An Unholy Alliance (28 page)

The rain became heavier, and de Belem glanced up at the iron-grey clouds.

“I must go. I have been here too long already.’ He stood slowly, rain dripping from his hair where it was not covered by his hood. He knelt quickly and awkwardly for Michael’s benediction, slipped across the tiny garden, unlatched the gate, and was gone.

‘Oh, Lord, Michael,’ said Bartholomew, when the

door had been closed again. ‘Now what? Do you

believe him?’

Michael, who had been sufficiently interested by de Belem’s words to stop eating, wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve. ‘His claims are possible,’ he answered. “I am inclined to believe de Belem that his guild is not responsible. After all, he lost his daughter and his woman.’

‘But who was in the orchard the night after Frances’s murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael scratched his head. “It all makes little sense,’

he said.

‘Unless,’ said Bartholomew, watching a bird swoop onto the table to peck up crumbs from Michael’s food, ‘de Belem speaks only for the Guild of Purification, of which he was a member. Oswald told me the two guilds were rivals. I think de Belem is underestimating the power of the Guild of the Coming, especially if the Tulyets are involved. I also think his grief might be influencing his reasoning. Perhaps he feels guilty that his loved ones have died because he is a satanist, and is trying to convince himself it is not his fault. If the Guild of the Holy Trinity is antagonistic enough towards satanism to murder, they would not be leaving satanic regalia on people’s beds. I still believe the Guild of the Coming left the goat mask in Nicholas’s coffin and the head for you.’

Michael rubbed some crumbs across the table idly as he thought. ‘You could be right,’ he said. “It would be too easy to dismiss the covens from our enquiries. And de Belem can only have knowledge of his own guild, not that of his rivals. I suggest we treat Master de Belem’s information with scepticism.’

He turned back to the remains of his meal, and

Bartholomew, chewing on a bacon rind that flavoured the chicken, began to mull over the evidence yet again.

If Isobel made regular visits to de Belem at night, it would have been simple for the murderer to lie in wait for her. Did Frances also have a regular time when she slipped out of the house to meet her lover? But why Michaelhouse? Was she meeting her lover there, the scholar, as Brother Alban had claimed? Perhaps it was her lover who had killed her.

And what had Frances meant when she had said her killer was not a man? He drew circles on the wet table with his finger, lost in thought. She must have glimpsed her killer wearing a mask - either a red hood like the man in the orchard, or one of a goat’s head like the dead woman in Nicholas’s coffin. He wondered whether the killer was from Michaelhouse, but reasoned that was unlikely. The three people he had seen in the orchard were leaving after their search, not returning to their rooms, and he and Michael had already established that an insider would not have needed to drug Walter to go about his business at night because he would have known Walter slept on duty. What had the murderer lost in the orchard? If it were the Guild of the Coming who were committing the murders, then it must have been they who had attacked him and set the College gate afire.

But Sybilla was certain that one man had killed Isobel.

And was Nicholas of York still alive somewhere as the mastermind behind all this? It was odd that the first murder coincided with his death. Was it he who left the goat’s head in Michael’s room to warn him away?

And what of the friar? Was he a member of the Guild of Purification killed by the Guild of the Coming, or perhaps a member of the fanatic Guild of the Holy Trinity rifling through the University history seeking out details of the covens? But Bartholomew and Michael had already shown that he was a stranger to the town and was unfamiliar with the daily rituals of St Mary’s Church.

Perhaps they should go back to the chest, and see whether there were any other documents there that related to these guilds which might explain why the deaths in St Mary’s Church seemed to be connected to the murders of the women.

And where was Buckley? And why had Janetta and

Froissart’s family gone to ground? Bartholomew felt his head begin to reel. As soon as he felt he was beginning to make some progress, he merely raised more questions. He wondered suddenly how his students were proceeding. He should be with them, helping to train them to be good physicians, not sitting in beer gardens in the rain being warned against becoming involved in something that seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment. He stood abruptly.

‘ I can see only one way forward,’ said Michael, following him out. ‘We must spy on the Guild of the Coming at All Saints’ tonight and see what we can discover.’

Bartholomew turned his face to the falling rain, feeling it cool his face. “I am tempted to go to the Chancellor and turn everything over to him. We are scholars, not witch hunters. And anyway,’ he added wryly, ‘it is Sunday.’

Michael looked sharply at him. ‘Are you giving up?

Are you going to let evil men tell us what we can and cannot do in our own town?’

Bartholomew closed his eyes. ‘How did we become

embroiled in all this, Michael?’ he asked softly. “I can make no sense at all of the information we have, and the more we learn, the less clear everything becomes.

I do not mind telling you that I find the whole business frightening.’

“I share your fears, but I also think that we will be in danger whether we continue to investigate or not.

Everything we do will be held suspect from now on, and whoever left the head for me knows what we are doing. I believe the only way we will ever be safe is to unravel this mystery and unmask its villains. And you owe it to Frances de Belem, who might have been your wife had you not chosen another path/ Michael saw his friend’s hesitation and added firmly, Tonight we will go to watch this coven meet at All Saints’.’

‘Is there no other way?’ groaned Bartholomew, shifting uncomfortably in his sopping cloak. ‘Perhaps we should just go straight to Tulyet/

‘And say what?’ demanded Michael. ‘Ask him which member of his guild is murdering the town’s whores? Is it his father or just one of his friends? Come on, Matt!

We would get nowhere there, and the last time we took him on, I ended up in bed with a dead animal, and you were threatened with imprisonment in the Castle dungeons.’

‘Will you tell de Wetherset what we intend to do?’

said Bartholomew. Then at least someone will know the truth if we are caught and disappear, like Buckley and Nicholas. And ask him if Master Jonstan will come too. This is more in his line of duty than ours.’

‘We will not be caught,’ said Michael. ‘Not with Cynric with us. Asking for Jonstan is a good idea, although I think I will request that the Chancellor does not reveal his plans to Harling. I do not trust that man.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked home together, the rain became harder, the wind blowing it horizontally in hazy sheets. Bartholomew shivered and pulled his cloak closer round him. The High Street became a river of mud, and water oozed out of the drains and collected in the pot-holes and ruts. The streets were deserted, everyone either at home or in the noisy taverns. Passing St Mary’s churchyard, Bartholomew saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and peered forward, clutching at Michael’s sleeve.

There is someone at Nicholas’s grave,’ he whispered.

Michael stiffened, and together they crept forward.

‘Who is it?’ breathed Michael. Bartholomew peered through the rain. It was a man of medium height

dressed in a priest’s robe that was too large. As they inched forward, the man spun round, and seeing them coming, turned and fled. Bartholomew tore after him, leaping over the tombstones and mounds of grass. The man skidded in the mud and almost fell. Bartholomew lunged forward and grabbed a handful of his gown, but lost his balance as the man knocked his hand away. As he scrabbled to regain his footing, the man rushed past him, heading diagonally away from where Michael stood.

As Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, he saw Michael dive full-length towards the fleeing man and gain a hold on the hem of his gown. The man was stopped dead in mid-stride. In an effort made great by terror, he tried to run again, tearing free from Michael. Bartholomew saw him reach the High Street and turn left towards the Trumpington Gate.

Robes billowing, the man began to gain speed down the empty street, Bartholomew in hot pursuit. Bartholomew began to gain on him. And then disaster struck. A heavy cart carrying kegs of beer pulled ponderously out of Bene’t Street. The man skipped to one side, skidded in the mud, regained his balance and ran on. But Bartholomew collided heavily with the cart. The horse, panicked by the sudden movement, reared and kicked.

One of the kegs fell from the cart and smashed, and Bartholomew went sprawling into the mud.

He covered his head with his hands, hearing the horse’s hooves thudding into the ground next to him, and tried to scramble away, but the mud was too slippery. Just as he was certain his head would be smashed by the horse’s flailing hooves, one of his arms was seized, and he was hauled away with such force that he thought it had been yanked from its socket. Hooves pounded the spot where he had been moments earlier.

Next to him, Michael leaned up against the wall of a house and gasped for breath, while the carter began to regain control of his horse. Bartholomew sat shakily on the ground and watched the man he had been chasing disappear up the High Street.

‘Why don’t you watch where you are going!’ the carter shouted furiously at Bartholomew.

Michael raised himself up to his full height and pointed a meaty finger at the carter. ‘You should not be trading on a Sunday!’ he admonished severely. ‘You are committing a grave sin.’

The carter was sheepish but unrepentant. ‘Well, why was he in such a hurry on a Sunday?’ he countered, pointing at Bartholomew.

‘He is a physician,’ said Michael. ‘Physicians attend patients all days of the week.’

‘But they do not usually chase them!’ the carter retorted, tossing his head in the direction the man had fled. Michael took a step towards him, and the carter, wary of the formidable strength he had witnessed when the monk hauled his colleague from under the horse, backed down. He raised his hand in a rude gesture and urged his horse to move on, yelling abuse when he felt he was far enough away to be safe.

Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, climbing unsteadily to his feet and rubbing his shoulder. He looked at the fat monk and wondered where his strength came from. He seldom took exercise and ate far more than was healthy, but the fat monk’s strength of arm was prodigious.

Michael nodded absently. ‘A pity you did not catch him,’ he said. ‘You would have done had that wretched carter not been in the way.’

Bartholomew flexed his arm to ensure it was still attached. “I had him in my grasp in the churchyard, and so did you.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘A great pity,’ he said again. That man could have answered many questions.

That was Nicholas of York/

It WAS STILL RAINING WHEN DARKNESS FELL THAT night and Bartholomew was more reluctant to go out than ever. He waited in the kitchen with Cynric and Michael until Michaelhouse grew silent, and followed them resentfully through the orchard to the back gate.

He saw shadows flit across the lane as he eased open the new gate and Jonstan materialised out of the darkness, flanked by two heavy-set beadles.

Two of my best men,’ he whispered. ‘We will station them within hailing distance of All Saints’ as a safeguard, although the Chancellor has advised that we do nothing but watch.’

“I have a bad feeling about this, Brother,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We should not be sneaking off in the night to spy on satanic rituals.’

‘According to Brother Boniface, most of the medicine you teach him involves satanic rituals,’ Michael whispered back with a chuckle.

‘He said that?’ said Bartholomew loudly, and dropped his voice as the others glared at him. ‘Did he tell you that?’

Michael nodded, still laughing under his breath.

Cynric was elbowing him so he could close the door and Bartholomew was forced to let the matter drop.

They made their way up the High Street and into

Bridge Street. Once they met a group of beadles, but were allowed past without question when Jonstan spoke.

They tried to keep out of sight as they neared the Great Bridge, lest any members of the guild were keeping a watch on it. Three soldiers guarded the bridge, talking in low voices. Bartholomew caught the glint of metal and saw that they were armed. Jonstan stopped to consider.

“It is likely that these satanists will cross the bridge,’ he whispered, ‘and must have done so for previous meetings.

Therefore they must have bribed the guards. If we cross the bridge, the guards might tell them that others have already crossed.’

Cynric glanced at the river. ‘We can wade across,’ he whispered.

Bartholomew eyed the black, swirling waters dubiously.

‘But the rain has swollen it,’ he said. ‘And besides, it is filthy.’

‘You will not notice the filth in the dark,’ whispered Jonstan consolingly.

Bartholomew stared at him in the dim light cast by the soldiers’ lamps. Just because we cannot see it does not mean that it cannot do us harm,’ he began.

The others made impatient sounds, and Michael

pushed him towards the river bank. ‘Now is not the time for a lecture on hygiene, Matt,’ he hissed. ‘Do not be so fastidious!’

Cynric led the way along the bank, well away from the bridge, and entered the water without a sound. The others followed more noisily, causing the Welshman to glare at them. Jonstan’s amiable face was taut with concentration as he waded carefully through the water, swearing to himself when he slipped on the slick river bed. Jonstan was taking his duties seriously. Bartholomew gritted his teeth against the aching cold of the water that lapped around his knees, and then suddenly reached his waist. He tried not to think of Trinity Hall, Gonville Hall, Clare College, Michaelhouse, the Carmelite Friary, and St John’s Hospital, all of which discharged their waste directly into the river upstream from where they were crossing. Next to him, Michael hoisted his habit higher and higher as the water rose, displaying startlingly white, fat legs.