A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said a burly, angry-looking man, whom Bartholomew recognised as Master Dittone, as he ushered the students from the hall. ‘I am surprised at you, Bartholomew. I always thought you were a man of integrity. Now I learn that you steal, prowl around other colleges with weapons and make vile accusations against lowly servants who are not in a position to answer back.’

  ‘Do not be too harsh on him,’ said Eligius kindly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew suffered a grievous wound to the head recently, and his stars are poorly aligned.’

  Bartholomew’s spirits sank. Would there be no end to the repercussions of Gray’s impetuous diagnosis? ‘The relic is a fake!’ he insisted to the last of the retreating scholars. Dittone shot him a vicious look and, for a moment, appeared as though he would like to silence Bartholomew permanently, there and then. He was edged firmly to the door by Eligius, who then paused.

  ‘Take good care of them, Will,’ he said. ‘Remember the doctor is unwell and needs to be treated with sympathy. It is not his fault that he was driven to steal the relic but the fault of the devils that possess him.’

  ‘Eligius!’ cried Bartholomew as the Dominican friar closed the door behind him. ‘Stay with us!’

  The door shut with a clank and Bartholomew’s words echoed around the silent hall. Will exchanged glances with his friends. Bartholomew began to back away down the hall, while Will, ensuring that the door was locked, drew his dagger and followed.

  Bartholomew saw Henry draw his own dagger and lean over Michael, who still lay flat on his back. The students had not tied the monk’s hands, but he was insensible.

  Bartholomew looked around him desperately for some kind of weapon but realised that even a broadsword would be useless to him with his hands bound. He saw Henry hold Michael’s head back as he prepared to cut his throat. Henry then watched Will, waiting for an order.

  ‘That hand, Will,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract them long enough to give him a chance to think of some way to escape. ‘It was Starre’s, was it not? You took it the night of the first riot.’

  Will grinned, but did not stop his relentless advance.

  ‘The first riot gave us plenty of time to acquire the limb of a recently dead pauper, and we did the body no harm. We could not risk you claiming the hand belonged to a woman because it was overly small.’

  ‘But it broke as you boiled it. You had to mend it with a pin.’

  Will pulled an unpleasant face. ‘I might have known it was you who told the Chancellor that. Fortunately, Master Thorpe was not deterred by so minor a point and it did nothing to diminish his belief in the relic’s sanctity.’

  ‘And then, a couple of days later, with the hand suitably prepared, you pretended to find it in the Ditch. By then, it was wearing the ring that Father Andrew – Simon d’Ambrey, should I say – had given to you.’

  Will began to gain on Bartholomew, who continued to speak as he backed down the hall.

  ‘You had even made a fine box for it in advance, lined with satin for it to lie on.’

  ‘What if I did?’ asked Will with a shrug. ‘But there is nothing you can do about it now and we cannot have you running all over the town claiming that our saintly relic is a fake.’

  ‘But it is a fake,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘Did you take it?’ asked Will, still advancing. He fingered his dagger. Jacob, the man with the broken arm, picked up a piece of broken pot in his good hand, and prepared to follow.

  ‘I do not think he did, Will,’ he said, ‘or he would not have come back.’

  ‘True, I suppose,’ said Will grudgingly. ‘But he has the book by Galen that Master d’Ambrey so badly wanted back. He will be pleased when I give it to him.’

  ‘We know it was you who attacked us that night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You three, with Master Bigod, Huw, Saul Potter, and Ivo from David’s Hostel. Jacob’s arm was broken then, and you were bitten. And it was probably you who searched my room the first two times.’

  ‘We should have finished you then, in the street, along with that meddlesome monk. But Master Bigod was too squeamish, damn him, especially when he saw I was about to kill a man of God. Everything was going to plan until you two started to poke about.’

  Jacob hurled his piece of broken pot. Bartholomew ducked as it sailed over his head to crash against the wall in a shower of shards. Undeterred, the servant looked about for something else to throw.

  ‘And it was you who burgled those houses,’ said Bartholomew, ducking a second time as a pewter jug narrowly missed him. ‘Because you knew exactly where and when the riots would break out, you were able to use the opportunity to select the houses of certain rich merchants and steal from them.’

  ‘So what?’ said Jacob, leaning down to grab another his jug to throw. ‘Is it fair that fat merchants should have more wealth than they know what to do with, while the rest of us are starving?’

  ‘You are not starving,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  Will gave an unpleasant smile. ‘Not now, perhaps, but we have to think of the future, and a man like Simon d’Ambrey always needs funds.’

  ‘I bet he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Funds for paying people to incite riots, funds to have corpses desecrated, funds to assassinate people he does not like.’

  Will came nearer, flanked by Jacob. ‘I have had enough of this! ‘

  He turned to nod to Henry to dispatch Michael. Seeing him momentarily distracted, Bartholomew propelled himself forward with an almighty yell, crashing into him and knocking him off balance. Will fell into Jacob, who dropped to his knees with a shriek as he cradled his injured arm. Michael’s hands suddenly shot out, one grasping Henry’s throat, the other the arm that held the dagger. As Henry began to choke with a series of unpleasant gurgles, Bartholomew turned his attention back to Will. Will lunged with his knife and Bartholomew jumped away.

  ‘What is in all this for you, Will?’ asked Bartholomew, flinching backwards as Will lunged a second time. ‘Why should you risk your livelihood for d’Ambrey?’

  ‘He once paid a surgeon to set my broken leg,’ said Will, circling Bartholomew like a dog. ‘I have always deeply regretted that I did nothing to help him when he was accused all those years ago. It is a second chance, and I will go with him when he leaves tonight. I will no longer be a mere servant, taken for granted and given the most menial of tasks to perform, but a member of a respectable household, the head of which will be the saintly Master d’Ambrey.’

  ‘But the man has changed!’ said Bartholomew, his feet crunching on broken pottery as he ducked away from Will’s dagger. ‘Saints do not kill and order the desecration of the dead!’

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed Will. He darted forward and caught hold of Bartholomew’s tabard to hold him still.

  ‘D’Ambrey must be held to blame for all the deaths that occurred in the riots he inspired,’ persisted Bartholomew breathlessly, tearing away from Will’s grip as a swipe of the dagger ripped his shirt. ‘Including that of your brother. He died in the first riot, I understand.’

  He jerked backwards to avoid another furious hacking blow and stumbled over a broken chair. Will was now incensed and his eyes flashed with loathing. Instead of distracting the man, Bartholomew had succeeded in enraging him to the point where any chance of escape seemed hopeless. Off-balance, Bartholomew crashed to the floor, while Will’s arm flicked down and under in a swift, efficient movement aimed at the physician’s unprotected stomach.

  Even as the knife flashed towards him, there was a loud thump, and Will’s head jolted forward. Will looked as surprised as Bartholomew, before crumpling into a heap on the floor. Jacob still sat hunched over his injured arm while Henry lay massaging his bruised neck.

  Across the hall, Michael sank down on to a bench and closed his eyes. Shakily, Bartholomew climbed to his feet and joined him.

  ‘Thank the Lord you like reading heavy books,’ said Michael, pointing to where the Galen lay next to Will.

  Michael had hurled it in the
nick of time.

  As Bartholomew approached the door to leave Valence Marie’s hall, he froze, and edged back into the shadows.

  There were voices – Thorpe’s and d’Ambrey’s, complete with the lilting Scottish accent of Father Andrew. Bartholomew opened the door slightly so he could hear what was being said.

  ‘I am most distressed that the relic has disappeared,’ d’Ambrey was saying, wringing his hands and appearing every inch the benevolent old friar. ‘Most distressed indeed. I wanted to see it again before I left.’

  ‘You are leaving Cambridge, Father?’ asked Thorpe politely, but without interest. He had other things to worry about than an elderly friar who had missed his opportunity to view the relic. But the friar’s concern was insistent – as well it might be.

  ‘Do you have an idea of where it might be?’ he said. ‘Can I help you look for it?’

  ‘You are most kind, Father,’ said Thorpe. ‘But we will manage. We have already turned the College upside-down in our quest to locate it – you should see the state of our poor hall! I am now on my way to discuss the matter with the Chancellor.’

  ‘I know you will guard that relic and see that it is awarded the honour it deserves,’ continued d’Ambrey.

  Thorpe looked at him sharply. D’Ambrey was overplaying his role, enjoying too much the opportunity to promote himself as the object of reverence.

  He realised the danger, and bowed to Thorpe before taking his leave. He was shown out of the main gate by one of the students and Bartholomew saw him glancing this way and that as he walked, as though the hand might appear suddenly in the mud and refuse that lay ankle-deep in the yard. Thorpe dallied, his students milling about him restlessly.

  ‘Has de Wetherset stolen the hand?’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael as he watched them. ‘Or Heppel?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Possibly. What is Thorpe doing? Why does he not leave? We should follow d’Ambrey before he escapes us completely, but we cannot do so with Thorpe prowling around outside. His students are vengeful – they would hang us in an instant if Thorpe gave them his blessing, and even Father Eligius’s claims that you are mentally deficient will not save us.’

  Bartholomew regarded him sharply. ‘Exactly when was it that you recovered your senses from Thorpe’s blow?’ he asked.

  Michael looked uncomfortable. ‘I am not sure. But I had to wait for the right moment before I acted.’

  ‘You cut it very fine, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the monk uneasily.

  ‘The truth was that you were doing such a fine job of wringing a confession from Will that I decided to wait a while. He would never have been so verbose had I leapt to my feet and overpowered Henry. He was bragging to you simply because he thought he was going to kill you, and that you would never be in a position to reveal anything he had said.’

  ‘He almost killed me several times during his confession!’ said Bartholomew, aghast. ‘How could you put Will’s paltry revelations over my life?’

  ‘Come now, Matt!’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Do not be so melodramatic! I knew what I was doing. I saved your life, did I not? And together we overwhelmed that unwholesome trio there.’

  He glanced over his shoulder to where Will, Henry and Jacob sat with their backs to the serving screen, secured there with ropes that had been used to suspend the tapestries from the walls. Henry and Jacob were subdued, but Will was livid. He struggled and heaved against his bonds, making guttural sounds through the bandages with which Bartholomew had gagged him.

  Bartholomew turned his attention back to the yard, and gave a start of horror as he saw Thorpe begin to walk towards the hall. His heart lurched in anticipation of being discovered free, and he was momentarily frozen with fear. Sensing his alarm, Will’s struggles increased, and Michael grabbed Will’s abandoned dagger, racing across to the serving screen to wave it menacingly at the gagged servant before Thorpe heard the noise.

  Thorpe drew closer, and Bartholomew looked around in panic, wondering how they might escape. There was no other way out. Bartholomew knew instinctively that if Thorpe discovered they had overpowered his servants, he would give them into the custody of his vengeful students, and that would be their death warrant. As Thorpe’s hand reached out to push open the hall door, a scholar emerged from the Master’s quarters, carrying a bundle of cloth. Thorpe’s hand dropped from the door and he began to walk away. Bartholomew was so relieved, his legs turned to jelly, and he had to lean against the wall for support. Next to Will, Michael dropped the dagger in revulsion.

  Bartholomew gave the monk a weak smile. ‘Master Thorpe does not want to confront the Chancellor improperly attired,’ he explained shakily. ‘He was waiting for a student to fetch him his best robe.’

  Michael gnawed at his finger-nails. ‘We will lose d’Ambrey if Thorpe does not leave soon!’

  While they waited for Thorpe to be satisfied with the way his gown fell, Bartholomew crammed bandages and salves back in his medical bag and tucked the Galen into one of the side pockets. Michael fretted at the door.

  By the time Bartholomew had finished, Thorpe and his entourage had gone and Michael was already across the courtyard and out of the main gates. As they emerged into the High Street, they caught a glimpse of d’Ambrey’s grey habit disappearing up the Trumpington Road.

  They set off after him, pausing briefly to tell the guards on the gate that there were three felons secured in Valence Marie, and that Tulyet should follow as soon as possible. After a moment’s hesitation, Michael tossed a small child a penny and sent her with a message to the Chancellor and Heppel.

  ‘Wicked waste of a penny,’ muttered Michael. ‘De Wetherset will be in a business meeting and his clerks will be too frightened to disturb him on our behalf, while Heppel’s presence while we apprehend a killer will be more hindrance than help.’

  While they had been in Valence Marie the clouds had thickened, and a light, misty rain was falling. It should have been a welcome relief after the heat of the morning, but it served only to increase the humidity.

  Michael complained that he could not catch his breath; even Bartholomew began to feel uncomfortable. But the rain afforded some advantage, for it provided a haziness in the air that meant that Bartholomew and Michael were able to follow d’Ambrey with less chance of being seen.

  They walked quickly and without speaking, alert for any sound that would warn them that d’Ambrey had stopped.

  One or twice they glimpsed him ahead and, as they went further from the town, Bartholomew began to wonder how far d’Ambrey was going to go. They reached the small manor owned by Sir Robert de Panton, where the land had been cleared for farming, affording uninterrupted views down the road for some distance. D’Ambrey was nowhere to be seen. Michael sagged in defeat.

  As they dithered, wondering where d’Ambrey might have turned, they met Sir Robert himself, who told them that he had seen an elderly friar pass along the Trumpington Road just a few moments before. Encouraged, Bartholomew and Michael hurried on.

  They continued in silence, the only sounds being Michael’s heavy breathing, and their feet on the muddy road. As they began to despair that they might have lost him a second time, a thought occurred to Bartholomew.

  They were near Trumpington village, where d’Ambrey had almost been incinerated in the tithe barn fire. The new barn had been built closer to the village, so it could be better protected, and the charred timbers of the old one had been allowed to decay. Now nothing remained apart from one or two ivy-covered stumps and a clearing in the trees where it had once stood.

  Wordlessly, Bartholomew led Michael off the main path to the site of the old barn. He was beginning to think he must have miscalculated, when he heard voices. One was d’Ambrey, speaking with no hint of a Scottish accent. Peering through the trees, Bartholomew saw an unwholesome creature wrapped in filthy rags, but standing straight and tall and speaking in a firm, clear voice. The murderous Dominica. D’Ambrey said something, and there were growls of agreement from
others: Huw from Godwinsson, Ivo from David’s, and Cecily, who looked sullen. As Bartholomew’ turned to indicate to Michael that they should withdraw and wait for Tulyet, he heard the unmistakeable click of a crossbow bolt being loaded. He spun round.

  ‘Ruthven!’

  Ruthven smiled, and indicated with a small flick of his crossbow that they should precede him into the midst of Simon d’Ambrey’s meeting.

  D’Ambrey scowled when he saw Ruthven’s captives. ‘Where did you find these gentlemen?’

  ‘Listening to you from the bushes over there,’ said Ruthven with a toss of his head. He poked at Bartholomew with his weapon and indicated that he and Michael should sit on the grass.

  ‘Well, we can do nothing until nightfall, anyway,’ said d’Ambrey with a shrug. ‘I would like Huw to return to Valence Marie and find out from Will what is happening about my hand.’ He turned to Bartholomew and Michael, and smiled. ‘Given long enough, I might be made a saint, do you think? Perhaps a fine abbey built around my shrine?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘Although people do seem to worship the oddest things.’ He smiled guilelessly back at d’Ambrey, ignoring Bartholomew’s warning kick.

  D’Ambrey saw Bartholomew’s reaction, however. ‘I see you seek to caution your friend, lest he moves me to anger, Doctor,’ he said. ‘You have doubtless seen many forms of madness since you have become a physician. Well, you have no need to look for any such signs in me. I am as sane as you. Angry, perhaps. Betrayed, certainly. And vengeful. But most assuredly not mad.’

  He smiled in a way that made Bartholomew seriously doubt it. The only hope for him and Michael, he realised, was that one of the messages that they had left for Tulyet would reach him, especially the one with the guards at the gate. He prayed that the Sheriff would not be waylaid into helping Thorpe search for the missing relic.

  D’Ambrey sat on a tree stump and smiled beatifically.