Bartholomew grabbed the dagger Marmaduke had dropped, and bent to hack away the ropes that bound Michael. But they were viciously tight, and the circulation had been cut off in the monk’s feet. It took the combined strength of physician and book-bearer to haul him upright.
They turned for the steps, but Marmaduke was there yet again. He was laughing wildly, and yelling something about Sampson’s toe. Isabella had also recovered, and was coming to her accomplice’s aid. She held a knife.
It was no time for caution. With a battle cry he had learned at Poitiers, Bartholomew surged towards Marmaduke, startling him with the fury of the attack. Then more stones fell, and suddenly Marmaduke was no longer in their way.
‘Carry Michael outside!’ Bartholomew yelled to Cynric, standing so he was between them and Isabella. It was a tall order, given the disparity in his friends’ sizes, and he hoped it could be done.
‘Now it is just you and me,’ said Isabella, so softly as to be almost inaudible over the thunderous sounds of collapse that reverberated around them. ‘We shall die here together.’
Bartholomew tried to duck around her, but she flailed with the knife, and he was obliged to retreat or risk being disembowelled. More of the ceiling dropped, and the air around them was so full of dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Then a hand fastened around his tunic, dragging him to his knees. It was Marmaduke again, torn and bloody, but still intent on revenge. Isabella moved in, dagger held high.
All seemed lost, but out of nowhere an image of Radeford sprang into Bartholomew’s mind. The lawyer had been kind and decent, and they had killed him for it. Rage filled him again. He wrenched away from Marmaduke and lashed out with his fists as hard as he could. He felt them connect, but there was too much dust to let him see with what.
He staggered upright, and when he found no one there to stop him, lurched towards the stairs. They were littered with debris, and it was not an easy scramble. The sliding door was ahead of him, and he watched with horror as it began to roll closed, its mechanism thrown into action by the shifting angle of the floor on which it rested. He started to step through it, but it lurched violently, and he could tell from the noise it made that it would kill him if he was caught by it.
Desperately, he looked around and his eye lit on a mallet that had been dropped by Frost or one of his soldiers. He jammed it in the tracks. The door stopped moving, and he shot through it. But he was only just in time – the mallet flew into pieces from the immense weight, and the door slammed closed right behind him. It caught the hem of his tunic, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. He tore it free, and emerged with relief into the cold, clean dampness of the church above.
Unfortunately, his problems were still not over. The collapsing crypt had destabilised the chancel walls, which were beginning to teeter. He leapt backwards as one section crashed at his feet, and he knew he would never reach the nave door alive.
But St Mary ad Valvas was well endowed with windows. He raced towards the nearest and launched himself through it with as much power as he could muster. There was a moment when he thought he was going to collide with the sill, but he grazed across it and sailed through, to land in a skidding, sprawling, spraying heap in the flooded grass on the other side.
It was not a moment too soon, and he had barely finished sliding when the wall crumpled inwards. He clambered to his feet and ran, aiming to put as much distance between him and the building as possible, and hoping with all his heart that Cynric and Michael had escaped, too.
He reached the minster, and took refuge behind one of its sturdy buttresses. Peering around it, he was just in time to see the top of the tower wobble, and then glide out of sight in a cloud of dust with a sound like distant thunder.
It was not many moments before people began to pour out of the minster, to see what was responsible for such an unearthly medley of groans, rumbles and crashes. They pointed and yelled, surging forward to stand unwisely close to the dust-shrouded ruins. The vicars-choral were hot on their heels, pleading with them to watch from a safer distance. Few heeded the advice.
Bartholomew joined the stream of spectators, shoving through them frantically as he hunted for Michael and Cynric. They were nowhere to be found, and despair began to seize him.
‘There you are,’ came an aggrieved voice, and he whipped around to see Michael, dirty, bruised and dishevelled, but certainly alive. Cynric was beaming at his side. ‘Where have you been? We were worried.’
‘Thank God!’ Relief turned Bartholomew’s legs to jelly, and he grabbed Michael’s shoulder for support. ‘I thought you were still inside – that Cynric was unequal to carrying you.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you are not suggesting that I am fat.’
‘Or that I am feeble,’ added Cynric, although the gleam in his eyes said he was amused.
Bartholomew had no wish to linger by the rubble, so he led the way to the minster, hoping one of the vicars would give him something to drink, to wash the grit from his mouth and throat. Inside, he was startled to hear people cheering, and was obliged to shout when he asked Talerand what was happening.
‘The tidal surge,’ the Dean hollered back. ‘It was smaller than predicted, and the devastation is not nearly as great as we feared. The water levels are already falling. And look!’
They followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw bright light arch through the stained glass of the chancel windows. It had stopped raining, and the first sunshine in days told those inside that although there would be a lot of work to do before York recovered, the worst was over.
The Dean bustled away, all smiles and eccentric bonhomie, and Bartholomew leaned against a wall, feeling tainted by the entire encounter with Helen, Isabella, Marmaduke and their deranged plans. He was so engrossed in maudlin thoughts that he did not see Langelee until the Master was standing right in front of him. Langelee regarded his Fellows’ torn and dirty clothes with rank disapproval.
‘I hope you have not made a mess in the library,’ he said. ‘That is where you have been, is it not? Securing the documents that will convict Chozaico and his accomplices? As I ordered?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Michael tiredly. ‘But what are you doing here? I thought you were helping Alice to settle refugees in Holy Trinity.’
Langelee waved an airy hand. ‘She is an extremely efficient woman, and needed no assistance from me. So I decided to risk the bridge, and spend my time doing a little business for Michaelhouse. I have been negotiating with the vicars about Huntington.’
‘We have some bad news about that,’ said Michael. ‘We met Jorden earlier, and he told us that a codicil was never made. Ergo, we have no right to the place, no matter what Zouche intended.’
‘Yes, I met Jorden, too,’ said Langelee slyly. ‘It was what prompted me to race here before all was lost. Ah, Dalfeld! There you are. Have you finished?’
‘Marmaduke sent for you,’ said Michael, as the oily lawyer approached. ‘Why did you not answer his summons?’
Dalfeld winked. ‘Because your Master has precipitated a situation that promises to be rather lucrative. I shall see what Marmaduke wants later.’
‘Well?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. ‘Did the vicars agree to my terms?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘They are desperate to make amends and have agreed unanimously to what you have proposed, giving me full authority to negotiate the finer details.’
‘Make amends for what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Isabella wrote a powerful letter to Jafford,’ explained Langelee. ‘In which she argues that the flood is God’s anger at the vicars’ treatment of Michaelhouse. It certainly convinced me, and it convinced him, too. He and the bulk of his colleagues are eager for a reconciliation, so I suggested a solution that suits us all.’
‘What solution?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘What have you done?’
Langelee turned back to Dalfeld. ‘Is that the document which will make our agreem
ent legal and binding?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘It states that Michaelhouse will relinquish all claims on Huntington in exchange for eighty marks, payable immediately. I think you will agree that it is a generous sum.’
Bartholomew gaped as Dalfeld handed Langelee a heavy purse. ‘No!’ he exclaimed, shocked. ‘It is not right!’
‘A hundred marks, then,’ sighed Dalfeld, beginning to count out more coins. ‘But that will be their final offer.’
‘Very well,’ said Langelee blandly. ‘Where do I sign?’
EPILOGUE
Cambridge, May 1358
It did not take long for Bartholomew, Michael, Langelee and Cynric to settle back into College life. The Summer Term was always busy, with students preparing for final disputations, and they threw themselves into the familiar routine with a sense of relief. Their colleagues had been delighted with the arrangement Langelee had made, especially when he produced a sheaf of accounts that Talerand had inadvertently discovered in the library.
‘The parish barely makes ends meet,’ Langelee crowed, when he happened to see Bartholomew in the orchard. The physician was preparing for a lecture he was to give the following morning, using the trunk of a fallen apple tree as a bench, and enjoying a rare opportunity for solitude. Reluctantly, he closed his book, and made space for the Master to sit next to him.
‘What parish?’ he asked.
‘Huntington,’ replied Langelee impatiently. ‘It was a terrible journey home, what with all those floods, so we have not had time to talk. But you really should study Huntington’s records. Then you will understand what a fabulous bargain I had from those sly vicars. They must be livid!’
‘They will only be livid if they see the accounts,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But they cannot, because you have them.’
Langelee’s jubilant expression faded. ‘I had not thought of that. Do you think I should send them back? Anonymously. Of course.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Unless you include a hundred marks in the parcel. What you did was dishonest, and I was ashamed to be party to it.’
Langelee waved an airy hand that said he did not care about the physician’s sensibilities. ‘Huntington makes virtually no money at all, and the church has serious structural defects,’ he gloated. ‘It will cost a fortune to rebuild.’
‘But Zouche wanted Huntington to come to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And you professed yourself eager to see his wishes fulfilled. How can you justify—’
‘Zouche would have applauded this solution,’ declared Langelee; Bartholomew had no idea if it was true. ‘He did not intend for us to be burdened with an expensive millstone. You can call it payment for our silence over the fact that Cave killed Cotyngham, if it makes you feel any better.’
‘No, it does not, because that was unethical, too. Besides, as I told you in York, I am not sure Cave is sufficiently poised to have committed murder and kept calm when his “victim” was in the Franciscan Friary. Moreover, the shoelace we found in the chimney shows that he searched Cotyngham’s house for documents, but it does not prove him a killer.’
‘You are over-thinking the matter,’ said Michael, who had approached so silently that he made them jump by speaking behind them. He smiled and brandished a letter. ‘I thought I might find you here, so I came to tell you that I had a missive today. From Thoresby.’
‘That old rogue,’ said Langelee, but without rancour. ‘What did he want?’
Michael plumped himself down on the trunk with such vigour that Bartholomew was almost catapulted off the other end, while even Langelee had to scramble to keep his balance.
‘To tell me that Cave tried bullying Jafford, who has succeeded Ellis as sub-chanter. But Jafford complained to the minster hierarchy, so Cave was appointed librarian.’
‘Cave is promoted?’ asked Langelee, disgusted. ‘Is that how crime is punished in York?’
‘Cave was so horrified that he had a seizure the same night, and died,’ Michael went on. ‘At least, that is what Thoresby says. Regardless, he will shove no more elderly priests to their deaths.’
‘Then let us hope that marks the end of the matter,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The whole affair was unpleasant, and I imagine Zouche would have been horrified.’
‘He would,’ agreed Langelee soberly. ‘Especially with Myton – stealing the chantry fund to save his business ventures. I still cannot believe it. He was always so honest.’
‘Do not judge him too harshly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From all we were told about his character, I believe he would have repaid what he had borrowed if he could.’
Langelee sniffed, unconvinced. ‘Well, he has forfeited my good graces. To strike him where I know it will hurt, I persuaded Jafford to divert some of the obits Myton had founded for himself to Zouche instead. But Myton is still recorded in the deeds as “venerable and discreet”. I could not find a way to change that.’
‘Perhaps people in the future will think like Sir William,’ suggested Michael. ‘And read in those words a euphemism for haughty and secretive. Regardless, Myton’s crime precipitated a chain of events that culminated in the murders of Radeford, Ellis and seven executors, and the attempted murders of us, Cynric, Sir William and Dalfeld.’
‘It might have been eight executors, if Anketil had not been stabbed by Wy,’ said Langelee. ‘And I am still dismayed that Helen survived the collapse of the church. She emerged with not so much as a scratch, and brays that she is innocent. She may yet evade justice.’
They were silent for a while, and the only sounds were the bees among the lavender and the distant babble of students emerging from a class. Then Michael asked, ‘How did Myton discover the list of French spies? We know Zouche dictated it to the clerk, who was murdered by Wy as he was on his way to report the matter to Mayor Longton. But how did Myton come by it?’
‘We will probably never know for certain,’ replied Langelee. ‘But I suspect the clerk made duplicates, which he filed in Zouche’s records. Myton probably happened across one by chance – as did Radeford, five years later. But such a list would have been worthless alone, so Myton must have spent a lot of time hunting out supporting evidence. Perhaps that is what led him to neglect his failing business …’
‘Thus allowing Gisbyrn to crush him,’ nodded Michael. ‘But why not expose Chozaico before killing himself?’
‘If he was unhappy enough to take his own life, he would not have cared about spies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Besides, he probably liked Chozaico, and did not consider it a pleasure to deliver such a man to his execution. I know I would not have done – I liked him, too.’
‘Well, I am sorry he escaped,’ said Langelee sulkily. ‘I spent years trying to catch him and his helpmeets, and now they are sitting happily in France, enjoying the fruits of their deception.’
‘Actually, they are not.’ Michael tapped his letter. ‘Thoresby guessed they might encounter difficulties on the flooded roads, so he dispatched messengers to those foundations in which he thought they might take refuge.’
‘They are apprehended?’ cried Langelee in dismay. For all his hot words, he did not want Chozaico dead, either.
Michael inclined his head. ‘But their capture coincides with the arrest of some English spies in France, so an exchange is being negotiated. They will elude the hangman, although the Benedictines at their Mother house in Marmoutier will have to pay an enormous fine in compensation to our King.’
‘He will be pleased, then,’ grinned Langelee. ‘He is always in need of money, and loves unexpected windfalls.’
‘Incidentally, the floods that prevented Chozaico’s escape also punished Dalfeld,’ added Michael rather gleefully. ‘His house fell in the river, taking with it everything he owned. He had to throw himself on Stayndrop’s mercy, and Stayndrop obliged by sending him to Grimsby.’
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘It is not somewhere he will be able to acc
rue riches and power again. And finally, Thoresby tells me that the Carmelites are feted as heroes for their unstinting efforts to help the dispossessed during the floods. I am glad: they are decent men.’
‘I have one question, though,’ said Langelee. ‘We thought we had a clue when Talerand saw Christopher weeping the night before Zouche’s chantry fund was discovered empty. But it was nothing of the kind, and we never did find out what had distressed him.’
‘Actually, it was explained in a document Sir William found in the rosewood chest,’ said Michael. ‘Christopher had learned that his brother was a spy. Obviously, he could not confide that when Talerand asked for an explanation – not without harming Anketil.’
‘And we wasted all that time hunting for a codicil that never existed,’ said Langelee with a sigh. ‘Time I could have spent enjoying myself with old friends, although I am grateful I did not try to pass too much of it with Helen. She might have tried to poison me.’
‘She might,’ agreed Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I know Cynric discovered Radeford’s hiding place in the end, but he refuses to tell me about it. Did he confide in you?’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘He did not discover it, Brother – I did. Radeford had put the documents in the saddlebag where I keep my medical supplies, a place Cynric never ventures because he believes it to be full of sinister ingredients and equipment. Although he is wrong, of course – it contains nothing unpleasant.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘Then why did you not find them immediately?’
‘Because they were right at the bottom, wedged beneath a fold in the leather – they fell out when I upended it to repack before we left York. I gave the list of spies and the correspondence between Neville and Christopher to Sir William, but I burned Isabella’s forged codicil.’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 34
