‘What will happen to d’Ambrey and his associates?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Tulyet will send them to London for trial,’ said Michael with a shrug, ‘but no one will be in any hurry for the facts to emerge. Years will pass, people will die, and one day there will be no records that any such prisoners ever arrived.’
‘And the legends of d’Ambrey?’
‘Oh, they will fade away in time,’ said Michael. ‘Have you considered that it may have been people like Will, Dominica and Huw that kept them alive all these years? Now they have gone the stories, too, will melt away to nothing. This incident will not be recorded in the University history and in fifty years or so no one will know the name of Simon d’Ambrey.’
‘Talking to you is sometimes most disheartening,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everything is to be forgotten, buried in the mists of time, covered up. Unwanted people are sent to places where they will never be heard of again. Events of which the University does not approve do not get written in the University history. What will people think of us in the future when they come to read this great history? That there was no crime, no underhand dealings, no deceits?’
‘Not unless human nature undergoes a radical change,’ said Michael blithely. ‘They will have their own crimes, underhand dealings and deceits, and they will understand that the silence and blanks in our history say as much as the words.’
‘That is not particularly encouraging,’ said Bartholomew.
He remembered Wilson’s tomb and compared it to the vanishing pile of earth that marked Norbert’s small grave. ‘What will people think when they see Wilson’s black monstrosity? Will they think that here lies a man that Michaelhouse loved and revered? Or will they know he paid for his own memorial? That vile man will be remembered long after poor Norbert is forgotten. It does not seem fair.’
Michael did not reply, and screwed up his eyes as the wind blew needles of rain into his face. ‘Summer is on its way out,’ he said. ‘I complained about the heat and now I can complain about the cold.’
Bartholomew smiled reluctantly, but then froze as he heard shouting from ahead. A figure darted from one of the carts and disappeared into the thick undergrowth at the side of the road.
‘That was d’Ambrey,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Escaped!’
Tulyet’s men tore after him but Bartholomew knew that their chances of finding him were slim. There were so many ditches and dense bushes in which to hide, that all d’Ambrey needed to do was to wait until dark and slip away. Even dogs could not follow a scent through the myriad of waterways at the edge of the Fens.
A ragged cheer rose from d’Ambrey’s supporters and Dominica made as if to follow while the soldiers’ attention was engaged. She slithered out of the cart and began to run after him. She slumped suddenly and the howls of encouragement from her friends petered away.
‘Good shot,’ said Michael admiringly to Heppel. The Junior Proctor looked at the small pebbles in his hands in astonishment. Luck, not skill, had guided the missile that had felled Simon d’Ambrey’s daughter.
Heppel grasped at Michael for support. ‘Oh, Lord! I have just damaged my shoulder with that throw! I should not have tried to embark on heroics.’
‘It is a pity you could not have struck d’Ambrey down too,’ said Michael, unsympathetic. ‘Now this business might end very messily.’
‘Especially for Dominica and her associates,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where she was being helped back into the cart. She saw Heppel and her eyes glittered with hatred.
‘I grabbed these pebbles to hurl at d’Ambrey if he tried to harm me,’ said Heppel shakily. ‘I can assure you, I had no intention of trying to do the Sheriffs job for him. I was just carried away with the excitement of the moment when I aimed them at Dominica. It most certainly will not happen again. I shall suffer agonies from this shoulder injury for weeks and all because the Sheriff hires poorly trained guards! The King shall hear of this!’
Tulyet had ordered half his men to escort the remaining prisoners to the castle and the other half to search for d’Ambrey. His face was dark with anger and his temper was not improved by Heppel’s accusations of incompetence.
‘That gentle nature of d’Ambrey’s beguiled my men,’ he said in a voice that was tight with fury. ‘He looks and acts like a friar and he made them feel as though they were escorting their grandfather! He fooled them into relaxing their guard and was gone in an instant!’
‘I doubt that you will get him back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not the first time he has escaped from the jaws of death in this area. History repeats itself.’
‘He will be old indeed if he tries again in another twenty-five years,’ said Michael.
‘But, if there is a next time, he will not fail,’ said Bartholomew.
EPILOGUE
Brown leaves rustled on the ground of the churchyard as they were stirred by the breeze. It was already dusk, even though the day’s teaching was barely done, and there was an unmistakeable chill of winter in the air. St Michael’s Church afforded some protection from the wind, but was damp and cold, and Bartholomew stamped his feet to try to keep them warm.
The mason added a few final taps and stood back to admire his work. The black tomb was in its place in the choir, stark and dismal against the painted wall. In place of the effigy stipulated by Master Wilson was a neat cross, carved into the polished marble with simple but elegant swirls and knots. Bartholomew nodded his satisfaction and the mason left, warning him not to touch the mortar, which was not yet set.
From the vestry, Michael’s rich baritone rose as he sang while preparing for compline. Bartholomew went to find him.
‘Is it done? Have you atoned for being sick on his grave?’ Michael asked, raising a humorous eyebrow. He began thumbing his way through the gospels to find the correct reading for the day.
Bartholomew winced. ‘It is done,’ he said, sitting on one of the wall benches in the cramped room.
‘You have done Michaelhouse a great service – dallying so that Master Wilson’s smug face will not sneer for eternity on our scholars from his effigy,’ said Michael, peering at the open text in front of him.
Bartholomew was inclined to agree. ‘Norbert’s will, though.’
Michael regarded him uncertainly.
‘I sold d’Ambrey’s Galen to Father Philius, the physician at Gonville Hall. Then I gave the money to that mason, so he will carve Norbert’s likeness on one of the sculpted heads that will be in St Mary’s new chancel. He says he remembers Norbert from the tithe barn incident.’
‘You do have a strange sense of justice,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Still, I suppose Norbert has as much right to his immortality as Wilson.’
He sniffed suddenly. ‘I can smell perfume, Matt. Is it you? I thought you had given up on women after your deplorable lack of success with them.’
‘Master Kenyngham told me I would find you here.’
Bartholomew and Michael started violently at the sound of Guy Heppel’s breathy voice at the door of the vestry.
As Heppel moved towards them, the fragrant smell grew stronger and Michael sneezed.
‘Are you still in Cambridge?’ said the monk, not entirely amiably. ‘I thought you had returned to Westminster.’
Heppel smiled, his white face appearing even more unhealthy than usual in the gloom of the late-autumn dusk. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his gown, as if there was something on them he found distasteful.
‘I had one or two loose ends to tie up first and I thought I would come to bid you farewell before I left.’
Michael nodded, but Bartholomew eyed him suspiciously.
Once d’Ambrey’s followers had been dispatched to London, Heppel had dropped all pretence at being the Junior Proctor and had announced himself to be one of the King’s most trusted agents. Since then, he had been negotiating with the Sheriff as to how the King’s peace might be maintained, trying to balance the King’s opportunistic demand for extra taxes to pay for his cont
inuing wars with the French, with the welfare of the people. A compromise had finally been struck, which left the people poorer than before, but less so than they would have been had d’Ambrey’s plans come to fruition.
‘Farewell, then,’ said Michael, turning his attention back to his work. ‘You should not tarry too long in this cold church, Master Heppel, or your cough will become worse.’
‘My cough?’ asked Heppel. He smiled suddenly. ‘Oh, that does not bother me any more. Since you have been so busy, Matthew, I availed myself of the services of Father Philius. Once my stars had been consulted, my cough healed most miraculously. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know my stars are favourable.’
‘You mean Father Philius cured you?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.
‘Totally,’ Heppel said, and beamed. ‘You should forget all those heretic notions of hand-washing and herbs, Matthew. Astrology is where the real power of healing lies.’
Michael roared with laughter, his voice echoing through the church. ‘Take note, Matt! Astrology is the way forward for modern medicine! Perhaps you are a heretic after all!’
‘You may like to know that Master Bigod met with a hunting accident,’ Heppel said, changing the subject abruptly.
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘A fatal one, I am sure,’ he said.
Heppel regarded him askance. ‘Well, naturally! Father Aidan of your own College has been appointed his successor at Maud’s Hostel, while Master Thorpe will be settled in his grammar school by now. His successor at Valence Marie will be you, Brother Michael, should you decide to accept such an office.’
Michael inclined his head, his face expressionless.
Heppel, disappointed at not getting an answer, continued.
‘Given your interest in the business of the prostitute Joanna,’ he said, turning to Bartholomew, ‘you may also wish to know that the two surviving French students from Godwinsson were apprehended in Paris by the King’s agents. They confessed to the girl’s murder and are doubtless at the bottom of the River Seine by now. Joanna is avenged, Matthew.’
Bartholomew studied the floor. It gave him no pleasure to learn that yet more people had died in this miserable affair, but at least Joanna could rest easy now her killers had been punished. Heppel was right: loose ends were being tied indeed. Joanna’s killers were dead, Thorpe was dispatched to the north, Bigod was dead. The only person to have escaped all this tying up was d’Ambrey himself.
It seemed that Heppel could read his mind. ‘You are thinking that d’Ambrey, the cause of all this mayhem, has escaped unharmed. He has not. He lies in his grave as securely as all the rest.’
Bartholomew and Michael stared at him in astonishment.
‘That cannot be,’ said Michael. ‘We saw him escape ourselves. Despite valiant efforts, Tulyet could not find him.’
‘That was because Tulyet did not look in David’s,’ said Heppel, his pinched features lighting into a faint smile as he witnessed their growing incredulity.
‘Do not play games with us, Heppel,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘D’Ambrey would not have returned to David’s.’
‘But he did,’ said Heppel. ‘He was found there this morning.’
‘This is not possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been missing for three weeks now.’
‘And that is probably as long as he has been dead,’ said Heppel. As Bartholomew stood in what Heppel judged to be a threatening manner, the ex-Junior Proctor moved backwards and continued hastily. ‘Late the night that d’Ambrey escaped, as the soldiers scoured the dark countryside, two hostels were boarded up – Godwinsson, irreparably damaged; and David’s, which was shabby and unsafe anyway. You yourself, Brother, had seen to it that the surviving David’s students were dispersed to other hostels so that they should not be together to inflame each other to riotous behaviour.’
Michael made an impatient gesture with his hand and Heppel hurried on.
‘Carpenters were ordered to seal David’s that night, so that it would not become a centre for gatherings of d’Ambrey devotees. It was late, they were tired, and perhaps they were a little fearful. The building was not properly searched before they started their work. Yesterday morning, David’s Hostel was due to be demolished. As work began, Meadowman, the steward, was instructed to salvage anything that he thought might be reusable or saleable. Inside, he found d’Ambrey. He went straight to the Chancellor and the Chancellor informed me. Sure enough, the body in David’s was d’Ambrey’s.’
‘But why did he return to David’s?’ asked Michael, not at all convinced. ‘He could have been out of the country once he had escaped into the Fens.’
Heppel shrugged. ‘I can only surmise that he considered it the safest location for him the night he escaped – it would certainly be the last place I would have considered looking for him. The carpenters did a good job of boarding up the hostel but d’Ambrey could have got out had he really wanted. He was found sitting in a chair at the kitchen table surrounded by quills and parchment. There was ink everywhere.’
‘Was he planning to write his own version of the events of the last few weeks, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heppel nodded. ‘It would seem so, although the parchment in front of him was blank.’
Michael gave a snort of disbelief. ‘Was it, now? That I find hard to believe.’
Heppel gave him a cold look. ‘The parchment was blank. Anyway, the body was very decayed, and I think he must have died within a day or two of his escape: he had no time to embark on a lengthy treatise before he died. Perhaps the shock of seeing his plans fail so completely made him lose the will to live. Perhaps the stress of that day gave him a fatal seizure. We will never know.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heppel smiled pleasantly. ‘I thought you might ask that. Come.’
They followed him through the dark church and into the graveyard. Heppel picked his way around the mounds to where Wilson’s grave had been, before he had been installed in his permanent tomb in the church. Next to the yawning hole, shivering in the cold, knelt Meadowman, guarding something wrapped in a winding sheet.
Bartholomew crouched next to him and pulled the sheet away to reveal the face. D’Ambrey’s beatific features loomed out at him, and Bartholomew judged that Heppel’s estimation of the time of his death was probably right – two or three weeks. He covered the face again and looked up at Heppel.
‘So now all the loose ends are tied, and you can return to your King with a complete story,’ he said.
Heppel nodded. ‘The excavation of Master Wilson’s grave was most timely. Now, only the four of us will know it did not remain empty.’
He gestured to Meadowman, who rolled d’Ambrey’s body into the yawning hole, where it landed with a soft thump. The steward shovelled the earth back into place, until only a dark mound remained.
‘There. It is done,’ said Heppel, rubbing his hands on his robe, even though it was Meadowman who had done the shovelling. ‘And now I should go. Father Philius tells me my stars are favourable for travelling tonight, so I should take advantage of them.’
‘I hope we will not have mysterious accidents,’ said Michael, eyeing Heppel distrustfully, ‘to ensure our silence on these matters.’
Heppel gave his sickly smile. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Brother. You are the Master of a respected College.’
He shook hands with them and melted away into the darkness, Meadowman following.
Bartholomew watched them go. ‘So were Thorpe and Bigod,’ he said softly.
As Heppel slipped out through the trees of the churchyard on to the High Street, they saw him wiping his hands on the sides of his robe, as if trying to clean them.
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A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 45
