When they reached the Barbican, they met Sheriff Tulyet, who was just walking out. Helbye saluted smartly.
‘Here he is, sir,’ he said, jerking a callused thumb over his shoulder at Moleyns. ‘One prisoner, delivered safe and sound.’
‘I am a personal friend of the King,’ declared Moleyns, disliking the disrespectful introduction, and aiming to let his new captor know how matters stood. ‘And I expect to be treated accordingly. If you have any doubts, read the letter your man carries.’
Obligingly, Helbye handed it over. ‘Apparently, it says the King wants him to have decent quarters, the best food, and the freedom to go out whenever he likes.’
‘The freedom to go out whenever I deem it safe,’ corrected Tulyet, scanning it briefly before shoving it rather carelessly into his tunic. ‘But Cambridge can be very disorderly, so I do not foresee many outings, I am sorry to say.’
He did not sound sorry at all, and Moleyns struggled to keep his temper. ‘You might want to reconsider that attitude,’ he said sharply. ‘I think—’
‘See him to his cell, Helbye,’ interrupted Tulyet, giving the distinct impression that he did not care two hoots what Moleyns thought. ‘I will speak to him later, if I have time.’
Outraged by the implication that his arrival was inconsequential, and alarmed by the word ‘cell’, Moleyns dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, aiming to surge forward and give the Sheriff a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, he jabbed too hard – he had never been a very good rider – and the animal reared. He was saved from an embarrassing tumble by Tulyet himself, who jumped forward to grab the bridle.
‘You had better dismount,’ said the Sheriff coolly. ‘We cannot have you falling off and hurting yourself. Or worse, hurting someone else.’
Moleyns was incensed by the impertinence, but Tulyet was already striding away, clearly considering the conversation over. He ground his teeth in impotent fury, outraged that he should be treated with such rank and arrogant disregard.
‘We shall write to the King tomorrow,’ said Inge soothingly. ‘You will not suffer these indignities long, never fear.’
Moleyns nodded slowly, hot temper turning to something colder and darker.
‘Tulyet will be sorry he offended me,’ he said softly. ‘And so will his town.’
CHAPTER 1
Cambridge, February 1360
An enormous crowd had gathered outside St Mary the Great, and everyone in it was gazing upwards. On the top of the tower, high above, the University’s Chancellor was doing battle with the Devil, a desperate, frantic struggle that surged back and forth, perilously close to the edge. More than once it seemed the pair would plummet to their deaths. Or Chancellor Tynkell would: most suspected it would take rather more to eliminate Satan.
Master Ralph de Langelee of Michaelhouse and four of his Fellows were among the throng. They had been to visit friends in Peterhouse and were hurrying home when their attention had been snagged by the spectacle. All had teaching planned for that morning, but lectures had flown from their minds when they had seen what was happening on the roof.
‘Whatever possessed him to tackle such a foe?’ breathed Father William. He was famous for three things: a filthy Franciscan habit, scandalously bigoted opinions, and a dim-wittedness rare among those claiming to be academics. ‘Even I would not dare, and I am a priest.’
‘Let us pray he is strong enough,’ whispered Clippesby, the College’s Dominican. He crossed himself, then hugged the goose he was carrying. His habit of talking to animals – and claiming they talked back – naturally led most people to assume he was insane.
‘This wind does not help,’ added Langelee. He had been a henchman for the Archbishop of York before deciding that life as a scholar would be more fun. Like William, he was no intellect, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were generally satisfied with his rule. ‘One false step, and they will both be blown off.’
Even as he spoke, a violent gust made him stagger, then huddle more deeply into his cloak. It was bitterly cold, with streams and ditches frozen hard, and the occasional flurry of snow dancing in the air. He turned as Beadle Meadowman approached at a run. Beadles were the men who kept order in the University, under the command of the proctors. The Senior Proctor was currently Michael, a rotund Benedictine theologian, who was the third of Langelee’s Fellows.
‘We cannot open the porch door, Brother,’ Meadowman reported tersely. ‘The Devil must have tampered with it, to keep us out.’
‘Then try the one in the vestry,’ suggested Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse’s physician and the last Fellow in the pack. Besides teaching medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died. He sincerely hoped that his services would not be required for Tynkell.
‘That is a good idea.’ Michael sighed irritably when Meadowman only gazed up at the tower in open-mouthed fascination. ‘Well, go on then, man!’
Meadowman shuffled away, but with such obvious reluctance that it was clear his efforts to enter the building had not been as assiduous as he would have his Senior Proctor believe.
‘He does not want to go in, because he is afraid of what he might encounter in there,’ said Bartholomew, watching him.
Michael scowled. ‘Tynkell is fighting a person, Matt, not Satan. I cannot imagine what he thinks he is doing, but unless my beadles stop them soon, blood will be spilled.’
‘It is the Devil.’ William sounded astonished that the monk should think otherwise. ‘Look at him, Brother – dressed in black from head to toe.’
‘So am I,’ retorted Michael, indicating his Benedictine habit. ‘But that does not mean—’
‘And he has that hunched, impish look of all demons,’ William went on earnestly. ‘Trust me, I know. I learned these things when I was with the Inquisition in France.’
Fortunately for that country’s ‘heretics’, William’s appointment had been a short one, and he had been assigned to Cambridge when his fellow inquisitors had deemed him too extreme.
There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as the wrestling pair lurched violently to one side, dislodging a coping stone, which crashed to the ground below. Then Tynkell managed to wrap his hands around his opponent’s throat. There was a cheer of encouragement from the crowd, especially when the Devil began to flail around in a frantic effort to breathe.
‘Those wretched beadles are more interested in gawping than putting an end to it,’ said Michael crossly, glaring at them. ‘I shall have to do it myself.’
‘Then hurry,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want the Chancellor to commit murder in front of half the town.’
‘Do not intervene!’ cried William in dismay, as the monk began to stride towards the church. ‘Not when Tynkell is winning. New scholars will race to study here once they learn that we are the kind of men who can conquer Lucifer.’
Michael did not grace the appeal with a response. He reached the church, Bartholomew at his heels, and inspected the vestry door. The beadles were more than happy to abandon their half-hearted attempts to open it, and scuttled off to join the other spectators in the High Street.
The vestry door was shut fast, but it only took a moment to ascertain that a key had been used, not some diabolical device. It was still in the hole, and a jab from one of Bartholomew’s surgical probes saw it drop to the floor on the other side. There was a large gap between door and flagstones, so it was easy for the physician to slip his hand beneath and retrieve it.
‘I thought you had keys to this place,’ he remarked, inserting it into the lock and pushing the door open. Behind him, a disappointed moan from the crowd suggested that Lucifer had just broken the Chancellor’s death grip.
‘I do, but I rarely carry them these days,’ explained the monk, shoving past him and hurrying inside. ‘There is no need, because the church is always open. It has to be – the University’s recent expansion means our c
lerks have urgent business day and night, while the masons working on Sir John Dallingridge’s tomb must be able to come and go at will.’
‘Then where are they all?’ asked Bartholomew, following him up the empty nave.
Michael looked around and shrugged. ‘They must have left when they heard the commotion outside. Then the doors caught the wind, which slammed them so hard that they jammed.’
‘Both of them?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘And besides, the vestry door was locked, not jammed.’ He frowned when Michael pulled a bunch of keys from his scrip. ‘I thought you just said you never carry those.’
‘I meant the ones to the outer doors,’ explained the monk. ‘These are for the tower, which, as you know, houses the University Chest. There are only two sets of keys in existence, and this is one of them.’
The Chest contained all the University’s money and most precious documents, so its security was taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised that only a limited number of people had the wherewithal to access it.
‘Who has the other set?’ he asked. ‘Tynkell?’
‘He did, but I took it away and gave it to Meadowman instead.’ The monk shot his friend a rueful glance. ‘I was afraid Tynkell might do something else to make a name for himself before he finally retires next summer.’
Tynkell had won the chancellorship on a technicality, but it had quickly become clear that the post was well beyond his abilities. This had suited Michael perfectly, as it allowed him to seize control behind the scenes. Loath to go down in history as the Puppet Chancellor, Tynkell had backed two schemes to see himself remembered more favourably. One was to build a Common Library – a place that would have been open to all scholars, whether rich or poor, which some masters felt set a dangerously egalitarian precedent. The other was to found a new College. Both had gone disastrously wrong, but Tynkell stubbornly refused to learn from his mistakes, and Michael lived in fear that he might try something else.
Tynkell had announced his resignation eighteen months before, but had changed his mind at the last minute, and decided to stay on. A year later, he gave notice a second time, but then had been assailed with misgivings as the leaving date had loomed. He was currently due to step down at the end of the academic year, and claimed he was looking forward to enjoying some well-earned leisure time, although no one was sure whether to believe him.
‘How did he get up the tower, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Borrowed Meadowman’s, I suppose.’ Michael hissed irritably when haste made him clumsy, and he could not find the right key. ‘I thought I had loaded him with enough extra duties to keep him out of mischief. He should not have time for this sort of nonsense.’
Outside, there was a collective cry of annoyance, suggesting that the action on the roof had moved out of sight. Michael muttered a quick prayer of thanks when he found the right key at last. He started to thrust it into the hole, then gaped in disbelief when the door swung open of its own accord.
‘This is always kept locked,’ he said angrily, gathering the voluminous folds of his habit as he prepared to tackle the spiral staircase. ‘Even when one of us is working up there. Tynkell has become a real menace – I need a Chancellor I can trust, not one who runs amok.’
Knowing the monk’s upwards progress would be stately, Bartholomew pushed past him and went first, climbing as fast as he dared up steps that were unlit, icy and perilously uneven. It was not easy, and he was obliged to clamber back down again when Michael fell and released a yelp of pain, although the monk flapped an impatient hand, telling him to go on without him.
The tower comprised three large chambers, set one above the other. The first contained the bells, a trio of tuneful domes suspended in a wooden frame. Bartholomew glanced in as he hurried past, noting that it was empty. The second was the Chest Room, protected by an iron-bound door with two substantial locks. He rattled it, but it was shut fast. The third was a vast empty space containing nothing but the mess left by pigeons. Then came the roof. Bartholomew opened the little door that gave access to it, and saw Tynkell slumped on the far side.
The wind buffeted the top of the tower so hard that it was difficult to stay upright, while the slates underfoot were treacherously slick with ice. As he picked his way gingerly across them, he wondered what had induced Tynkell to fight under such conditions.
‘Matt!’ yelled Michael, hobbling up the last few stairs. ‘Wait! Where is his opponent?’
Instinct had prompted Bartholomew to go to the Chancellor’s aid, and the possibility that he might be in danger himself had not crossed his mind. He looked around in alarm, but the roof was deserted.
‘He is not here,’ he called back, although Michael could see this for himself. ‘He must have fallen over the edge while we were coming up the stairs.’
He reached Tynkell and shook his shoulder. There was no response. Alarmed, he felt for a life-beat, and then stared in shock when he could not find one.
‘No!’ he whispered in stunned disbelief. ‘Tynkell … he is dead.’
For several moments, Bartholomew could do no more than stare in horror at the man who had been the University’s public face for the last six years. Tynkell had been his patient and he had liked him. Then he dragged his eyes away and looked at Michael. The colour had drained from the monk’s face, leaving it as white as snow; he clutched the doorframe for support.
‘You are wrong,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Check again.’
Bartholomew obliged, because he was unwilling to believe the horrible truth himself, but it was not long before he sat back on his heels and shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother.’
‘But he wants to retire,’ objected Michael, as if this would undo the terrible news. ‘And I believe he is serious this time, because he has been making plans for his future.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And I am more sorry than I can say.’
Michael limped across the roof. ‘How can he be dead? All he and his opponent did was grapple and shove at each other.’
‘Perhaps he suffered an apoplexy.’
Michael shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘Well, at least the cause of death will be easy to determine for his rival. This tower is high, and anyone who falls off …’
He inched towards the parapet, and clung tightly to a pinnacle as he peered over the edge. He was greeted by a sea of faces, all upturned in eager expectation.
‘Who fell?’ he yelled, scanning the ground below for mangled remains.
‘No one,’ Father William bellowed back. ‘They disappeared from sight for a moment, after which Satan launched himself off the roof and flew to the Dominican Friary.’
William hated Dominicans, and was rarely logical where they were concerned.
‘What really happened?’ shouted Michael, appealing to his more sensible colleagues.
‘Just what he said,’ hollered Langelee. ‘Lucifer spread his great big wings, and soared off in that direction.’ He pointed east, which was not quite where the Black Friars’ convent was located, although it was not far away.
The other spectators clamoured to say that they had also seen it, so Michael squinted in the direction indicated, but could detect nothing through eyes that streamed in the iciness of the wind. Then he went to each side of the tower in turn, and surveyed the ground and the various roofs below, but there was no evidence that anyone had landed there.
‘The wind must have carried off some item of clothing,’ he yelled. ‘That is what you saw flapping away – not Satan.’
‘Nonsense!’ countered William firmly. ‘I know the Devil when I see him.’
Others roared that they did, too. Michael tried to make them see reason, but the gale was blowing harder than ever, snatching his words away before they could reach the assembled ears below. Not that anyone wanted to hear them, of course – it was far more exciting to have glimpsed the Lord of Darkness than a combatant’s cloak. Michael made his way back to where the physician still crouched next to Tynkell
.
‘It was a person,’ he insisted doggedly. ‘And people do not fly.’
‘Then where is he?’ Bartholomew gestured around him. ‘He is not up here; he would have been seen falling; and he cannot have gone down the stairs, because we would have met him when we were coming up. Or is there an alcove he might have hidden in?’
‘There is not. And nor did he take refuge in one of the chambers: the Chest Room is locked, and I looked in the other two on my way up. Both were empty.’
‘But he must be in the Chest Room,’ said Bartholomew, willing to accept the monk’s point about the other two, because he had also seen that no one was in them. ‘There is nowhere else he could have gone.’
‘It is locked,’ insisted Michael. ‘Come – I shall prove it.’
He hobbled back down the stairs, Bartholomew trailing behind him, looking for a space where the culprit might have lurked while they had hurried past. But the walls were smooth and unbroken, and not even a sparrow could have concealed itself there.
They reached the Chest Room, where Michael unfastened its two locks to reveal a sparsely furnished chamber containing a table, two stools and the enormous coffer that gave it its name. Its walls were stone, the window a fixed frame that could not be opened, and the floor and ceiling were solid wood. Small dishes holding poison were scattered around, to ensure the University’s precious records were not eaten by mice.
‘You see?’ said Michael. ‘No one is here.’
‘What about inside the Chest?’ persisted Bartholomew.
Michael opened the seven great padlocks one by one, and lifted the lid. The box was packed with scrolls, books and documents, and not only was there no room for a person to hide, but someone else would have been needed on the outside to manipulate the keys.
Leaving the monk to lock up, Bartholomew descended to the bell chamber, and quickly determined that hiding there was also impossible.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 2
