He flung a disparaging glance at the writhing woman on the ground.
'You were right, Matt!' whispered Michael, as d'Ambrey stood to peer through the trees for signs of Huw returning with news of the lost relic. 'Cecily and Bigod were lovers!
I do not know which one I feel more sorry for!'
So Bigod, like Lydgate, was being blackmailed, thought Bartholomew, watching d'Ambrey resettle himself on the tree stump with his Galen. That Bigod spoke of Dominica's death in the Chesterton basement, however, suggested that he was not party to that part of the plot.
'I sent Master Lydgate little notes,' continued d'Ambrey, 'reminding him that he had fired the tithe barn and hinting about my death. He was meant to be terrified that I had returned from the dead to haunt him. But he, foolish man, did not have sufficient imagination, and settled for a more practical explanation. He thought you were sending them, Doctor. How he justified belief in such a sudden and uncharacteristic move on your part, I cannot imagine. But Lydgate was not a man to allow reason to interfere with his prejudices.'
He fell silent, and the only sounds were the slight swish of wind in the trees, the drip of rain on leaves.
Ruthven cocked his crossbow at Michael who was trying to make himself comfortable on the ground, while Dominica, bored by the narration, moved away to talk to Ivo. Horribly aware that as soon as they failed to keep d'Ambrey amused, Ruthven would be ordered to kill them, Bartholomew desperately searched for something to say.
'We know about your two acts,' he said. 'Faking the death of Dominica and producing a hand for the relic.'
'So, Matilde did betray me,' he said sadly. 'That cannot go unpunished.'
Bartholomew's stomach churned and he was furious at himself. Putting Matilde in danger was not what he had intended! 'She told us nothing! We reasoned it all out for ourselves!'
'I do not think so, Doctor. You simply do not have the cunning and clarity of mind to best me. No one does.'
He frowned down at the soggy Galen. 'So, Eleanor Tyler was right after all about that harlot. She told me she was not to be trusted.'
'Where is Eleanor?' asked Bartholomew.
'Far away by now, I should think. Dominica needed to escape and what better way than by using Mistress Tyler's harlot niece?'
'Why did Mistress Tyler allow herself to become involved in this mess of lies and spite?' asked Bartholomew, not sure that he really wanted to know the answer.
'I was told you had a liking for her daughters, although you would have been kinder to have concentrated your efforts on just one of them rather than two. But Mistress Tyler helped me because she has a dark secret that I concealed for her many years ago.'
'What dark secret?' asked Michael, interested.
'Mistress Tyler killed her first husband,' said d'Ambrey casually. Tt was an accident, you understand. The cooking pot simply fell from her hand on to his head. But it was after months of abuse, and the man was a brute. I hired a physician to say that he died of a fever. So she is indebted to me. Her second husband was a good man and the father of her three girls. He died quite naturally during the plague I understand — no cooking pots involved there.'
'Did you help Mistress Tyler because you felt her crime had a just cause, or so that you could blackmail her later?' asked Bartholomew coldly.
D'Ambrey's smile faded and his eyes became hard.
'You are arrogant, Doctor, just as Lydgate said you were.
For your information, I knew Mistress Tyler and her first husband and I judged for myself which was the victim.'
'That is arrogant!' exclaimed Bartholomew. 'On what authority do you presume to act as judge over your fellow men?'
There was a tense silence, and even Cecily desisted with her soft moans. Bartholomew thought he had gone too far and had tipped this unstable man across the thin boundary from sanity. He caught Michael's agonised look from the corner of his eye.
D'Ambrey's smile returned, and there was an almost audible sigh of relief from all in the clearing. From the tension of d'Ambrey's associates, Bartholomew judged that displays of temper were probably not unknown from this seemingly gentle man.
'I instructed Mistress Tyler to ensure Joanna remained indoors after the riot had started. She was simply to take her daughters and spend the night with her relatives. It was foolish of those French boys to have attacked Eleanor first, but it was even more foolish of the Tylers to have embarked on a friendship with you, given that you were obsessed with Joanna's death.'
'Did they know what you planned to do to Joanna?' asked Michael.
D'Ambrey shook his head. 'I simply told them to slip Joanna a little something from Uncle Jonas's store to make her sleep, and that she would be removed from their house never to bother them again. Of course, they were unsettled by the idea, but they soon saw sense when I pointed out that the alternative would be Mistress Tyler hanged for her husband's murder, and her daughters left unprotected.'
'Did you tell them to leave the town?' asked Bartholomew shakily.
'I did not, although what else could they have done, especially after foolish Eleanor sought to solve matters by trying to poison you? Silly child! Had she succeeded, Brother Michael would never have let the matter rest until he had discovered the truth and that, of course, would have been dangerous to me. I was relieved when they fled.'
Bartholomew took a deep breath, feeling the sweat prick at his back despite the chill of the rain. 'The second: riot was different from the first,' he said, changing the subject with some relief. Despite the fact that he had already guessed that Eleanor had sent him the poison, he did not want to dwell on the matter.
'Godwinsson was to be destroyed,' said Michael, seizing on the opportunity to launch d'Ambrey into explaining another part of his plan, and thus buy them more time.
'And Michaelhouse attacked so that the Sheriff will be forced to take serious measures against the town. You incited both riots. You started rumours in the Market Square, Valence Marie and Godwinsson and they spread like wildfire. Experienced rabble-rousers, like Saul Potter, ^ fanned them to see that they did not die out.'** 'Right,' said d'Ambrey, nodding appreciatively. 'You have reasoned all this out very well. The complaints of the University that it has been attacked will be sure to evoke a response from the King. Extra troops will be called in and crippling taxes imposed. That was my plan all along.
After last night's riots the Sheriff will be ordered to clamp down so hard on the townspeople — the townspeople that were so quick to believe ill of me after I had dedicated my life to helping them — that the town will be unable to function as a viable trading centre. Gradually, it will decline and the people will sink deeper and deeper into poverty.'
Bartholomew wondered whether d'Ambrey really believed that the people he was so keen to punish were the same ones that had failed to rally to his defence twenty-five years before. Few, if any, of the scholars were the same, since the University was a transient place, and so many of the townspeople had died of the plague that d'Ambrey was lucky to be remembered by anyone at all. Seeing d'Ambrey begin to fidget, Bartholomew continued quickly before he lost interest altogether and ordered them shot.
'Cecily told us that Dominica killed Radbeche. Is that true?'
Dominica smiled at him, distracted from her conversation with Ivo by the mention of her name.
'Yes,' said d'Ambrey. 'I had arranged for Radbeche to be away for the night, but he heard rumours that there might be a riot, abandoned his trip, and hurried home.
Meanwhile, those silly Scots escaped as soon as I left the hostel — as I knew they would.' He paused and looked down at the book on his knees. The rain was making the ink run but he seemed oblivious to the damage.
'Unfortunately, when Radbeche came bursting into the hostel crying out that there would be murder and mayhem that night, he saw Dominica — not as Norbert the scullion, but as a woman with long, fair hair. She could not have him telling everyone about that, so she ensured his silence. Scarcely had she wiped the blood
from her blade when John walked in.'
'Dominica ran him through, too,' said Ruthven, eager to tell his part in the story. 'But her aim was false in the dark, and I could not bring myself to finish him off, so I stayed with him until he died. My part was finished anyway.
All I had to do was to explain to the proctors that the mob had killed Radbeche and John and then ask the Chancellor's permission to return to Scotland to recover from my terrible experience. I was convincing, was I not?'
Bartholomew hoped Michael would not reveal that John was still alive, or d'Ambrey was certain to order his death. But the monk was far too self-composed to make such an error. He assessed d'Ambrey coldly.
'Yesterday afternoon, when you went out with John, Father William left you in no doubt that he would uncover you as a fraud. Your work, therefore, had to be finished today, or you would risk being reviled by the townspeople a second time.'
'People are fickle,' mused d'Ambrey sadly. 'The scholars at David's were fond of me but I do not doubt for an instant that they would denounce me had Father William uncovered my disguise. You are right. I had to finish all my business today.'
Bartholomew wondered how he could have been so misled. The people at Godwinsson — Lydgate, Cecily, Edred and Werbergh — were an unsavoury crowd, but Bartholomew found them easier to understand than the smiling villains at David's. He glanced behind him into the trees, wondering how much longer they would be able to keep d'Ambrey entertained.
'But who killed Kenzie and Werbergh?' asked Michael.
His thin hair was plastered to his head, giving it a pointed appearance, and he, like Bartholomew, was shivering partly from sitting still in the rain, but mostly from the almost unbearable tension of wondering whether Tulyet would arrive in time to save them.
'I imagine Ruthven killed Kenzie,' said Bartholomew, looking hard at the Scot. 'Kenzie had lost his ring — or the fake — and was broken-hearted. Master d'Ambrey decided it was time to rid himself once and for all of the youngster who was not only careless with his belongings, but who had the audacity to fall in love with his daughter Dominica. So, Ruthven went with Kenzie to help him look for his ring, then hit him on the head when he, trustingly, went first along the top of the Ditch in the dark. Correct?'
Ruthven's eyes were fixed guiltily on Dominica.
'James Kenzie was entirely the wrong choice for my Dominica,' said d'Ambrey before the Scot could reply.
'Ruthven agreed to solve the problem before it became overly serious.'
Dominica did not appear to be impressed at this example of paternal care. 'You introduced me to him,' she said accusingly. 'Anyway, I was not planning to marry him. He was just fun to be with and he was imaginative in fooling my parents.'
'Well, Ruthven hit him on the head with the pommel of his dagger,' said d'Ambrey unremorsefully. 'And then poor Radbeche and I had to keep all our students in so that the University would think we were serious about discipline. It worked brilliantly. You never suspected any of us. '
'Actually, we did,' said Michael.
Dominica shook her head slowly at Ruthven, ignoring d'Ambrey's mild outrage at Michael's claim. 'But Jamie was your friend!'
Ruthven declined to answer and stared at the wet grass, fiddling dangerously with the winding mechanism on the crossbow.
'Very clever,' said Michael, turning back to d'Ambrey.
'Ruthven's alibi for the time of the murder was the man who ordered the murder in the first place.'
Bartholomew wondered whether Dominica might launch herself at Ruthven in her fury, and tensed himself to take advantage of the situation while Ruthven battled with her.
He was unprepared for her sudden, dazzling smile. His spirits sank.
'Such loving care! My parents never managed to prevent me from seeing the men of my choice but you two have!'
Then?' asked d'Ambrey suspiciously. There were others?'
'And what of Werbergh?' asked Michael, uninterested in Dominica's romantic entanglements. 'Why was he killed and his death made to look like an accident?'
'Ah yes, Werbergh,' said d'Ambrey, still looking uncertainly at Dominica. 'Werbergh was employed by me as a spy to keep an eye on Lydgate's movements, but he was next to worthless. He was so nervous that it must have been obvious to a child what he was doing. I began to distrust his discretion, so I had Ruthven slip out and kill him as he came back drunk from the celebrations at Valence Marie. Will hid the body near the Ditch, until Saul Potter and Huw were able to make his death look like an accident.'
So that explained why the body had been wet and there were pieces of river weed on it, thought Bartholomew. It also explained why Werbergh had died so long before his accident in the shed, and why Saul Potter and Huw were the ones who said that he had been going to fetch some wood.
'But I do not know what happened to Edred,' said d'Ambrey. 'I sent him to spin a few tales to confuse you and to have a good look for my book, but he never returned. He was playing a double game, passing information to Lydgate as well as to me. He could not be trusted either.'
Bartholomew understood why Edred's fear had been genuine: it was a dangerous game indeed that he had been playing.
D'Ambrey stood. He held the book, now beginning to warp from the rain. 'It is unfortunate you took my letters, but there are few who will understand their importance should they fall into the wrong hands. Now. It is getting dark, and it is time to leave.'
He gave Ruthven a cursory nod, and began to gather his belongings together. Ruthven swung his crossbow up and pointed it at Bartholomew.
'But why wait twenty-five years?' asked Michael, his voice sounding panicky to Bartholomew's ears. 'Why not strike sooner, when those that wronged you were still alive?'
'Oh, I had other things to do,' said d'Ambrey carelessly.
'I travelled a good deal and used my considerable talent for fund-raising to my own advantage. And anyway, I wanted to wait until the time was right. People would have recognised me had I returned too soon, and Dominica would not have been old enough. But that is none of your concern. Ruthven, make an end to this infernal questioning.'
Bartholomew forced himself to meet Ruthven's eyes as the student checked the winding mechanism on his crossbow, and pointed it at him.
The little clearing was totally silent. Even the birds seemed dispirited by the rain, while the group of horses tethered to one side hung their heads miserably.
'Hurry it up,' ordered d'Ambrey. 'We have a long way to go tonight.'
Ruthven took aim.
'Drop it, Ruthven! ' came Tulyet's voice, loud and strong from one side of the clearing. Bartholomew's relief was short lived, as Ruthven, after lowering the weapon for an instant, brought it back up again to aim at Bartholomew's chest. There was a whirring sound, and Ruthven keeled over, his loosed crossbow quarrel zinging harmlessly into the ground at Bartholomew's feet. Bartholomew forced his cold legs to move and scrambled upright. Tulyet's men were suddenly everywhere, advancing on the clearing with their clanking weapons. Huw was with them, held between two men-at-arms, and gagged securely. Hovering at the rear, away from any potential danger, was Heppel, swathed in a huge cloak against the rain.
D'Ambrey looked at them in disbelief. 'What is this?' he cried. 'Where have you come from? You should not be here!'
'So it would seem,' said Tulyet dryly, helping the stiff Michael to his feet. 'I have been listening to you for quite some time now, Father Andrew. Or do you prefer Master d'Ambrey? What you have said, in front of my men, will be more than enough to interest the King.'
'Are you accusing me of treason?' asked d'Ambrey, his voice high with indignation.
'I would consider inciting riots and killing His Majesty's loyal subjects a treasonable offence, yes,' said Tulyet. He motioned to his men and they began to round up d'Ambrey's band of followers. D'Ambrey watched aghast.
'Not again!' he said. 'I have been betrayed again!'
'This time,' said Tulyet, 'you have betrayed yourself.'
D'Ambrey
bent slowly to retrieve something from the ground. His action was so careful and deliberate that it seemed innocent. But then he straightened with frightening speed, a knife glinting in his hand. He tore towards Tulyet who had turned to supervise his men. Bartholomew hurled himself forward. He crashed into d'Ambrey, his weight bearing them both to the ground. D'Ambrey began to fight like a madman and, despite his superior size and strength, Bartholomew felt himself loosing ground.
Tulyet and his men rushed to help, but it took several of them to drag the spitting, struggling man away, and to secure him in a cart.
'He would have killed me!' exclaimed Tulyet in horror.
'The man is possessed! Is he mad, do you think?'
Bartholomew shivered and not only from the cold. 'It would be convenient to think so,' he said ambiguously.
Tulyet looked uneasily at where d'Ambrey glowered at him. 'Well, I will only be happy when we have him well secured in the Castle prison.'
The too!' said Heppel with feeling. 'That man is extremely dangerous and so are his associates!'
'Be careful,' Bartholomew warned Tulyet. 'There are people who consider d'Ambrey a martyr. If it becomes known that you have him in your prison cart, you might well have a riot to free him.'
'Heaven forbid,' said Tulyet with a shudder. 'I hope we have rounded up all the ringleaders of these riots now.
With them gone the people will grow peaceful again in time. I plan to send the prisoners to London for trial. We need no more local martyrs here.'
He turned his attention back to his captives, while Bartholomew went to Cecily. She was past anything he could do, and her breath was little more than a thready whisper.
Thinking to make her more comfortable, Bartholomew loosened the tight bodice of her dress, recoiling in shock at what tumbled out into his hands.
There, still with the blue-green ring on its little finger was the hand from Valence Marie. It was warm from being in Cecily's gown and sticky with blood. Bartholomew flung it from him in disgust.
A Bone of Contention Page 43
