‘Take your people home. You may lose the confrontation that—’
‘Why should we withdraw?’ demanded Marishal angrily. ‘Anne is right: it is time the townsfolk learned their place, and if I do not teach them, no one will.’
‘Anne?’ groaned Michael. ‘You have been listening to her? Can you not see what she is doing? She wants you to tear each other apart. And you are playing right into her hands.’
‘She would never hurt us,’ stated Marishal stubbornly. ‘She raised my children and she was born in the town. The Lady treated her harshly it is true, but—’
‘The Lady,’ interrupted Michael urgently. ‘Where is she? She will listen to sense, even if you are too obstinate to—’
‘It is too late,’ gulped Bartholomew. ‘Look!’
Near the church’s north porch, several hundred townsfolk were facing a thin line of heavily armed guards. The soldiers would almost certainly be killed, but not before giving a good account of themselves with their wickedly honed blades. With sickening inevitability, the two sides began to close in on each other amid a frenzy of howled insults and abuse.
‘For God’s sake, Marishal!’ cried Michael. ‘Stop it!’
But Marishal could only stand in open-mouthed shock at the scale of the trouble, and then the opportunity to intervene was gone. The two factions clashed. Horrified, Bartholomew watched as several men fell and were trampled. He raced towards the mêlée, and managed to drag one to safety before he was crushed to death. It was Paycock.
‘Christ God!’ the bailiff gulped. ‘Anne said the castle would never dare fight us if we turned out in force. If I had known that we would come to actual blows, I would never have …’
Bartholomew ducked into the fray a second time, and managed to retrieve a second casualty. It was someone small and light, although it was not until Michael appeared with a lamp that he was able to recognise the victim as Badew. The elderly scholar was dying, bleeding from a dozen wounds, all in his back – he had been trying to run away when he had been cut down.
‘I only went out for a moment … to see what was happening,’ Badew whispered, white with shock. ‘But I was caught by the mob … swept forward …’
Bartholomew did what he could, but to no avail. Badew’s last words were characteristic of the man he had become since losing University Hall.
‘The Lady … a whore,’ he whispered, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist with hard, bony fingers. ‘Her name cannot … be associated … with a College … it must be … Badew Hall.’
‘Hush,’ chided Bartholomew in distaste. ‘This is not the time to—’
‘She is … a harlot.’ Badew’s grip tightened. ‘I hid in her chamber … saw her relieved of … an unwanted child … with my own eyes …’
Bartholomew struggled to mask his revulsion for the old man’s malevolence. ‘Enough! If you really did witness such an incident, you would have made it public years ago, so do not—’
‘She would have … denied it.’ Badew’s fingers were like hooks in Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Or sent … Bonde to kill … had to wait … until her tongue … stilled by death. My tale is true … swear on my soul.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hurrying forward a few moments later with the accoutrements needed to give last rites, although he would be anointing a corpse with his chrism.
‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was best to let such poisonous words die with their speaker. ‘Where is Langelee? He should have fetched the Austins by now.’
‘I hope he has come to no harm,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘He was wearing—Matt!’
The last was delivered in a gulp of alarm. The skirmish had expanded quickly, as more people had raced to join in, and it was now converging on them from two different directions. The combatants were so intent on trouncing each other that they cared nothing for the scholars caught in between. Michael hauled Bartholomew roughly to his feet.
‘Stand tall, Matt. If we are to die tonight, then we shall do it with dignity.’
CHAPTER 15
The two raging battles edged ever closer, and just as Bartholomew was bracing himself for the impact, there came the shrill bray of a trumpet, followed by the thundering beat of drums. Both were loud enough to rise above the screams and clash of weapons, and most participants broke off the engagement in alarm, looking around wildly for the source of the racket.
‘The Queen!’ gulped Ereswell. ‘She has come after all, and will fine us for breaking the King’s peace.’
A ripple of consternation went through the ranks of castle and town alike. However, it was not a royal procession that marched towards them in neat, military formation, but the Austins. Each wore a helmet and a breastplate painted with a bright white Crusader’s cross, and was armed with a sword or an axe. Their religious habits were kirtled around their knees.
Bartholomew looked for Langelee, and saw him in the middle of the platoon, similarly attired, but with Albon’s cloak wrapped around his body in lieu of a breastplate, black side out. It served to make him appear bigger and more powerful than ever, a Goliath compared to those around him.
‘By my mark … halt!’ bellowed Weste, who looked particularly warlike with his eyepatch. The column came to a neatly executed standstill. ‘Prepare arms!’
There was a businesslike clatter as weapons were brought into a position where they could be deployed. Then there was silence. The Austins stood like stone, a human wall bristling with sharp points, strategically placed to prevent the different skirmishes from uniting into one massive brawl.
‘We are warriors of Christ,’ declared Prior John in a ringing voice. ‘Ready to defend God’s peace against sinners who would break it.’
‘You are old men,’ someone sneered. ‘You cannot tell us what to do.’
The speaker was Nuport, his cronies at his heels. All were red-faced and unsteady on their feet, suggesting they were still under the influence of Anne’s wine – and they had to be very drunk, thought Bartholomew, or they would have had the sense to stay in the castle after Marishal had rescued them. There was a furious growl from the townsfolk when they were recognised, to which Nuport responded by brandishing his sword.
‘Anyone who raises a hand in violence will lose it,’ announced Prior John loudly. ‘After which I shall excommunicate him.’
‘Who cares about the Church?’ spat Nuport. ‘We are not afraid of you, John. We are squires, trained in the art of war and—’
Weste moved so fast that Nuport had no idea he was in trouble until he was seized by the scruff of the neck, neatly flipped head over heels, and deposited in a muddy puddle. The unruly squire spent the next few moments spitting dirt from his mouth and trying to rub it from his eyes. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, after which a few townsfolk began to laugh. So did one or two courtiers, although not quite so openly.
Feeling castle honour was at stake, Mull lurched forward, but there was a blur of flying habit and multicoloured hose, and the lad found himself flat on his face with John’s boot planted on his rump to keep him there.
‘Would anyone else like to try?’ the Prior asked, looking around archly. ‘You can see we are just old men, and who cares about the Church?’
There was absolute stillness from both sides, as no one dared move lest they were singled out for attention. All except for one person.
‘They broke sanctuary,’ Paycock screeched, stabbing an accusing finger at the squires. ‘They dragged Quintone out from under the altar and chopped off his ears.’
‘Is this true, Nuport?’ asked John, very coldly.
‘He taunted us,’ said Mull in a small, defensive voice when Nuport declined to respond. ‘He stole Nuport’s hat and waved it at us, laughing that there was nothing we could do about it. Then Anne shouted that such insolence was an insult to the castle, so …’
‘You are all excommunicated,’ pronounced Prior John, jabbing a finger at each of the shocked squires in turn. ‘Unless you come to me tomorrow
with contrite hearts and beg me to reconsider. I urge you to think very carefully about what you do next.’
‘Yes, do,’ jeered Paycock gleefully. ‘And we shall be there to witness your humiliation.’
‘You are excommunicated, too,’ snapped John, rounding on him. He raised a warning hand as a stunned Paycock opened his mouth to object. ‘Say no more! You will only make matters worse for yourself.’
The bailiff gazed at him in dismay, but wisely elected to hold his tongue. There was some agitated muttering among the assembled masses, but it stopped when John’s gimlet eye turned towards the culprits. Again, there was silence.
‘Now, we shall all go to church,’ said John, once he was sure that everyone was suitably cowed, ‘where we will make our peace with God and each other. Anyone who wants to fight can stay out here – excommunicated and excluded from our Lord’s grace. And bear in mind that He can read minds, so I recommend you abandon any thoughts of crafty vengeance once you are inside.’
‘I am not going in there,’ declared Paycock defiantly. His cronies inched away from him, lest it should be assumed that he spoke for them as well. ‘Not to hear the castle chaplain preach.’
‘You cannot go in,’ said Ereswell. ‘Not now you are excommunicated. You are not allowed.’
‘He may join us,’ countered John graciously. ‘But the castle chaplain will not perform the ceremony, and nor will the parish priest. I shall do it. Does anyone object?’
No one did.
Despite the church’s impressive size, it was still a crush to fit everyone inside, especially as no one wanted to use the south aisle. The Austins managed to persuade a few folk from the outlying villages to stand in it, but only because they did not understand the politics involved. Most of the congregation were crammed uncomfortably into the nave. There was a lot of jostling, which was not easy to prevent, and it was clear, despite John’s dire warnings of what would happen to those who broke the peace, that trouble was not far below the surface.
The tension ratcheted up even further when the Lady deigned to arrive, still brushing cake crumbs from her clothes after spending a pleasant afternoon with friends. There was no hint of apology for keeping everyone waiting, and when her knights began to shove people out of the way so she could stand at the front, the town’s resentment bubbled even more fiercely. It was a struggle for the Austins to keep the hotheads from both sides in line.
‘I should help the wounded,’ murmured Bartholomew, aware that there was a distressingly large number of them lying on the recently abandoned battlefield, and that Grym had last been seen driving a cart towards Kedyngton as fast as his horses could pull it.
‘No,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘It is too dangerous for you to wander off alone – I sense this business is far from over. For a start, Marishal is muttering to the Lady, doubtless telling her that a Michaelhouse man killed Roos. We must stay together.’
Bartholomew was unhappy about neglecting what he considered to be his moral duty, but he followed Michael to the vestry, where John was donning vestments, assisted by Langelee.
‘What took you so long?’ demanded the monk accusingly, closing the door so that their conversation would not be overheard by the milling crowd outside. ‘God only knows how many people died or were wounded in that fracas. We expected you a lot sooner.’
‘Because John has only just returned after spending the day looking for me and Weste,’ explained Langelee defensively. ‘Then more time was lost as we decided how best to stage an impressive entry.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘I hardly think—’
‘It was necessary, Brother,’ interrupted John curtly. ‘If we had just trotted up all muddy and ordinary, no one would have taken a blind bit of notice of us. Then the carnage would have been truly terrible.’
‘Have either of you seen Anne?’ asked Bartholomew, still far from certain that going ahead with the ceremony was the right thing to do. ‘Or Nicholas? They have questions to answer.’
‘I met Anne not long ago,’ replied John. ‘She was talking to Cambrug. He declared himself astonished to see her out of her cell, but his shock was not nearly as great as mine. I had rashly assumed that, as an anchorite, she was walled in permanently.’
‘Cambrug will have mentioned that we asked him about the tunnel,’ predicted Michael. ‘So she will know the game is up. She will be halfway to London by now.’
‘I shall go after her tomorrow,’ promised Langelee. ‘She will not escape, never fear. But you had better start this rite, John – your audience is growing restive.’
John brushed himself down, adjusted his stole, and opened the door. He nodded to four waiting friars, who lit enormous torches and began to sing at the tops of their voices. Heads promptly turned towards the little procession, and Bartholomew hoped the Austins would manage to produce enough of a spectacle to keep their congregation’s attention long enough for tempers to cool.
‘I cannot stop thinking about Roger,’ he told Michael worriedly. ‘He was Anne’s first victim – the man who should have overseen the safe completion of the ceiling. But there are cracks, and I had the feeling that Cambrug was concerned about them, although he was not about to admit that there might be flaws in his design, of course …’
Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘You think Anne killed Roger so that no one would know the thing is unstable? That she wants it to tumble down?’
‘Why not? It will kill everyone who did not die in the battle she provoked. Including the Lady – the woman who devised the singularly cruel punishment for her old nurse.’
‘But it will only kill everyone if it comes down tonight,’ reasoned Langelee. ‘Which is unlikely, or there would have been warning signs when the scaffolding was dismantled.’
‘Perhaps there were,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But Nicholas closed the church, so who would have seen them, other than a few labourers who can be bribed to keep their mouths shut?’
‘Even if that is true,’ countered Langelee, ‘there is nothing to say that it will fall today. It might be years before—’
‘No,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘It will be tonight, because I have a bad feeling that Anne is still here, so that she can make sure of it. Do you remember Grisel, the talking paroquet that Anne gave the Lady? It must have overheard her plotting and remembered certain words—’
‘Words like nuts?’ scoffed Michael. ‘Really, Matt! We do not have time for—’
‘It means that specific phrases were used often enough for Grisel to remember and mimic them,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘They are not nautical expressions, as the Lady believes. We did not understand them, because Grisel does not recite the words in the same order every time.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Langelee impatiently.
‘Anne did not say “down the van bring hold” or “hold the bring van down” in Grisel’s hearing. She said “bring down the fan vault”. She does mean to collapse the ceiling – presumably at the point in the ceremony where everyone shouts God save the Queen. Although as Her Majesty is not here, she will have to devise an alternative—’
‘And you base all this on the testimony of a bird?’ cried Langelee in disbelief.
‘And what Anne said herself. Days ago, she told me that she was looking forward to tonight, as it would be “the culmination of all my labours”. I thought she was taking the credit for the rebuilding, but that is not what she meant at all. She referred to her work in igniting a feud between two factions that have been friends for centuries.’
‘I am not sure, Matt,’ said Michael, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘And what can we do about it anyway? If we try to clear the church, the fragile truce that John has established will be shattered, and we shall have a bloodbath for certain.’
‘I know what we can do,’ said Langelee suddenly. ‘Stop Anne.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tightly. ‘But how?’
‘I know where she will be. Do you remember Nicholas taking
us to the roof space when we first arrived? There was more scaffolding up there, which he said was no longer needed, as the fan vaulting was finished. But perhaps there was another reason why it was left.’
‘Namely that the vaulting will not stay up without it,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘And that a few strategically knocked-out sections is all it will take to see the whole thing collapse.’
‘So we had better hurry if we want to prevent a massacre,’ said Langelee grimly.
It was not easy to reach the door to the roof, as the church was so tightly packed with folk. John was doing his best to put on an entertaining display, which included plenty of singing, abruptly clanging bells and forays into the nave with holy water, but the rite was necessarily in Latin, which few people understood, so it was difficult to keep their attention. The atmosphere was tense, and the dim lighting in the church encouraged nasty little skirmishes to break out.
‘I hope your plan will not necessitate a lot of leaping over rafters,’ whispered Michael worriedly, as they eased carefully through the throng. ‘I am not very good at that sort of thing.’
They reached the door with relief, glad it was in the south aisle, which was empty except for a handful of bemused villagers and two children playing hopscotch on the flagstones.
The door was locked from the inside, but this was no problem for Langelee, who shattered the wood with a single kick. Michael and Bartholomew jerked away in alarm, sure the resulting crash would bring people running to see what was going on. Luckily, it coincided with a sudden swell of sound from the chancel, as John and his helpers broke into a noisy anthem. The children glanced towards the scholars, but their attention soon returned to their game.
‘Albon?’ came a querulous voice, and they turned to see the hermit emerge from the shadows. ‘Is that you, back from the dead? To haunt us for not catching your killer?’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 38
