shivering and there was a warm glow in the core of his being that he knew was illusory.
‘Does anyone want to make a final confession?’ asked Michael. ‘Because if so, he might want to do it now, while I am still in a fit state to grant absolution. Matt will have to swim to the far end of the room while I hear yours, Master, because I imagine you have plenty to get off your chest.’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 29
