‘No, it is just me, Jan,’ said Langelee, hastily adjusting the cloak so that more black lining and less red wool showed. ‘Listen – lives are at risk. Go home and pray that we can save them.’
Jan’s face lit up. ‘You want me to provide a miracle? Then I shall see what I can do – on condition that if I succeed, you will tell everyone about it. I am sick of being second best to Anne.’
‘You will not be second best after tonight,’ muttered Langelee. ‘Whether you provide a miracle or not.’
He pulled out his letter-opener – the only weapon he had left from the arsenal he usually carried – and led the way up the stairs. Bartholomew followed, heart pounding, and Michael brought up the rear. The monk was soon breathing hard, and Bartholomew was glad that the Austins were singing a gusty Gloria, because otherwise all of Clare would have heard him panting. Then they reached the door at the top, and Bartholomew started forward urgently, afraid that Langelee would kick that open, too, thus warning Anne that they were coming. But it was unlocked, and they only had to push it to get inside.
The roof looked much the same as it had when Nicholas had showed it to them a few days before – a complex mesh of beams and struts. The only difference was that the scaffolding supporting the ceiling had since been dismantled. Or mostly dismantled. The few sections that were left were badly buckled, suggesting that they alone were supporting the immense weight of the stone domes below – something they were never intended to do.
‘Filling the cracks with glue would have been be a waste of time,’ whispered Langelee. ‘There is a serious structural weakness here.’
‘And Anne and Nicholas do mean to bring the whole thing down,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Because there they are.’
He nodded to where a lamp glowed dimly some distance away. It was roughly where the nave met the chancel, and the stone rood screen would be directly beneath. Two shapes were hunched over it, one large and the other small: Nicholas and Anne, watching the ceremony through one of the larger fissures.
‘Wait here,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I will see if I can get a better look.’
He began to clamber across the timbers towards them, moving with impressive agility for a man his size. Bartholomew held his breath, partly from fear that Langelee would be seen by the huddling pair, but also that he might dislodge some critical joist and the ceiling would fall anyway.
‘Anne is holding a mallet,’ the Master reported a few moments later, arriving back as silently as he had left. ‘I think she aims to clout that big central truss with it when the time is right.’
Bartholomew peered forward, and saw that the strut in question had been dislodged from its moorings, so that one sharp blow would knock it away completely. Then its weight would be added to the already vulnerable ceiling, and a major collapse would be all but inevitable.
‘What shall we do?’ he gulped, struggling to quell his rising horror. ‘Try to reason with them? I doubt Anne will listen, but Nicholas might.’
‘He will not,’ predicted Michael. ‘Not as long as she is there to tell him what to think – just as she has been doing all along.’
‘What, then? We cannot just crawl over there and lay hold of them. We might reach one undetected, but then the other will belt the truss and that will be that.’
Langelee brandished his letter-opener. ‘I can disarm one by lobbing this, but not both. Do either of you have a weapon? A surgical blade will do.’
But Bartholomew had left his medical bag in the vestry, thinking it would be in the way when he was in the roof, while Michael rarely carried knives of any description. Langelee scowled his disbelief that the two of them should have set out on such a venture without arming themselves first, conveniently overlooking the fact that he too had failed in that respect.
‘Then I shall immobilise one with a flying dagger, while you two leap on the other,’ he determined. ‘Agreed?’
‘No,’ hissed Bartholomew, knowing the monk was physically incapable of the stealth required for such a mission. ‘I will go. Michael can stay here and relay a message: if I can come within grabbing distance of Anne, I will raise my left hand, and he will signal that you are to aim at Nicholas; if I raise my right hand—’
‘I am to stab Anne,’ finished Langelee. ‘Fair enough. What can possibly go wrong?’
To Bartholomew, the rafter along which he inched seemed far too thin to bear his weight. Worse, the cracks in the stone domes seemed much bigger now – large enough for him to see into the nave below. He stopped for a moment and peered down. He was directly above the rood screen. On one side, John strove valiantly to entertain his restless congregation, while on the other was a heaving mass of heads. He thought he could see the Lady’s among them, surrounded by her courtiers. He dragged his eyes away from the dizzying sight, and resumed his journey.
Halfway along the beam was a thick post, supporting the roof above. Unfortunately, there was no way around it – other than stepping out on to one of the domes, which might then collapse under his weight. He shot Michael a stricken glance. The monk understood his dilemma at once, and made a vigorous pointing movement with his finger, indicating that Bartholomew was to look above his head.
He saw immediately what Michael wanted him to do – jump up to a convenient strut and swing himself around the post by his arms. It would be a dangerous manoeuvre at the best of times, let alone when failure would mean him landing hard on the ceiling, precipitating him and tons of stone down on to the people below. Moreover, the rood screen had a lot of pinnacles. He would almost certainly end up impaled on one, which would be a terrible way to die.
He glanced at Michael again, and saw the monk urging him to hurry. He supposed Langelee was in place, waiting for the signal to attack. He looked at Anne and Nicholas just a few feet away from him, and felt his resolve strengthen. Perhaps he would fall, but at least he could die in the knowledge that he had done his best to thwart their horrible plot. He jumped.
The strut creaked ominously, and there was a moment when he thought his fingers would not hold him. But he managed to shift his grip, and felt himself secure enough to throw one hand forward. It worked, so he did the same with the other. And then he was past the obstruction. He let himself drop, landing with a soft thump on the other side of the beam, going down on one knee for better balance. It put him closer to one of the cracks, allowing him to see more of the nave below – and the folk who had no idea of the danger they were in.
He stood on unsteady legs, and saw with horror that Nicholas was no longer there. He looked around wildly. Where had the vicar gone? Had Langelee already deployed his blade? But he could not see the Master either – only Michael, who was no more than an unmoving shadow by the door. But Anne had not hit the scaffolding yet, and if he could just wrest the mallet from her …
She glanced up as he stepped forward, and her hand tightened around the mallet, warning him against coming any closer.
‘Oh, it is you,’ she said flatly. She wore a kirtle and cloak that Margery must have given her, as both were rose-coloured. ‘I was hoping for Marishal or one of the Austins. I was looking forward to showing them that they were beaten.’
‘Where is Nicholas?’
Anne smiled nastily. ‘There are two weak points in this ceiling – Roger was kind enough to identify them for me when he caught me up here one day – and I am not a woman to leave anything to chance. Nicholas is at the other, waiting to act on my command.’
Bartholomew raised his left hand, then pushed Nicholas from his mind, trusting that Langelee would do what he had promised. He turned all his attention to Anne, ready for the moment when her defences were lowered, so that he could dart forward and rip the mallet away from her.
‘Do not think you can stop me,’ she told him smugly. ‘When I wave to Nicholas, two fan vaults will collapse simultaneously. The chances are that they will bring down the rest of the ceiling as well, after which we shall clamber to safety. You, of course, will fall with the stone.’
It was then that Bartholomew saw she wore a harness, which would prevent her from toppling into the abyss, should she lose her footing.
‘It will not work,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘You can hit the scaffolding all you like, but nothing will happen.’
‘Roger said it would, and I trust his opinion more than yours. No, do not inch towards me! Stay back, or I shall do it now.’
Bartholomew could see she meant it. He took a step away, hoping that Langelee had already dealt with Nicholas, and would be able to sneak up behind Anne and disable her as well. All he had to do was keep her talking until the Master could oblige. Slowly and deliberately, so there could be no misunderstanding, he raised his right hand, hoping that Michael would understand.
‘But you killed Roger,’ he said, to prevent her from asking what he was doing.
‘Yes, when he threatened to tell everyone that the ceiling was unsafe. I wanted it kept secret, for obvious reasons.’
‘But your friends are below us,’ blurted Bartholomew desperately. ‘Children you nursed, girls you saved from—’
‘Yes! And do you know how many of them spoke up for me when I needed them? Two – Ella and Thomas. Margery tried to take up where I left off, although she was never very successful. Herbs do not work nearly as well as a hook.’
‘But people love you,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘They bring you gifts and seek your advice. You cannot betray their trust by crushing them all!’
‘Oh, they flocked to me when I declared myself holy,’ she hissed malevolently. ‘But by then it was too late. I was walled up and they had earned my enmity. All of them.’
‘Including Bonde?’ Bartholomew raised his right hand again, more urgently this time. ‘He did your bidding, but was repaid for his loyalty with a cup of hemlock.’
‘Hemlock,’ mused Anne. ‘A very useful herb, although annoyingly slow to act. And before you ask – yes, I used it on Wisbech, Skynere and Godeston, too. Killing them was easy.’
‘As easy as Talmach and Albon? I know you stabbed Talmach after he fell from his horse, while Albon died when you lobbed a stone at him. Thomas heard him shout “you” in surprise.’
‘Not me – Bonde, although on my orders. I told him to lie low after Roos died, lest your clever monk probed matters that did not concern him.’ She grimaced. ‘And I could have added him, you, Langelee and Marishal to my tally if Thomas had not opened the kitchen sluices. I shall have stern words with that boy before I leave.’
‘It was not you who locked us in the cistern,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You might leave your cell at night, but you would never risk it in broad daylight.’
Anne regarded him in disdain. ‘You think I cannot move undetected in a place that was my home for thirty-seven years? Pah! What a fool you are.’
‘And all to stir up hatred between the town and the castle?’
Bartholomew raised his right hand a third time, waving it frantically. He risked a glance at Michael, but the monk was nowhere to be seen. What was going on?
‘It worked,’ said Anne smugly, ‘and after today, there will never be peace again. How dare they misuse me! I saved countless girls and their families from disgrace, but how was I rewarded? With a fate worse than death – it took me less than a week to know that life as an anchoress would be a living Hell.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, watching her fingers tighten around the mallet. ‘It is not—’
‘Do you hear?’ she asked, cocking her head suddenly. ‘Everyone is about to be asked to shout God save the Queen. It is time. Now, Nicholas! Now!’
There was nothing Bartholomew could do but watch as Anne gave the scaffolding a tremendous clout with the mallet. At the same time, there was a flicker of movement further down the roof. His stomach lurched in horror. It was Nicholas, swinging at the second weak spot. Langelee had failed! He lunged towards Anne, but it was too late. There was a sinister creak, and a lump of ceiling simply dropped away.
Appalled, he watched it fall. It landed with a tremendous crash, and dust billowed everywhere. He glanced at Anne, and saw rage and disappointment in her face – a much smaller piece than she had anticipated had come adrift, and it had landed on the rood screen, where no one was standing. Meanwhile, nothing at all had happened to Nicholas’s section.
Furiously, Anne stood and prepared to jump on the unstable dome, to collapse it with her own weight. Bartholomew sprang towards her but she jigged away, and as she did, she lost her footing. She screamed as she disappeared through the hole. The harness prevented her from falling to her death, but she had been overly generous with the amount of line she thought she would need, and she plummeted twenty feet before she was jerked savagely to a halt.
‘It is Margery Marishal!’ yelled Richard the watchman, seeing the rose-coloured costume and drawing his own conclusions. ‘Come to haunt us for quarrelling. She hated discord.’
The harness was poorly designed, and the jolt had broken some of Anne’s ribs. She was in pain, moaning pitifully for Nicholas to help her.
‘She is calling for the priest,’ blurted Ereswell. ‘Someone fetch him, quickly! I cannot bear to hear that saintly lady wailing in such torment.’
At that point, Langelee joined Bartholomew on the beam, wiping a bloodstained blade on his sleeve: Nicholas was no longer a problem. The Master put the letter-opener away carefully, then reached down to help Bartholomew pull Anne to safety. As he did so, Albon’s cloak slipped forward in all its scarlet glory.
‘And that is the ghost of Sir William,’ shouted Nuport, whipping out his sword. ‘Wearing his battle gear, which means he wants us to fight.’
Even as Langelee tugged the offending garment out of sight, Michael swung into action. He pulled the piece of purple silk from his scrip and stuffed it through one of the cracks. The material was so light that it took an age to waft downwards, drawing every eye in the church towards it. It provided ample time for him to scramble towards Langelee and hiss an urgent instruction.
‘I am the spirit of Godeston,’ the Master boomed, in the very plausible imitation of the Mayor that had so amused Bartholomew a few days earlier. ‘I command you to go home. To stay is to die.’
There was a murmur of consternation and the definite beginnings of a move towards the doors. Immediately, the Austins hastened to open them and usher folk outside. Unfortunately, Nuport had other ideas.
‘No – we should fight,’ he yelled. ‘Death to all who—’
The words died in his throat when Anne’s harness burst open, leaving Bartholomew and Langelee hauling on an empty rope. Both toppled backwards, while she dropped down to the rood screen below. There was a terrible scream, and when Bartholomew could bring himself to look, he saw she was impaled on one of the pinnacles. She hung there, her head covered by the rose-coloured hood, directly above the carving of the Blessed Virgin with Margery’s face.
Anne had just enough dying strength to raise one arm and point. It was impossible to know what she was trying to convey, and it was almost certainly chance that caused her finger to wag in Nuport’s direction, but the gesture achieved what words could not.
‘Oh, Christ!’ the squire gulped. ‘She has me in her sights. Out of the way! Let me past!’
‘Go home and lock your doors,’ bellowed John, as the squire’s panicky flight caused others to follow. ‘And keep them locked, on peril of your souls. There are a great many restless ghosts abroad tonight.’
‘Well, that is one way to clear a church,’ remarked Langelee, watching as the place emptied quicker than he would have thought possible. ‘Thank God for gullible minds!’
EPILOGUE
Three days later
Although it meant missing the beginning of term, Bartholomew refused to leave Grym – back from Kedyngton now the danger was over – alone to deal with the aftermath of Anne’s grand plan to avenge herself on Clare. He stayed, working day and night to help those who had been wounded, both in the fight and in the stampede to escape from the church afterwards.
All the while, Michael, Langelee and the Austins comforted the dying and buried the dead. Eventually, the physician felt he had done all he could, and traipsed to the priory to tell his friends that he was ready to go home.
He found them in the refectory, counting the donations that they had managed to scrape together. The largest was from Ereswell, and was a reward for ridding him of Lichet. Michael had wanted to refuse it, but it was a very generous sum. The second-largest was five marks from the Lady, as Katrina had deemed the paroquets cured. The total was not enough to save Michaelhouse permanently, but it would keep the wolf from the door for a few more weeks.
Bartholomew slumped on the bench next to them and accepted a cup of ale. For a while, all was silent except for the clink of coins. Then Prior John and Weste joined them, the latter wearing the cloak that denoted his new post – vicar of the parish church.
‘I still cannot believe that the people of Clare were so credulous,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts returning again to the plot that had so nearly succeeded. ‘How could they believe that the ghosts of Albon, Godeston and Margery had come to punish the unrighteous?’
‘Because the light was poor, bits of the ceiling had just fallen down, and most were still unsettled by the skirmish,’ replied John. He smiled. ‘At least, that is the practical explanation. I am more inclined to thank God for a miracle.’
Bartholomew glanced at Langelee. ‘What does the hermit think?’
‘Oh, that there was indeed a miracle,’ replied Langelee, ‘and that his prayers brought it about. He claims all the credit for keeping the ceiling intact until everyone had escaped, and he is now more popular than Anne ever was. Moreover, there has been no trouble since, which is another miracle as far as I am concerned.’
‘It is a pity the rest of the ceiling collapsed the following day, though,’ sighed John, ‘because it took the new clerestory with it. The top half of the church will have to be rebuilt – again.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 39
