An Order for Death (52 page)

‘No!’ exclaimed Timothy, shocked. ‘We are too late?’

‘Then we should bring an end to this futile chatter,’ said Janius, indicating with a nod of his head that Timothy was to kill
Bartholomew. ‘We must ensure that Heytesbury does
not leave the town alive, and that Michael is blamed for his death.’

‘How did you kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, realising that he had made a mistake in mentioning the signed deed.
While he found the company of the two monks distasteful, and disliked hearing their sanctimonious, gloating voices bragging
about their cleverness, he was certainly not ready to die. ‘You hanged him the same night that Kyrkeby died.’

‘Enough questions,’ said Janius.

Timothy took a step towards Bartholomew, who quickly moved behind the table, and continued to speak in the same patronising,
gloating tone. ‘While we were struggling to hide Kyrkeby, Walcote gave the essay to Father Paul. Walcote lied: he told us
he was going to keep nosy beadles away, while all the time his intention was to hide the essay from us.’

‘We threatened to hang him unless he handed it over,’ said Janius. ‘He refused, and so he died. And that is what you are about
to do.’

‘And how will you explain my corpse in your hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, desperate to keep them talking.

‘Your nephew,’ replied Timothy, coolly assessing which side of the table to approach. ‘He will be the perfect scapegoat for
the murder of his uncle and his uncle’s friend.’

‘No one will believe that Richard would kill me or Michael,’ said Bartholomew, so defiantly that Timothy paused in his relentless
advance. ‘He may be a fool, but he is no killer.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius. ‘First, lots of people heard you scolding him for his reprehensible treatment of Sergeant Orwelle
the other day. Second, we all know how disgusted you are that he allowed the Black Bishop of Bedminster to try to eat Pechem.
And third, no one likes Richard anyway. They will be only too pleased to see him accused of a crime.’

That was probably true, Bartholomew thought. Richard’s behaviour had won him no friends. ‘So, what is your plan?’ he asked,
trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice as
he eased away from Timothy. ‘Whatever it is, there will be a flaw that will warn Michael before you harm him. You should
know by now that he is not an easy man to fool.’

‘God will see that our plan works,’ said Janius confidently. ‘He has chosen us to do His bidding, and He will not let us fail.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. He had been afraid from the moment he had been caught, but Janius’s calm and serene conviction that
what he was doing was good had just sent a new chill of fear through him. Bartholomew had learned from Father William that
there was no arguing with a zealot, but Janius’s moral fanaticism was far more invidious than William’s crude dogmatism, because
it was disguised by a coating of sugary goodness.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked again, in another desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

‘Brother Adam is unwell, and it is time he made a will,’ said Janius. ‘The best lawyer in Cambridge is Richard Stanmore –
he told us so himself – and so we have sent for him. When he arrives, the pair of you will fight and he will kill you.’

Bartholomew was startled enough to laugh. ‘No one will believe that happened.’

‘But we will witness it,’ said Janius simply. ‘Who will disbelieve two Benedictine monks with a reputation for honesty and
compassion?’

‘And I suppose Michael will then see what Richard has done, and they will kill each other in the ensuing struggle,’ said Bartholomew.
‘But Michael does not carry weapons; you should know that.’

‘He snatched up yours to parry Richard’s first blow,’ said Janius, unperturbed by the inconsistencies in his plot. ‘As the
son of a nobleman, Michael had some knightly training before he joined the Church. His riding skills are legendary, and so
there is no reason to assume that his Benedictine habit does not conceal a little-used talent for swordplay, too.’

‘And now,’ said Timothy, raising the sword and advancing
on the physician again, ‘the time for chatter is over. Richard will be here soon, and I do not want to tackle two of you
at the same time. Would you like to be absolved before you die?’

Bartholomew looked from the wicked edge of the sword to Timothy’s determined face, and knew that it was an offer he should
consider very carefully.

‘The only person dispensing absolution tonight will be me,’ said Michael, opening the door and stepping into Timothy’s room.
‘You were right, Timothy. I am a practised swordsman, and even though my habit – and yours – forbids us to carry steel, I
will fight you unless you put up your weapon immediately.’

Cynric was behind him, with his sharp sword, and a sudden clatter of voices, both in the building and in the street outside,
indicated that they were not alone. The beadles had arrived, and so had Richard, pale and shocked, and holding his ornate
dagger ineptly in one hand. The other Benedictines, seeming as appalled by the turn of events as was Richard, stood in the
corridor and regarded their two brethren with a mixture of disbelief and unease.

‘It is over, Timothy,’ said Brother Adam, his face sickly white in the pale light of the lamp that he held. ‘We heard everything
you said, including your admission that you killed Walcote and the lad at Michaelhouse. Put down your sword and surrender,
before anyone else is hurt.’

‘Give ourselves to Satan?’ cried Janius, as he backed against a wall. ‘Never! What we did was good and right. We will not
be put on trial by men who cannot see the truth through the veil of lies Michael and his associates have created.’

‘You confessed to murder,’ said Adam softly. ‘Nothing else is relevant. But we will have no more bloodshed. Put up your sword,
Timothy.’

‘But we were so careful!’ whispered Timothy, aghast at the intrusion of armed men in his domain. ‘We watched
Bartholomew grope his way along the corridor, and
saw
he was alone. We even left the front door open, so that he would be able to gain access more easily.’

Cynric gave a soft laugh. ‘I discovered that open door when I was keeping watch. At that point, I realised that he was expected.
I chanced to meet Richard, who had been summoned by you, and I dispatched him to fetch Brother Michael instead.’

‘Cynric was all for rescuing Matt straight away,’ said Michael. ‘But I wanted to hear what you had to say first. We entered
Ely Hall by the door you so obligingly left open, and have been royally entertained ever since.’

‘You were safe enough, lad,’ said Cynric kindly, seeing Bartholomew’s shock when he realised that Michael and Cynric could
have rescued him much earlier. ‘I would not have let them harm you.’

Janius sneered at Michael. His quick mind had assessed his predicament, and he had reasoned that all was not lost. ‘Do you
really think the people of Cambridge will believe you rather than us? Respectable men like Kenyngham and Pechem know that
you stole from the Carmelite Friary
and
that you are in league with Heytesbury of Oxford.’

Michael shrugged. ‘The entire Benedictine community of Ely Hall just heard your confession. No one will doubt them.’

For the first time, Bartholomew saw Timothy’s mask of saintliness begin to slip; underneath was the face of a frightened man.
‘It was not us,’ he said, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘None of this was our idea.’

‘Give me your sword, and we will talk about it,’ said Michael, unmoved.

‘We were only obeying instructions,’ Timothy whined, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead and speckling the skin above
his lips. ‘Do you really think we could have done this alone? Us? Two lowly men of God?’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Janius furiously. ‘They can prove nothing. The only evidence they have is an alleged confession overheard
by a crowd of bumbling monks in ill health.’

Timothy was not convinced. ‘Perhaps we can come to some arrangement,’ he said, smiling nervously at Michael. ‘I will put up
my sword and reveal to you the name of our associate; you will let me go free.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘You will hand me your sword, then you will come with me to the proctors’ cells,
where you will await your trial.’

‘No gaggle of sinners will try us,’ said Janius viciously. Suddenly, there was a flash of metal, and Bartholomew saw that
he held a dagger. He threw himself to one side as it whipped through the air towards him, then struggled to regain his footing
as pandemonium erupted in the small room.

Timothy was wielding his sword in a series of savage arcs that threatened to decapitate anyone who went too close, while Janius
was engaged in a deadly circling game with Cynric. With a howl of rage, Timothy turned on Bartholomew.

‘This is
your
fault! If you had not started questioning that grey cloak and telling Michael that the motive for the deaths of Kyrkeby,
Walcote and Faricius was not the theft of their purses, then none of this would have happened. You deserve to die.’

Bartholomew ducked backwards as one of the blows whistled past his face, so close that he felt the wind of it on his skin.
Timothy staggered with the force of the swing, but then recovered and prepared to make a swift end of the man he saw as the
author of all his troubles. Michael tried to force his way into the room, but was blocked by Cynric and Janius, engaged in
their own life or death struggle. Bartholomew came up hard against the wall, and knew he had nowhere else to go. Timothy raised
the sword above his head in both hands and prepared to strike.

All at once, the expression on the monk’s face turned from fury to mild surprise. He dropped to his knees, and the sword clattered
from his hands. Then he pitched forward, and Bartholomew saw the hilt of Richard’s
decorative dagger protruding from his back. Richard gazed down at it, then looked up at Bartholomew, tears brimming in his
eyes.

‘He laughed at my dagger yesterday,’ he said unsteadily. ‘He said it was all handle and no blade.’

‘There was blade enough to kill him,’ remarked Michael, still trying to insinuate himself through the door to put an end to
the continuing skirmish between Janius and Cynric. ‘You did well, lad.’

‘Then it is the first thing I have done well since arriving in Cambridge,’ said Richard in a voice thick with self-pity. ‘I
was looking forward to doing business with this pair, and now I discover they are killers. It is Heytesbury’s fault for befuddling
my wits with wine. I have never felt so ill in my life as I have the last few days. I swear to you I shall never drink again.
I will be a new man.’

Cynric’s eyes left Janius just long enough to wink at Bartholomew, to indicate his belief that the change in character was
due to the charm he had applied. It was a mistake: Janius took advantage of his wandering attention to knock the Welshman
from his feet. Bartholomew tensed, ready to spring at Janius and take him on with his bare hands if he threatened to harm
Cynric. But Janius was not interested in the prostrate book-bearer; he had his sights fixed on larger prey.

‘You are no Benedictine,’ he hissed furiously, turning on Michael. ‘You are a fat, gluttonous pig who has no right to wear
the sacred habit of a monk.’

Michael said nothing, but there was a blur of white followed by a sharp crack, and Janius staggered backwards holding his
broken nose. Blood spurted from under his fingers and his dagger clattered to the floor.

‘I told you I would punch the next person who called me fat,’ said Michael mildly, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the
palm of the other. ‘Take him away, Cynric.’

Cynric leapt to his feet and pinned Janius against the wall, ignoring the monk’s cries of pain.

‘We were doing God’s will!’ shouted Janius, as Cynric began to haul him away. ‘It is you who are evil, and it is because of
men like you that the Great Pestilence came in the first place. It will return if you are permitted to continue in positions
of power.’

‘I thought the plague had come because some Cambridge scholars were nominalists,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
‘That is what Lincolne told us.’

Janius glowered at him. ‘Lincolne is obsessed with the notion that nominalism is heresy. He is a fanatic.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Take him away, Cynric. I want to hear no more of his raving.’

‘God will punish you for this!’ Janius howled, as he was wrestled out of the room and down the corridor. ‘He will not stand
by and see evil men the victors. You will see.’

‘I hope he is wrong,’ said Richard nervously. ‘I thought his capture and Timothy’s death signified an end to all this vileness.’

‘They do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just ranting to unsettle us. He and Timothy were behind all this murder and mayhem,
and neither of them is in a position to do anything more now.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.

The following day was Easter Sunday. Clippesby’s predictions about the weather had been correct, and the rain clouds that
had been dogging the town for the past few weeks were blown away by a cool, fresh wind from the south. The morning dawned
with a blaze of gold when the sun made a rare appearance, and the sky was a clear and perfect blue.

Later than usual, because it was a Sunday, the Michaelhouse scholars gathered in their yard to process to St Michael’s Church
for the high mass. There was an atmosphere of happy anticipation for the festival itself, the debate that was to follow in
the afternoon and the feast that had been arranged for the evening. Every scholar seemed to
have made an effort with his appearance to celebrate the end of Lent, and even Langelee’s exacting standards were surpassed
by most of the students. Bartholomew had never seen so many polished shoes and brushed tabards.

In honour of the occasion, the Stanton silver had been brought out of the strong-room, and stood in a gleaming line along
the altar. Patens, chalices and thuribles had been buffed until they shone like mirrors, and a new festive altar cloth, sewn
by Agatha, was so brightly white that it hurt the eyes. The sun blazed through the east window, casting pools of coloured
light into the chancel, and the parishioners had decorated the church with flowers of cream and yellow, so that the whole
building was infused with the sweet scent of them.