An Unholy Alliance mb-2 Page 7

  He ambled off, and Bartholomew leaned back wearily.

  Now that the excitement had worn off, he felt tired and sick. He wondered whether everything fitted together the dead friar, the poisoned lock, the disappearing lay brother and Vice-Chancellor, the murdered women, and the sinister alley — or whether they were all independent incidents that just happened to have involved him. He felt more than a little angry at the Chancellor. He wanted to teach and to practise medicine, not to become involved in some nasty plot where women and friars were killed, and that forced him to exhume dead clerks.

  He squinted up and watched the leaves blowing in the breeze, making changing pools of light over the tombstones in the graveyard. He could hear the distant racket from the market-place, while in the church some friars were chanting Terce.

  'What are you thinking of, getting into all this trouble without me?' came a familiar voice. Bartholomew opened his eyes and smiled at the Welshman with Michael behind him. Cynric took a strange delight in the kind of cloak-and-dagger activity that Bartholomew deplored.

  He was more friend than servant, and had been with Bartholomew since he had been appointed to teach in Cambridge. As Bartholomew explained what had happened, Cynric made no attempt to conceal his disdain for Bartholomew's ineptitude in handling the situation.

  While Bartholomew donned his tabard to hide his damaged clothes and Michael sat on the tree stump, Cynric went to see if he could find the path. After a few minutes, he came back to sit next to Michael, eyes narrowed against the sun.

  'The path is there sure enough,' said Cynric. 'Small twigs are broken and the grass is bruised. Someone must have come up the alley and arranged the bushes so that the path is hidden. I will come back later and explore it.'

  'No, you will not,' said Bartholomew firmly. 'Whoever hid it did so for a reason, and I am not sure I want to know why. I have a feeling the lay-brother made a grave error in using that path and I was probably lucky not to have been killed for following him. Let it be, Cynric.'

  Cynric looked disappointed, but nodded his agreement.

  'But next time you go out, boy, make sure I go with you. Old Cynric is far better at these things than you are.'

  It would not be too difficult to be better at 'these things' than he was, Bartholomew thought wryly, but Cynric was right. He would never have blundered blindly into the alley as Bartholomew had done.

  Michael stood and rubbed his hands together. 'We have had a difficult day,' he announced. "I propose we go and enjoy ourselves at the Fair.'

  Barnwell Causeway, the road that led from the town to the fields in which the Fair was held, was thronged with people. Men with huge trays of pastries and pies competed with each other for trade, while water-sellers left damp patches on the road as the river-water they carried in their buckets slopped over the sides. Beggars lined the route, sitting at the sides of the road and displaying sores and wounds to any who would look.

  Some were soldiers from the wars in France, once England's heroes, now quietly ignored. The Sheriffs men elbowed their way through the crowd, asking if anyone had witnessed the murder of a potter the night before.

  Michael shook his head to the sergeant's enquiry.

  'The roads are becoming more and more dangerous after dark,' he remarked, as the sergeant repeated his enquiry to a group of noisy apprentices walking behind them. 'Safe enough now with all these folk, but deadly to any foolish enough to wander at night'

  Cynric made a darting movement, and there was a yowl of pain from a scruffy man wearing a brown cloak.

  'Not even safe in daylight,' said Cynric, handing Michael's purse back to him, and watching the pickpocket scamper away down the road clutching his arm.

  Michael grimaced, and tucked the purse down the front of his habit. He brightened as the colourful canopies of the Fair booths came into sight, and stopped to look.

  War-horses pounded up and down a narrow strip near the river as their owners showed off their equestrian skills. Huge fires with whole pigs and sheep roasting over them sent delicious smells to mingle with the scent of manure and sweaty bodies. And everywhere there was noise: animals bleated and bellowed, vendors yelled about their wares, children shrieked and laughed, and musicians added their part to the general cacophony.

  Bartholomew followed Michael and Cynric into the melee, shaking off an insistent baker who was trying to sell him apple pastries crawling with flies. Bartholomew smiled at the people he knew — rich merchants in their finery, black-garbed scholars, and the poorest of his patients who eyed the wealth around them with jealous eyes. He saw the Junior Proctor, Alric Jonstan, and two of his beadles talking together near a stall displaying neatly-stacked fruit.

  Jonstan hailed him pleasantly, and sent his beadles to disperse a rowdy group of scholars who were watching a mystery play nearby. He rubbed a hand across his face, and beckoned Bartholomew and Michael behind the fruit stall to a quieter part of the Fair. He sat on a wooden bench, and summoned a brewer to bring them some ale.

  'This is the finest ale in England,' he said, closing his eyes and taking a long draught with obvious pleasure.

  The brewer smiled, gratified, and set the remaining tankards on the table.

  Jonstan held up his hand. 'As a Proctor, I should not be setting the example of sitting in an ale tent, but I have been working since I left St Mary's this morning, and even the most dedicated of men needs sustenance.'

  'Excellent ale,' said Michael appraisingly, raising his empty tankard to be refilled, and wiping foam from his mouth. 'And we are all well-enough hidden here, I think.'

  'Master Hading would not think so,' said Jonstan with awry smile. Bartholomew could well-believe it of the dour Physwick Hostel scholar. 'But what didyou discover about this friar?'

  Michael set his tankard down, and rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. 'Nothing other than what we told you this morning. But if you have been here all day, perhaps you do not know that Master Buckley seems to have disappeared.'

  'Disappeared?' echoed Jonstan, stunned. 'But he is coming to dine with me and my mother this evening.' "I doubt he will come,' said Michael. 'But if he does, you might mention that the Chancellor would like to see him, and the Warden of King's Hall would like his tables back.'

  Jonstan stared at him and shook his head slowly as Michael described Buckley's empty room.

  'Where will you start to sort out this mess?' he asked, looking from Michael to Bartholomew.

  "I would rather not start at all,' said Bartholomew fervently. "I would sooner teach.'

  Jonstan pulled a sympathetic face. "I can understand that,' he said. "I taught law before I became a Proctor, but have done no teaching since. I moved out of Physwick Hostel and bought a house in Shoemaker Row, so that my mother could keep house for me to allow more time for my duties. I wish Harling and I could help you with this business, but I think we will be too busy with the Fair. Hot weather, cheap ale, and gangs of students are a lethal combination, and we will be hard-pressed to keep the peace as it is.'

  He stood suddenly as a student reeled towards him, arm-in-arm with a golden-haired woman from one of the taverns. The student saw the Proctor, released the woman and fled, all signs of drunkenness disappearing as quickly as if Jonstan had dashed a bucket of cold water over him. The woman looked around, bewildered, and Jonstan sat again with a smile.

  "I wish all my duties were as easy as that,' he said.

  'There was another prostitute murder,' said Bartholomew.

  "I heard about that,' said Jonstan. He frowned. 'Does it seem to you that there are more prostitutes now than before the Death?'

  'Inevitably,' said Bartholomew, sipping the cool ale.

  'Some women lost their families in the plague, and it is one way in which they can make enough money to live.'

  'There are other ways, Doctor,' said Jonstan primly.

  'They could sew or cook.'

  'Possibly,' said Bartholomew, watching an argument develop into a fight between a buxom matron and a man se
lling rabbit furs. 'But all these travelling labourers mean that life as a prostitute is as well paid and secure as any occupation these days.'

  'But it is sinful,' persisted Jonstan, his round blue eyes earnest. 'The plague was a sign from God that we should amend our wicked ways, and yet there are more prostitutes now than before. How can they fail to heed His warning?'

  Bartholomew had heard these arguments before: the plague had been regarded as a punishmentfor all manner of wickedness — crime, the war with France, violation of the Sabbath, blasphemy, not fasting on Fridays, usury, adultery. Many people believed the plague was but a warning, and it was only a matter of time before it returned to kill all with evil in their hearts.

  After a while, enjoying the ale and the warmth of the sun, he rose to leave. The others followed suit, and they parted from Jonstan. Moments later, Bartholomew felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, beaming at him.

  Bartholomew returned his smile, and asked Stanmore how his business was faring.

  'Excellent,' said Stanmore, his smile widening further still. "I have sold almost all the cloth I had stored in my warehouse, and deposits have been made on the next shipment due to arrive within two days.'

  'Has the Sheriff found the men who stole your cloth yet?' asked Bartholomew, referring to an incident in which two of Stanmore's carts were attacked and plundered on the London road.

  Stanmore frowned. 'He has not. And I am unimpressed with what he is doing to get to the bottom of the matter.'

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. Sheriffs were seldom popular, but Richard Tulyet had recently excelled at making himself an object of dislike. First the townspeople complained about his lack of progress on the murders of the women, and now Stanmore about his stolen cloth.

  Stanmore sighed. "I know Tulyet has his hands full with the whore murders,' he said, 'but the town will suffer if he does not look into the attack on my goods: merchants will not come here if the roads are dangerous.'

  'There was another murder this morning,' said Bartholomew, to divert Stanmore from the lecture on the importance of safe travel and trade he was about to give.

  Stanmore nodded. 'It was all the talk at the Fair today,' he said. 'Some womenfolk are thinking of leaving early because of it.' He leaned towards Bartholomew so that he would not be overheard. "I heard a rumour today that one of the guilds might look into this prostitute business, since Tulyet will not.'

  'Which guild?' asked Bartholomew, concerned. 'Witch hunters who will accuse any man out alone after curfew?'

  'No, no,' said Stanmore. 'They call themselves the Guild of the Holy Trinity, and there are priests and monks among their number. It is nothing sinister, but a group of honest men who are concerned that sin and crime have increased since the Death.'

  Bartholomew looked dubious, and Stanmore shrugged.

  'There are many who feel as they do,' he said. 'These are not religious fanatics sniffing out heresy, like your Father William, but plain folk who care about the changes that have occurred since the Death.' When Bartholomew failed to look convinced, Stanmore threw up his hands in despair. 'Look at the evidence in front of you! A tiny place like Cambridge, and we have a maniac who kills women in the dead of night, and it is not even safe for a cart of cloth to travel from London.'

  'But the attack was miles away!' protested Bartholomew.

  'You cannot blame Cambridge for what happened near London.'

  'It was not near London, it was at Saffron Walden,' said Stanmore haughtily. 'A mere fifteen miles away.' He scratched at his chin. 'It is an odd business. I expected that the cloth would reappear at the Fair, sold by the thieves, but although I have had my apprentices scour the area, not so much as a thread of it has appeared.'

  'Perhaps it was stolen for personal use,' said Bartholomew.

  Stanmore looked impatient. 'This is finest quality worsted, Matt. You do not use such cloth to sew any old garment.'

  Bartholomew shrugged. 'Perhaps the thieves anticipated you would look for it here, and plan to sell it elsewhere.'

  'They must,' said Stanmore. 'But it is a wretched nuisance.

  I had to send that cloth to London to be dyed since deBelem's prices are so extortionate. So, notonlydo I lose the cloth, I have the expense of dyeing and transport. It is a bad time to be a merchant: labour prices are sky-high, fewer dyers and weavers mean that they can charge what they will because there is no competition, and, on top of all that, it is not safe to transport goods.'

  'But most of that has always been true,' said Bartholomew, to placate the agitated draper.

  'Not like this,' said Stanmore bitterly. 'English cloth and English wool are the finest in the world. But there are fewer shepherds to tend the sheep, less wool available for weaving, fewer weavers to weave it…'

  'And fewer merchants to sell it,' interrupted Bartholomew, laughing. 'Come, Oswald! It is not all bad. You are not in the gutters yet!'

  Stanmore smiled reluctantly. "I suppose business at the Fair has been good,' he admitted. He turned to watch the antics of a small group of tumblers from Spain, who leapt, somersaulted, and cartwheeled in a flurry of red jackets and blue leggings. Bartholomew left him to admire the acrobats, and wandered off alone. He watched a troop of players perform the mystery play about Adam and Eve to a large and good-humoured crowd. Nearby, other players, with a far smaller audience, enacted scenes from the plague, claiming that the disease would come again unlesswicked ways were mended. Bartholomew thought about the Guild of the Holy Trinity, and wondered if the few people watching and nodding sagely at the play's message were its members.

  By the time Bartholomew met Michael and Cynric again, the daylight was fading, and traders were packing up. Many would stay, cooking stews on open fires, while others would leave an apprentice to guard their goods and walk back into Cambridge to sleep in taverns and brothels. The Fair was only half-way through, and already surrounding fields and coppices had been stripped of wood for the fires that provided warmth and hot food.

  Bartholomew, Cynric, and Michael joined a group of exhausted traders to walk the short distance back to Cambridge. By mutual consent, they waited until there were about twenty people. Many traders carried the day's takings to be deposited with a money-lender, or hidden in a secure place, and robberies along the dark stretch of road were not uncommon during the Fair. Stanmore and his steward Hugh, armed with a crossbow, joined the group, and they set off, some singing a bawdy tavern song despite their weariness.

  Stanmore continued his dismal analysis on the safety of roads, which had Bartholomew glancing nervously over his shoulder. But despite Stanmore's gloom, they arrived at Michaelhouse without mishap, where Michael went to the kitchen for something to eat, and Bartholomew went straight to bed.

  Early the next morning, he was awoken by an insistent knocking on his door, and Eli, the bow-legged College steward, burst in.

  'Doctor Bartholomew!' he gasped. 'You must come!

  There is a girl dying in our orchard.'

  3

  He led the way to the orchard that lay behind the kitchen. Agatha knelt in the long grass, leaning over someone lying on the ground.

  At a discreet distance, Master Kenyngham stood with Michael, Alcote, Cynric, and Piers Hesselwell.

  As Bartholomew approached, he saw the bloodstained sheet that Agatha had used to cover the girl and knew what to expect. Yet another murder of a prostitute, except that this time the murder had not been in a churchyard, but on College property. As he knelt next to her, Agatha caught his wrist, her strong face unusually white. She glanced around to ensure she could not be overheard.

  'Only you and I know about this, Matthew,' she said.

  'We could keep it that way.'

  He gazed at her, bewildered, but she would say no more, and Bartholomew turned his attention to the girl.

  He caught his breath in horror as he saw who lay beneath the sheet, and stared at Agatha in shock. She touched his arm and gestured at the figure on
the ground, to bring his attention back to Frances de Belem. An attempt had been made to cut her throat, but, although there was a nasty wound there, it had failed to give her a quick death. Bartholomew had no idea how long she had been in the orchard in this condition. Her body was cold, but he could not tell whether it was from the loss of blood, or from lying in the wet grass. Her eyes were closed and blood bubbled through her white lips as she breathed.

  Bartholomew sent Cynric to fetch a sense-dulling potion that he kept in a locked chest in the chamber adjacent to his own room. While Cynric was gone, Kenyngham gave last rites. When he had finished, Bartholomew dripped some of the powerful syrup between her teeth, but hoped that she would not regain consciousness to need it. Frances's breathing grew more laboured, and Michael and Alcote knelt, and began intoning prayers of the dying.

  Just when Bartholomew thought she would slip away, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Agatha took her hand and crooned comfortingly, while Bartholomew motioned to the clerics to keep their voices down. He leaned close to her to hear what she was trying to whisper.

  "I am sorry for what I asked you to do,' she said, her voice little more than a breath.

  'No harm was done,' Bartholomew said. 'But who did this to you?'

  'It was not a man,' she said in a low voice, her eyes filling with tears. Her hand fluttered to a silver cross she wore around her neck.

  When Bartholomew looked from the cross to her face, she was dead. He felt for a life beat, put his cheek close to her mouth to see if he could detect breathing, and covered her with the sheet.

  Agatha leaned towards him. 'Will you condemn her as a suicide? Or will you keep silent about what she told us yesterday?'

  Before replying, Bartholomew' pulled the sheet from her feet. She wore no shoes and there was the small circle on her left foot. Frances de Belem was too wealthy to go without shoes, so someone must have taken them.