An Unholy Alliance (11 page)

‘Have you heard about witchcraft being on the increase in Cambridge?’ Bartholomew asked, partly to change the subject from Frances and partly for information.

Stanmore had a network of informants who kept him up to date with the various happenings in the town.

There have been rumours, yes,’ said Stanmore. ‘A religion where fornication, drunkenness, and violent acts are regarded as acceptable will have a certain appeal to people frustrated with being urged to practise moderation and told that the injustices of their lives are God’s will.’ He stared into the fire.

* ‘What about in Cambridge?’ Bartholomew tried to get comfortable on the wooden chair.

“I have heard that lights have been seen moving about All Saints’ Church in the depths of the night.

Many superstitious people think that part of the town is haunted. If you had not burned down those houses with the people still in them, the site of that settlement would not be so feared.’

‘“The people were dead, Oswald!’ said Bartholomew, angry at the misrepresentation of fact. ‘And no one wanted the task of taking the bodies to bury them in the plague pit! What would you have done? Left them there to rot and further infect the town?’

‘Easy now,’ said Stanmore, startled at his outburst. ‘I am only telling you what people think, and you did ask.

What is your interest in witchcraft?’

‘None, really,’ said Bartholomew, still annoyed. ‘Old Brother Alban was rattling on about it and he thought it may have had something to do with the deaths of these women.’

Stanmore thought for a moment. ‘It is possible, I suppose. I will ask my people to keep their ears open and will contact you if they hear anything.’ He stood as Bartholomew rose to leave. ‘Be careful, Matt. “The rumours about these covens are unpleasant. In London, some fiend takes children from their cribs at night.’

“I am a little too old to be taken from my crib,’

said Bartholomew, relenting from his irritation and laughing.

Stanmore laughed too. ‘Your sister does not think so.

You must visit her soon, Matt. She is lonely, and would like to see you.’

As Bartholomew walked back towards Michaelhouse, he thought about Frances. Was the father of her child the man who had killed her? And if so, did this mean that he was also the killer of the other women? Had they also been pregnant by him? He shook his head.

That was absurd: the other women had been prostitutes who had probably known how to prevent pregnancy, as far as that was possible. Hilde’s sister had not done very well, it seemed. But what had Frances’s dying words ‘not a man’ - meant? Was her death connected with

the witchcraft that seemed to be on the increase all over the country? Why did so many people believe the Sheriff was reluctant to investigate? Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Was it possible he was involved in witchcraft too, and already knew the identity of the killer whom he had allowed to escape? Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The killer could be anyone! Hundreds of people had converged upon Cambridge for the Fair: any of them could be responsible.

“The more he thought about it, the more

he realised he had set himself an impossible task by agreeing to help de Belem.

Bartholomew worked hard that morning, painstakingly discussing Dioscorides’s text on opiates and how they might be used to ease a variety of ailments. After dinner he gave Gray and Bulbeck mock disputations to test their knowledge of Hippocrates and Galen, and then went to visit three different people who had contracted summer ague, a shivering fever that struck many people in the sweltering months of July and August. It was late by the time he had seen his last case, and the sun had already set.

He walked briskly through the dark streets towards Michaelhouse. Alcote, who had taken on unofficial duties as College policeman, saw to it that the gates were locked at dusk. Although Bartholomew had the Master’s permission to answer summonses from patients after the curfew, he knew it was not an arrangement approved by the other Fellows, who considered that it set a bad example to the students. Bartholomew abused the privilege at times, despite knowing that it would take very little for the Fellows to exert sufficient pressure on Kenyngham to withdraw his limited freedom. Because of this, he usually used the back gate: if Cynric knew he was late, he left it unbarred.

As expected, the front gates were locked, and the porter on duty was the miserable Walter, who was paid a half-penny for every late scholar whose name he could report to Alcote. Bartholomew slipped off down the shadows in St Michael’s Lane towards the back gate, to see if Cynric had left it open.

As he neared the gate, he saw a tiny movement, and instinctively melted further into the shadows at the side of the road. He strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to distinguish between the swaying of spindly bramble branches in the night breeze, and movements that might be more sinister.

A shadow glided silently from the shelter of one tree to another and he heard a soft, but unmistakable, cough.

He pressed further into the shadows and cursed softly.

“The Master must have asked one of the Proctors to keep a watch on the gate. He stood for a moment

and considered. He would have to retrace his steps, go along the High Street, and cut back through the Austin Canons’ land that backed onto Michaelhouse.

Cynric had shown him a portion of the wall that was in poor repair, where a desperate scholar might climb if both gates were locked.

Feeling absurd that he, a doctor of the University, should be sneaking around at night like some errant undergraduate, he made his way through the dark streets and prowled along the back of the College until he found the crumbling wall. He scrambled up it, wondering how many of his students had done the same, and hoping he would not meet any of them now.

Once on top of the wall, he walked along it until he came to a section where large compost heaps made the jump down the other side less hazardous. He crouched on the wall and let himself drop, landing in an undignified tumble that finished in a mound of cut grass. Swearing softly to himself, and trying in vain to brush the grass from his tabard, he made his way stealthily towards the kitchen door, keeping in the shadows as he had seen Cynric do. As he approached the bakery, he thought he saw something move. He froze and, for the second time that night, pressed further back into the shadows to watch.

Sure enough, someone was there. At first he thought it was Cynric, so soundlessly did the figure move, but it was a bigger person than Cynric. Bartholomew peered into the darkness, trying to gain some clue to the intruder’s identity as he moved steadily towards the orchard to the place where Frances de Belem had died. A tiny light flared as a candle was lit. Leaving the shadows of the bakery wall, Bartholomew crept carefully towards the laundry, a long wooden building that housed the servants on its upper floor. “The intruder appeared to be searching for something. Bartholomew’s stomach tightened. Could it be the murderer, the monster whom Frances had said was not a man, searching for some vital clue to his identity that he had mislaid or lost as he killed her?

He leapt with fright as a hand was clapped over his mouth and held there firmly to prevent him from calling out. He struggled violently, stopping only when he felt the sharp prick of a knife against his throat.

‘Hush!’ came Cynric’s voice. Bartholomew twisted round in disbelief. ‘Sorry, boy,’ the Welshman whispered, holding up the dagger. ‘It was the only way I could get you to stop struggling long enough to let you know it was me.’

He slipped his knife back into his belt and poked his head round the corner to watch the figure with the candle.

As Cynric observed, Bartholomew sank onto the grass to try to regain his composure.

‘Hsst!’ Cynric was off, gesturing for Bartholomew to follow. Still carrying the candle, the figure left the orchard and began to move down the path that led to the back gate. Cynric motioned for Bartholomew to watch from the wall that ran down one side of the vegetable gardens, while he moved like a ghost through the bulrushes that fringed the fish-ponds on the other side.

Bartholomew saw the figure reach out to open the door. He thought of Frances de Belem and the others with their throats cut by a maniac, and made his decision: the person must not be allowed to escape! He abandoned his hiding place and made for the gate at a run. “The figure glanced round in shock, and began urgently to heave at the gate. It flung open just as Bartholomew reached the intruder and grabbed him. “The figure span round with a cry of horror and drew a knife. Bartholomew knocked it from his hand, struggling to wrench the hood from the intruder’s face.

At that moment the door was thrown inwards with

such force that Cynric, who was closing it to prevent the intruder’s escape, was knocked off his feet. At the same time, it burst into flames and a gigantic figure swathed in black leapt through it with an unearthly howl.

Bartholomew was aware of yellow teeth and glittering eyes as the huge shape swept towards where he still held the first intruder. His hands were wrenched from his captive as the enormous shape pounced on him, swinging him round so that he lost his footing and went sprawling onto the ground. He saw the first intruder disappear through the door, and tried to scramble after him, his feet slipping and sliding on the wet grass. He felt himself grabbed, and a great weight dropped onto his chest as massive hands clawed for his throat. “The burning door crackled and blazed, and Bartholomew saw, in the light from the flames, that his attacker wore a red hood with holes for eyes and mouth.

As the huge hands tightened around his throat,

Bartholomew was seized by panic. He tried to ram the heel of his hand under the man’s nose and was horrified to feel teeth take a grip on his fingers and bite down hard. He jerked upwards with his knees as hard as he could and heard the man grunt with pain, but his teeth were still firmly clamped on Bartholomew’s hand.

He was vaguely aware of Cynric leaping onto the man’s back and thought he heard urgent shouting from the lane. “The man shook Cynric away and headed towards the gate. Bartholomew struggled to his feet, hoping at least for a glimpse of the first intruder’s face. Seeing him follow, the huge man turned to fight. Bartholomew picked up a handful of dusty soil and flung it into the man’s face. “The giant bellowed with rage and turned to stumble blindly towards the lane. Bartholomew followed, but the big man turned and thrust him away with such force that Bartholomew went tumbling head over heels backwards into the raspberry canes.

By the time Bartholomew’s head had stopped spinning, the breeze in the trees and a small crackle from the burned gate were the only sounds to be heard.

Bartholomew tensed as he saw a dark shape moving towards him, and then relaxed again as he saw it was Cynric.

‘Are you hurt?’ he whispered. Cynric shook his

head and went to look out of the still-smouldering gateway. After a few moments, he came back to sit with Bartholomew, who was trying to flex the fingers of his bitten hand.

‘“There is no one there, attacker or otherwise,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘What happened, exactly?’

“I am not sure,’ Bartholomew replied, equally shaken.

‘What were you doing in the orchard?’

‘Coming to unbar the door for you. Then I heard you trampling like a herd of pigs along by the bakery and that figure in the orchard.’

Bartholomew ignored the unflattering reference to his attempt at stealth and Cynric continued. ‘What was that thing that we fought? Did you see its face? It was bright red, like the Devil’s.’ He gripped Bartholomew’s arm suddenly. ‘Do you think it was the killer of Frances de Belem? She said the person who attacked her was not a man! Do you think it was the Devil?’

‘Devil!’ snorted Bartholomew. ‘If that were the Devil, he would not have needed a gate to enter. That was a person, Cynric, wearing a red hood.’

‘But how did a person make the gate burst into

flames?’

‘We will look tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, climbing wearily to his feet. ‘It is too dark now. What shall we do about the gate?’

“I will slip out and inform the Proctor, and ask him to post a guard on the door.’ Cynric looked at Bartholomew’s hand. ‘Did he bite you? Normal men do not bite, lad.That was no man. That was a fiend from hell itself!’

1

When Bartholomew awoke from a dream-filled sleep early the next morning, he was not surprised to find he was stiff and sore. As he was shaving and noting with annoyance a rip in a second shirt, Michael burst in.

“I was in the kitchen for something to eat before Lauds, and Cynric told me what happened last night!’

he said excitedly. ‘Why did you not come to wake me up? How will you explain what you were doing to the Master? How is your hand?’

Bartholomew went to the light of the window and

inspected his hand where the man in the orchard had bitten him. “There were clear teeth-marks but, oddly, while one row of teeth had scarcely made an impression, the others had made deep puncture marks surrounded by dark bruises.

‘Do you think the man in the orchard was the murderer of Frances?’ Michael asked. ‘What about the man who bit you - Cynric’s devil? Do you think he was the killer?’

‘Why else would anyone be at the scene of a murder at that time of night with a candle?’ Bartholomew asked with a shrug. ‘Perhaps two people, rather than one, are responsible for the murders. It seemed to me that the smaller one was looking for something while the larger one kept watch outside. I saw and heard someone in the lane before I climbed over the wall. He came to his accomplice’s rescue when I was on the very brink of pulling his mask away and revealing his face.’

‘But what could they have been looking for?’ asked Michael, frowning thoughtfully.

Bartholomew leaned back against the window-frame.

‘Perhaps Frances struggled and tore something from his clothing that he only missed later.’

‘“That must be so,’ said Michael, chewing on his lip.

‘Why else would someone risk visiting the scene of a murder when, if he were caught, he would have much explaining to do? Do you think he found what they were looking for?’