‘I am not swimming anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of becoming trapped somewhere and suffocating against the ceiling. ‘Besides, listening will pass the time.’
‘I am not telling you two my sins,’ growled Langelee, adding haughtily, ‘Such few as they are. Bartholomew’s will be far greater.’
The physician had no idea what should have given him this notion, when he had not been the one who had performed unsavoury favours for high-ranking churchmen. Suddenly, the water changed its sound once again. It was no longer a roar, but an odd kind of gurgle, and he could only assume that the grilles were now underwater. He tried to work out whether this meant the rate of flow would reduce, but his mind was too sluggish for complex calculations.
‘When we escape, the first thing I am going to do is run to the library and collect that box,’ said Langelee, although his defeated tone told his Fellows that he did not expect to be in a position to do any such thing. ‘With luck, whoever left the documents for us to find will not have recovered them yet. Then I am going to make Thoresby listen to me, and lead a posse to catch Chozaico.’
‘And I shall go to St Mary ad Valvas,’ said Michael. ‘Wy’s confidences, such as they were, suggest something is to be found there – something that ties together Cotyngham, Huntington, Myton and the shooting of Sir William.’
‘Chozaico was right: the solution to all our mysteries does lie in Myton,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to think clearly. ‘We have been hearing about him ever since we arrived …’
‘He was a good man,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘However, as it was he who revealed the fiasco surrounding the lost list of spies, perhaps we should look into his life. And his death.’
‘He was said to have been venerable and discreet,’ added Michael. ‘But I am beginning to wonder if we should accept William’s interpretation of what that means: haughty and secretive.’
‘No,’ said Langelee immediately. Then he sighed. ‘Complex and clever, perhaps, but not secretive. And I never met a man more deeply loyal to Zouche and to York.’
Bartholomew was growing sleepy again, but knew it had nothing to do with tiredness and a great deal to do with the heat that was being leached from his body. He forced himself to his feet and began kicking the door again, determined not to let himself slide into a fatal doze just yet.
As he battered, the faces of those he loved flitted through his mind, starting with Matilde, and followed by his sister. Then came his friends at Michaelhouse, and the patients who declined to be treated by anyone else. And his students. Who would finish their training if he was not there?
At that point, something knocked into the door from the other side, and with a wave of despair, he realised the floodwaters must have invaded that room, too, and had washed a barrel or some other floatable object against it. He kicked again, to vent his rage at the futility of it all, and was startled when there were two answering thumps. There were voices, too.
Michael was quicker to understand what it meant than the physician. He leapt to his feet and began hammering and yelling for all he was worth. Within moments, there came the sound of the bar being removed, and the door was hauled open to reveal the startled faces of Abbot Multone and Warden Stayndrop. And behind them, equally astonished, was Prior Penterel of the Carmelites.
Langelee did not dash immediately to the library, and Michael did not go to St Mary ad Valvas, because both were far too cold. With calm efficiency, Penterel lit a fire, while Stayndrop piled it with logs. Meanwhile, Multone rummaged among the heaps of supplies, and emerged with armfuls of dry clothes. The habit he discovered was tight and short on Michael, but the monk donned it gratefully anyway, while the huge range of secular garments available for Bartholomew and Langelee underlined just how often Chozaico’s intelligencers must have used Bestiary Hall as a base from which to prowl the town in civilian garb, gathering information.
‘The flood?’ Bartholomew asked, feeling warmth seep back into his body. He was sitting so close to the fire that he was in danger of setting himself alight, but he did not care. He wished his wits were sharper, though, and declined the wine Multone offered. A glance towards the window told him it was dark, and he wondered how long they had been trapped in the basement.
Multone sighed. ‘The Foss has invaded the south-eastern part of the city, and the Ouse has burst its western banks. Our nunnery is lost, I am afraid – Prioress Alice and her ladies are homeless, although the water is not very deep anywhere as yet.’
‘But the tidal surge is expected soon,’ added Stayndrop. ‘And then we shall see.’
‘Is it Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Already?’
Stayndrop nodded. ‘It will be light soon.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Langelee. ‘How did you know to rescue us?’
‘Stayndrop and I met Chozaico on the Ouse Bridge last night,’ explained Multone. ‘We begged him to attend our emergency conference in the minster, but he demurred, saying he had other urgent business. Then he gave us a letter for Prior Penterel, which he insisted we deliver in person with all possible speed.’
‘But we had better things to do than act as his messenger-boys,’ said Stayndrop indignantly. ‘So we went about our own affairs, and I forgot about the matter until I met Multone not long ago.’
‘Rather guiltily, we thought we had better do as he had asked.’ Multone took up the tale. ‘Even though it meant going to the Carmelite Priory.’
‘The letter urged me to hurry to Bestiary Hall immediately,’ said Penterel, gamely overlooking the slur on his foundation. ‘And to look in the cellar.’
‘Naturally, Stayndrop and I were intrigued,’ said Multone. ‘So we decided to accompany him. But I do not understand. What were you doing down there?’
‘He must have seen the rising water,’ said Michael to Langelee, after he had furnished their rescuers with a brief account of what had happened. ‘And he knew we would be in danger. He risked capture by making arrangements to set us free so soon – it was hardly his fault that the attempt was delayed. Will you go after him?’
Langelee started to nod, then sighed. ‘Later. He gave us a chance, so now I feel obliged to give him one. I wonder why he did it?’
‘We cannot stay here much longer,’ said Penterel, beginning to edge towards the door. ‘I want to be in my own convent when this high tide invades.’
‘We all do,’ nodded Abbot Multone, standing abruptly. ‘And we need to shepherd as many people inside our precincts as possible, so that when these waters arrive, folk will be safe.’
‘We Franciscans have already started,’ said Stayndrop. ‘So have the Dominicans, Gilbertines and Augustinians. Indeed, I suspect Holy Trinity will be the only foundation to remain closed.’
‘If this surge does come, York will need all the refuges it can get,’ said Langelee, suddenly all brisk business. ‘Send for Alice and her nuns, Abbot Multone – they are homeless, so they can open Holy Trinity in Chozaico’s stead. They are Benedictines, after all. And I shall help.’
‘That is an excellent idea,’ said Multone gratefully.
Langelee turned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘York was my home for a long time, and I owe it to the place to make sure Alice knows what she is doing. You two must go to the library and take those documents to Thoresby. But hurry – the security of your country is at stake.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Langelee to cope with refugees alone, but understood it was important to retrieve the evidence that would convict the spies before it disappeared. Michael sketched a blessing after the Master, and they watched him dart away to where Holy Trinity was a forbidding black mass in the gloom. Then they began striding towards the bridge.
The main road was still crammed with people and animals, all confusion and noise. The water was barely ankle deep, and Bartholomew supposed it had been simple bad luck that they had been incarcerated in the one room in Bestiary Hall that was prone to flood. He glanced up at the sky: dawn was a twilighty glimmer
through thick grey clouds.
‘Did Marmaduke come to you with a message?’ he asked of Multone as they went. ‘Telling you to bring armed lay-brothers?’
‘No,’ replied Multone, surprised. ‘Not that I would have been able to oblige anyway – they are too busy with the displaced hordes. Indeed, I should be there now, calming the panic and leading prayers …’
‘We all should,’ said Stayndrop. He was clutching Penterel’s hand to steady himself, and Multone was gripping the Carmelite’s other arm. People were pointing at the unusual sight of a Franciscan and a Benedictine accepting help from a White Friar, and Bartholomew wondered whether their example would begin to heal the damage Wy’s malice had wrought through the years.
They had not gone far when they met Jorden, wet, dirty and harried. The Dominican paddled towards them, and began to speak in an agitated gabble.
‘There is something I should tell you. I only remembered it last night – the first opportunity I have had to consider matters other than theology for an age, because Mardisley is a very demanding opponent. If I let my mind wander for an instant, he—’
‘Tell us what?’ interrupted Michael curtly, eager to be on his way.
‘It is about the codicil giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. I am afraid it does not exist. If my mind had not been so full of the Immaculate Conception, I might have recalled sooner—’
Michael was becoming impatient. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The clerk charged to draw up the deed was a Dominican, and I was his assistant at the time. We obliged, but Zouche kept ordering us to redraft it – he wanted to ensure it was absolutely right, you see, so as to safeguard Cotyngham. He discussed the wording with all manner of people, and the business took weeks.’
‘Are you saying it was never finished?’ asked Michael, alarmed. ‘That it is incomplete?’
‘We did finish, but Zouche died before it could be signed. Because it was effectively worthless, we scraped the parchment clean, and used it for something else. Ergo, you will never find the codicil, because it does not exist. It never did – at least, not in a form that could help you.’
‘But Radeford found it,’ objected Michael.
‘Impossible,’ said Jorden firmly. ‘But we had better discuss this later, when there are not people needing my help.’
He sped away before Michael could question him further.
‘Radeford suspected there was something amiss with what he found,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Michael about to dismiss Jorden’s testimony. ‘He said as much – told us he wanted to study it carefully before showing it to anyone else.’
‘But who would forge a document giving us Huntington? It makes no sense!’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone who does not like the vicars-choral.’
‘Speaking of Radeford, what did your book-bearer mean when he said he would soon follow him?’ asked Multone, as they resumed their precarious journey. The water was filthy and it stank; Bartholomew was profoundly grateful that the day was still too dark to allow him to see why. ‘He called out as I passed him not long ago, and asked me to give you the message.’
Bartholomew stopped abruptly and stared at him. ‘What?’
‘He was with Marmaduke,’ elaborated Multone. ‘Walking arm-in-arm. He tried to say something else, too, but Marmaduke was in a hurry and would not let him finish.’
‘What did he start to say?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking with such intensity that the Abbot took a step away from him.
‘I am not sure. He was calling over his shoulder, and we were near the minster, which was noisy.’
‘Please try to remember,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘It is important.’
‘I thought he mentioned St Mary ad Valvas, but I probably misheard. Why would he be making reference to that horrible place?’
‘What is wrong, Matt?’ asked Michael, alarmed by the physician’s reaction.
‘Cynric,’ replied Bartholomew, stomach churning in alarm. ‘Marmaduke has him.’
The physician began wading quickly towards the bridge. He stumbled when he trod on some unseen obstacle beneath the surface, and the time spent regaining his balance allowed Michael to catch him up.
‘Explain,’ ordered the monk, grabbing his arm to make him slow down. ‘How do you know Marmaduke has Cynric? And what do you mean by “has” anyway?’
‘Cynric is not in the habit of wandering about arm-inarm with strangers,’ replied Bartholomew, freeing himself roughly and ploughing onwards again. ‘So there is only one explanation: Marmaduke was holding him close because he had a knife at his ribs. And the message Cynric gave the Abbot …’
‘That he would soon follow Radeford,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What did—’
‘Radeford is dead!’ shouted Bartholomew, exasperated by the monk’s slow wits. ‘So Cynric was telling us that he will soon be dead, too. Why could Multone not have mentioned this the moment we were released? We wasted ages chatting about nonsense while Cynric was in danger!’
‘Steady,’ warned Michael soothingly. ‘We will save him. Multone was probably right when he thought he heard Cynric mention St Mary ad Valvas, because we know the place is home to all manner of sinister activities. We shall go there straight …’
He faltered, because they had reached the bridge, which was the scene of almost indescribable chaos. The volume of water racing beneath it was making the entire structure vibrate, and the sound was deafening. Its houses had been evacuated, but the frightened residents had refused to go far, and stood in disconsolate huddles, blocking the road for pedestrians and carts alike. Meanwhile, Mayor Longton had ordered the bridge closed, and a mass of frantic humanity swirled about its entrance, desperate to reach friends and family on the other side.
Bartholomew started to fight his way through them, but the crowd was too tightly packed, and with horror he saw it was going to prevent him from racing to Cynric’s aid. But he had reckoned without the powerful bulk of Michael, and the combined authority of Abbot Multone, Warden Stayndrop and Prior Penterel. The monk was able to force a path where Bartholomew could not, and the other three quelled objections by dispensing grand-sounding blessings in Latin that had folk bowing their heads to receive them.
‘You cannot cross,’ said the soldier on duty, putting out his hand when they reached the front of the melee. ‘It is about to collapse.’
‘But we must,’ cried Michael. ‘We have urgent business on the other side.’
‘Urgent enough to cost you your life?’ asked the guard archly.
‘Yes!’ shouted Bartholomew, shoving past him and beginning to run. He staggered when the bridge swayed under his feet, but then raced on, closing his ears to the unsettling sound of groaning timbers from the houses as the structure flexed. He glanced behind him to see that Michael, Stayndrop, Multone and Penterel had followed, and were close on his heels.
They were over in a trice, only to find their way blocked by a desperate crowd on the other side, all standing knee deep in water that made it impossible to see where land began and river ended. Again, Michael shouldered his way through them, while the three heads of houses prevented him and Bartholomew from being lynched by bestowing benedictions.
Once free of the press, Bartholomew hesitated, not sufficiently familiar with the layout of the streets to know where to tread – it would be very easy to step into a ditch or a runnel and be swept towards the churning river.
There was a cry behind him, and he whipped around to see Stayndrop gaping in dismay – water had invaded his priory. Penterel clapped a comforting arm around his shoulders and led him towards it, while Multone had already disappeared to his own abbey. Bartholomew glanced back at the bridge, and saw guards struggling to prevent people from storming across it; he hoped he had not set a precedent that would end in tragedy.
But it was no time to berate himself, so he aimed for a gap in the houses that he hoped was a lane leading towards Petergate, stumbling to his knees when he tried to move t
oo quickly and the water tripped him. He staggered on, only to fall a second time when a crate washed into him. Suddenly, there was a flurry of warning yells, and the water grew much deeper and faster.
‘Another burst bank,’ muttered Michael, hauling Bartholomew upright by the scruff of his neck. ‘Hurry, or we shall both be swept away.’
They struggled on, relieved to find the water shallowing as they moved north. By St Sampson’s Church, there was no evidence of it at all, although the ground squelched underfoot. It was where they had first met Marmaduke, and gasping for breath, Bartholomew lurched inside, wanting to be sure the ex-priest had not taken his prisoner there.
It was full of people praying that the flood would abate before it reached them. Belongings were piled in heaps along the aisles, and mothers cradled frightened children. But there was no sign of Marmaduke, and a harried parish priest informed them that he had not been there all night.
‘And his help would have been appreciated,’ he said bitterly. ‘He has been in here every other day, guarding Sampson’s toe. Why did he have to choose today to disappear?’
Bartholomew had no time to explain. He turned and ran. Michael, who had been clinging to the doorpost in an effort to catch his breath, began to follow.
‘You are going the wrong way,’ the monk gasped, but Bartholomew ignored him, then spent several agonising moments in a dead end, and was obliged to retrace his steps. He tried to make up for lost time by taking what he thought was a shortcut, but then became hopelessly lost in the tangle of alleys that had confounded him and Radeford on their first day in the city. When he finally emerged on the right road, Michael was some distance ahead.
Petergate was packed with people, animals and carts, most aiming for the sanctuary offered by the minster. They were greeted at the precinct gates by vicars-choral, who dispensed practical advice and directions to where they could be fed and dried out.
‘Wait!’ gasped Michael, as the physician shot past him. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm, and swung him around. ‘Do not make the same mistake as Langelee by racing blindly into a situation you do not understand. What is your plan?’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 30
