An Unholy Alliance Read online

  'There will be yet more murders,' Alban said with salacious enjoyment. 'Just you see. The Sheriff is less than worthless at tracking this criminal down.'

  'And I suppose you know who the murderer is,' asked Bartholomew drily, finding the discussion distasteful. He poured more oil into the palm of his hand, and continued to massage it into the swollen joint.

  Alban scowled at him. 'Cheeky beggar,' he muttered.

  'No, I do not know who the murderer is, but if I were your age, I would find out!'

  'And how would you do that?' said Bartholomew, more to side-track Brother Alban from his lurid and fanciful descriptions of the killer's victims than to solicit a sensible answer.

  "I would go to the churches of St John Zachary or All Saints'-next-the-Cas tie, and I would find out,' said Alban, tipping his head back and fixing Bartholomew with alert black eyes.

  'Why those churches?' said Bartholomew, nonplussed.

  The old monk sighed heavily and looked at Bartholomew as he might an errant student. 'Because they have been decommissioned,' he said.

  After the plague, the fall in the population meant that there were not enough people to make use of all existing churches, and many had been decommissioned. Some were pulled down, or used as a source of stone; others were locked up to await the day when they would be used again. Two such were St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle. At the height of the plague, the entire population north of the river next to the Castle had died. Bartholomew had burned down the pathetic hovels there so that they would not become a continuing source of infection for the town. People claimed that the site of the settlement and All Saints' Church were haunted, and few people went there.

  'So?' said Bartholomew, his attention to the conversation wavering as he concentrated on Alban's arm.

  'Do you know nothing?' said Alban, more than a touch of gloating in his voice.

  Bartholomew flexed the old man's elbow. "I know that your arm is improving.' He was pleased. The old man could bend it further than he had been able to a week ago, and seemed to be in less pain. Typically, Alban was more interested in his gossip.

  'There are works of the Devil performed in the churches,' he crowed, 'and I am willing to wager you will find out from them who is killing these whores.'

  'Works of the Devil!' scoffed Bartholomew dismissively.

  'Always the excuse for the crimes of people!' "I mean witchcraft, Matthew,' said Alban primly. 'It goes on in those two churches, and a good many others too, I imagine. I do not need to tell you why. People are wondering why they should pray to a God that did not deliver them from the Death, and so they are turning to other sources of power. It is the same all over England.

  The murder of these harlots is symptomatic of a sickening society.'

  Bartholomew finished his treatment of Alban's arm and left the old man's chatter with some relief. He had heard about the increase in witchcraft, but had given it little thought. Brother Michael had mentioned it once or twice, and it had sparked a fierce debate one night among the Franciscans, but Bartholomew had not imagined that it would occur in Cambridge. Perhaps Alban was right; he often was with his gossip. Bartholomew decided to ask whether Cynric knew anything about it, and, if he did, he would suggest to Sheriff Tulyet that he might consider asking questions about the murders in the churches of St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle.

  Michael was waiting for him in the yard and reluctantly Bartholomew followed him out of the gates to interview the clerks. The sun was hot and Bartholomew shed his black scholar's tabard and stuffed it in his bag. He knew he could be fined by the Proctors for not wearing it, but considered the comfort of wearing only leggings and a linen shirt worth the possible expense. Brother Michael watched enviously and pulled uncomfortably at the voluminous folds of his own heavy gown.

  At St Mary's Church, they saw that the body of the dead friar had been laid out in the Lady Chapel. Bartholomew walked over to it and looked again at the small cut at the base of his thumb that had caused his death.

  Michael sought out the lay-brother who had locked the church the night before, a mouselike man with eyes that roved in different directions. He was clearly terrified.

  Bartholomew led him away to talk, but the man's eyes constantly strayed in the direction of the dead friar.

  'What time did you lock the church last night?' asked Bartholomew gently.

  The man audibly gulped and seemed unable to answer. Michael became impatient.

  'Come on! We do not have all day!'

  The man's knees gave out and he slid down the base of a pillar and crouched on the floor, casting petrified glances around him. Bartholomew knelt next to him.

  'Please try to remember,' he said. 'It is important.'

  The man reached out and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. 'At dusk,' he said, glancing up at the imposing figure of Michael with huge eyes. Michael raised his eyes heavenward, and went to gather together the other clerks with whom they would need to talk, leaving Bartholomew alone to question the lay-brother.

  'At dusk,' the man repeated, watching Michael's retreating back with some relief. "I doused the candles and went to see that the catches on the windows were secure. I put the bar over the sanctuary door as usual, and checked that the tower door was locked.'

  'How did you do that?' asked Bartholomew.

  The lay-brother made a motion with his hands that indicated he had given it a good shake. 'Then I made sure the sanctuary light was burning and left. I locked the door behind me and gave the keys to Father Cuthbert.'

  'Why did Father Cuthbert not lock the church himself?' asked Bartholomew.

  'He does when he can. But he has pains in his ankles sometimes, so I lock up when he cannot walk.'

  Bartholomew nodded. He had often treated Father Cuthbert for swollen ankles, partly caused by the great pressure put on them by his excess weight, and partly, Bartholomew suspected, caused by a serious affinity for fortified wines.

  'Did you notice anything unusual?' he asked.

  The man shook his head hesitantly, and Bartholomew was certain he was lying.

  'It would be better if you told me what you know,' he said quietly. He saw sweat start to bead on the man's upper lip. Then, before he could do anything to stop him, the man dived out of Bartholomew's reach and scuttled out of the church. Bartholomew ran after him and saw him disappear into the bushes in the churchyard.

  He followed, ignoring the way the dense shrubs scratched at his arms. There seemed to be a small path through the undergrowth, faint from lack of use, but a distinct pathway nevertheless. Bartholomew crashed along it and suddenly found himself in one of the dismal alleys that lay between the church and the market-place, his feet skidding in the dust as he came to a halt.

  This was one of the poorest areas of the town, a place where no one valuing his safety would consider entering after dark. The houses were no more than rows of wooden frames packed with dried mud. One or two of the better ones had ill-fitting doors to keep out the elements, but most only had a blanket or a piece of leather to serve as a door.

  But it was not the homes that caught Bartholomew's eye. The lay-brother had disappeared, but others stood in the alley, a group of scruffy men who moved towards him with a menace that left Bartholomew in no doubt that he was not welcome there. He swallowed and began to back towards the pathway in the bushes, but two of the men moved quickly to block his way.

  The alley was silent except for the shuffling of the advancing men. There were at least eight of them, with more joining their ranks by the moment, rough men wearing jerkins of boiled leather and an odd assortment of leggings and shirts. Bartholomew wondered whether he would be able to force his way through them if he took off as fast as he could and made for the market square.

  A look at the naked hostility on the men's faces told him he would not succeed. These men meant business.

  Fear mingled with confusion as he wondered why his blundering into the alley had resulte
d in such instant antagonism.

  They moved closer, hemming Bartholomew against one of the shacks. He clenched his fists so that they would not see his hands were shaking; he was nearly overwhelmed with the rank smell of unwashed bodies and breath laden with ale fumes. One of the men made a lunge for his arm and Bartholomew ducked and swung out with his fists blindly. In surrounding him so closely, the men had given themselves little room for movement. Blows were aimed, but lacked force, although judging from several grunts of pain, Bartholomew's own kicks and punches, wildly thrown, were more effective.

  A leg hooked around the back of his knees and sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground, and he knew that it was all over. He twisted sideways to squirm out of the reach of a kick aimed at his head, but was unable to move fast enough to avoid the one to his stomach. The breath rushed out of him and his limbs turned to jelly so that he was unable to move.

  'Stop!'

  It was the deep voice of a woman that Bartholomew heard through a haze of dust and shuffling feet. The men moved back, and by the time Bartholomew had picked himself up and was steadying himself against a wall, the alleyway was deserted except for the woman.

  He looked at her closely. She was dressed in a good quality, but old, woollen dress of faded blue, and her hair, as black as Bartholomew's own, fell in a luxurious shimmering sheet down her back and partly over her face.

  Her features were strong and bespoke of a formidable strength of character, and although she would not have been called pretty, there was a certain attraction in her clear eyes and steady gaze. As Bartholomew looked more closely, he saw two scars on each jaw, running parallel to each other. Not wishing to make her uncomfortable by staring, he looked away, wondering whether the scars marked her as a member of some religious sect. He had heard that self-mutilation had been common in Europe during the plague years, and it was possible that the scars had been made then.

  'Who are you?' he asked.

  She looked at him in disbelief and let out a burst of laughter. "I save your life, and what do you say? "Thank you"? "I am grateful"? Oh, no! "Who are you?"!' She laughed again, although Bartholomew was too shaken to find the situation amusing. That she obviously held some sway over the band of louts who had just tried to kill him he found of little comfort.

  "I am sorry,' he said, contrite. 'Thank you. May I know your name?'

  She raised black eyebrows, her blue eyes dancing in merriment. 'All right, then,' she said. 'My name isjanetta of Lincoln. Who are you and what were you doing in our lane?'

  'Your lane?' he asked, surprised. 'Since when did the streets of Cambridge become private property?'

  The laughter went out of her face. 'You have a careless tongue for a man who has just been delivered from an — unpleasant fate. And you did not answer my question.

  What are you doing here?'

  Bartholomew wondered what he could tell her. He thought of the terrified face of the lay-brother and was reluctant to mention him to this curious woman. He also wondered why he had been so foolish as to chase the man when he easily could have found out his address from Father Cuthbert.

  "I must have taken a wrong turning,' he said. He looked around him and saw that his bag had gone, containing not only all his medical instruments and some medicines, but his best scholar's tabard too.

  Janetta stared at him, her hands on her hips. 'You are an ingrate,' she said. "I stop them from killing you, and you repay me with rudeness and lies.'

  Bartholomew knew that she was right and was sorry.

  But, despite the sunshine filtering down into the alley from the cloudless sky, Bartholomew felt something menacing and dark in the alley and longed to be gone.

  He straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall and took a deep breath.

  "I saw a small path leading through the bushes in St Mary's churchyard,' he answered truthfully. "I followed it and it finished here.'

  She continued to stare at him for a few minutes. 'You were following it at quite a pace,' she said. "I thought you were being pursued by the Devil himself.'

  He grimaced and looked up and down the alley to see which way would be the best to leave. She followed his eyes.

  'You will only be safe while you are with me,' she said.

  'Would you like me to walk with you?'

  Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and gave her a crooked smile. 'Thank you,' he said. 'How is it that you seem to have so much control over these people?'

  She gestured that he was to precede her down the alley.

  Although Bartholomew could see no one, he knew that they were being watched. The silence of the alley was a tangible thing. He glanced at Janetta walking behind him, striding purposefully.

  She smiled at him, showing small, white teeth. "I have taken it on myself to give them a community spirit, a sense of worth and belonging.'

  Bartholomew was not sure he knew what she meant, but kept his silence. All he wanted to do was leave the filthy alley and go back to the relative peace and sanity of Michaelhouse. For some reason he could not place, the woman made him uncomfortable. He glanced behind them, and was alarmed to see that a crowd of people had gathered, and was following them down the alley, its silence far more menacing than words could ever be.

  Janetta also glanced round, but seemed amused.

  'They wonder where you are taking me,' she said.

  Then they were out of the alley and into the colour and cheerful cacophony of the market-place. Gaudy canopies sheltered the goods of the traders from the hot sun, and everywhere people were calling and shouting.

  Dogs barked and children howled with laughter at the antics of a juggler. Somewhere, a pig had escaped and was being chased by a number of people, its squeals and their yelling adding to the general chaos.

  He turned to Janetta, who still smiled at him.

  'Thank you,' he said again. 'And please tell whoever stole my bag that there are some medicines in it that might kill if given to the wrong person. If he or she does not want to give it back to me, the medicines would best be thrown into the river where they will do no harm.'

  She nodded slowly, appraising him frankly. 'Do not come here uninvited again, Matthew Bartholomew,' she said.

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode jauntily back down the alley, leaving Bartholomew staring after her, wondering how she had known his name when he had not told her.

  'What happened to you?' exclaimed Michael in horror, looking at Bartholomew's torn and dirty clothes.

  Bartholomew took his arm and led him back through the churchyard to the bushes where he had followed the lay-brother. But however hard he looked, he could not find the path. It simply was not there. He stood back, bewildered.

  'What is going on, Matt?' asked Michael impatiently.

  'What have you been doing? You look as though you have been in a fight.'

  Bartholomew explained what had happened and sat on a tree-stump in the shade of the church while Michael conducted his own search of the bushes.

  'Are you sure there was a path?' he asked doubtfully.

  'Of course I am!' Bartholomew snapped. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. "I am sorry, Michael. It was a nasty experience and it has made me irritable.'

  Michael patted his shoulder. 'Tell me again about this woman. Pretty, you say?' He perched on the tree-stump next to the physician.

  Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, whether Michael was really the kind of man who should have been allowed to take a vow of chastity.

  'Tell me what you discovered from the clerks,' he said, to change the subject.

  'They said they had noticed the friar praying in the church for the last three days. Some of them spoke to him, and he said he was travelling from London to Huntingdon and had stopped here for a few days to rest and pray. They did not ask why he was travelling.

  They also do not know exactly where he came from in London. He seemed pleasant, friendly a
nd polite, and none of them thought it strange that he should spend so much time in this church.'

  'Is that all?' asked Bartholomew. Michael nodded.

  'Then we are really no further forward. We still do not know who he was or why he was in the tower, except that he probably travelled some distance to be there. And that poor lay-brother was terrified of something, and I did not like the atmosphere in that shabby alleyway.'

  'You should not frequent such places, then,' said Michael. 'Although I would have imagined you would be used to them by now.' "I thought I was,' said Bartholomew. He thought he knew most of the poorest parts of town through his patients, bat had not been called to the alleys behind the market square since the plague. Like the little settlement by the castle, the people who lived in the hovels near the Market Square had either died or moved to occupy better homes when others died.

  He and Michael sat in companionable silence for a few-moments and then Michael stood. 'Stay here,' he said. "I will send Cynric back with your spare tabard. If Alcote sees you dirty and dishevelled, he will fine you on the spot, and now you need to buy a new tabard you cannot afford it.'