The Spital stood on what had, until recently, been nothing but scrubland. It comprised five buildings within a perfect walled square. In the centre was a hall that had a large room for communal eating below and a dormitory above. A chapel jutted from its back, placed to catch the rising sun at its altar end. The other buildings were in each of the four corners: a kitchen and accommodation for staff; a substantial guesthouse; the stable block; and a large shed-cum-storeroom.
The Spital’s gates were always closed, as not everyone was happy about lepers – or lunatics – living near the town, and the founders were cognisant of security. However, the gates stood open that day, as access was needed to the brook that ran along the side of the road for water. The scholars looked through them to see the blaze was in the shed – a temporary, albeit sturdy, structure used to store building materials. Smoke billowed through its reed-thatched roof, although the fire was so far contained, as there were no leaping flames.
‘The nuns are safe,’ breathed Michael in relief, seeing a black-robed gaggle near the stables. ‘Thank God!’
As everyone inside the Spital was busy with the fire, and no one came to greet them, de Wetherset began to relate its history to Aynton, who was a relative newcomer to the town.
‘A man named Henry Tangmer founded it to atone for sins committed by his niece. What was her name, Brother? I cannot recall.’
‘Adela,’ supplied Michael, who remembered her very well. ‘She is dead now, God rest her soul, and we have a leper hospital.’
‘I am no physician,’ said Aynton, ‘but I do know that one does not meet many lepers these days. So why did Tangmer dedicate his wealth to helping them, of all people?’
‘Lepers, lunatics, they are all the same,’ said Heltisle with a dismissive shrug. ‘Folk who cannot be allowed out, lest they infect the rest of us with their deadly miasmas.’
‘Lunacy is not contagious,’ said Bartholomew, not about to let such an outlandish claim pass unchallenged. ‘Nor are many kinds of leprosy.’
‘Regardless, the sufferers are still pariahs,’ retorted Heltisle, ‘so it is good that they are locked away, out of sight and mind.’
‘That is a terrible attitude towards—’ began Bartholomew hotly.
‘I have heard that Tangmer’s wife is very good at curing diseases of the mind,’ said de Wetherset, cutting across him. ‘She uses herbs, fresh air and exercise, by all accounts.’
‘Does she?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately intrigued.
‘Do not tell me that you have never been called out here,’ said Heltisle, then smiled superiorly. ‘But of course you have not. The inmates may be mad, but they will not want to be tended by a man who loves paupers and who insists on washing his hands at every turn.’
Bartholomew ignored him, knowing this would annoy him far more than any riposte he could devise on the spur of the moment. He asked de Wetherset to tell him more about Mistress Tangmer’s unusual therapies, but the Chancellor had had enough of the Spital.
‘They have the blaze under control,’ he said, watching two servants use fire hooks to haul down patches of smouldering thatch, where they could be doused with water. ‘The Bishop’s sister is safe and there is no danger to the University. I am going home.’
He, Heltisle and Aynton began to walk back the way they had come, Heltisle grumbling about the wasted effort. Bartholomew and Michael lingered though; Michael wanted to speak to the nuns, while Bartholomew’s interest was piqued by the Spital’s innovative-sounding treatment of lunacy and he hoped to learn more.
‘I asked Tangmer to show me around when I arranged for him to take my nuns,’ said Michael. ‘But he refused, lest my presence upset his patients.’
‘It might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, a fire will be far more distressing. I wonder how the Tangmers will deal with it.’
He watched the people inside, trying to distinguish patients from staff. Most were busy with the fire, although two distinct groups were not: the nuns, and a dozen respectably dressed individuals with children, who stood near the hall. Curiously, there was none of the frantic yelling that usually accompanied such crises, and the whole operation was conducted in almost complete silence. It was peculiarly eerie.
‘Of course, the nuns should be at the conloquium,’ said Michael, watching them crossly. ‘Magistra Katherine is due to lecture there shortly, and the other delegates will be wondering what has happened to her.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I thought you put twenty ladies here. I only count nineteen.’
Michael looked around wildly. ‘The Prioress – Joan de Ferraris! She is missing!’ Then he gave an irritable tut of relief. ‘There she is – in the stables. I might have guessed. She has always preferred horses to people.’
He nodded to where a massive woman, who would stand head and shoulders above her sisters, was soothing the animals. She looked rather like a horse herself, with a long face, large teeth and big brown eyes. She had rolled up her sleeves to reveal a pair of brawny forearms.
‘She is an excellent rider,’ Michael went on, and as he had lofty standards where equestrianism was concerned, Bartholomew supposed she must be skilled indeed. ‘And she single-handedly built her priory’s stables, which are reputed to be the best in the country. I should love to see them.’
‘But is she a good head of house?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that riding and stable-building were not especially useful skills for running a convent.
‘She is stern but fair, and not afraid to delegate tasks she feels are beyond her. She can also repair roofs, clean gutters and chop wood. Her nuns like her, and Lyminster is a happy, prosperous place, so yes, she is a good leader. But I had better go and pay my respects.’
He and Bartholomew started to walk towards them, but were intercepted by three men – Sheriff Tulyet and his two new knights, who were stationed just inside the gates.
‘Tangmer has asked us to keep sightseers out,’ explained Tulyet, raising a hand to stop the scholars from going any further. ‘He says they frighten his inmates.’
‘They do not look overly concerned to me,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew was aware of being eyed by the group near the hall. ‘They do not look particularly mad either.’
‘Insanity is not something you can diagnose at a glance,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, that is what Tangmer told me, when I suggested much the same.’
‘How dare he use us as free labour,’ growled huge, black-haired Sir Norbert. ‘We are not servants, to be ordered hither and thither. We are friends of the King.’
‘You offered your help,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘And this is how Tangmer chose to deploy it. It is your own fault for recklessly putting yourself at his disposal.’
‘I know why he wants everyone kept away,’ said fair-headed Sir Leger sourly. ‘Because madmen are exempt from the King’s call to arms, so are eligible for hire as proxies. Several scholars have already been here, clamouring to buy substitutes, and Tangmer aims to put a stop to it.’
‘By “scholars” he means Chancellor de Wetherset and his henchman Heltisle,’ put in Norbert, and spat. ‘Cowards!’
‘Speaking of cowards, have you made any progress with finding whoever dispatched Bonet the spicer?’ asked Michael.
‘None,’ replied Leger. ‘The killer left no clues, and there are no witnesses. Ergo, I am not sure we will ever—’
‘That man is on fire!’ interrupted Tulyet urgently, and stepped aside. ‘Your services will be needed, Matt. If Tangmer complains, tell him I let you in.’
By the time Bartholomew arrived, the burning man had smothered the flames by rolling in the grass, saving himself from serious injury. One arm was scorched, though, so Bartholomew sat him down and applied a soothing salve. Grateful for his help, the man began to chat, saying he was Tangmer’s cousin, Eudo. He was enormous by any standards, larger even than Sir Norbert, and reminded Bartholomew of a bull – powerful, unpredictable and not overly bright.
‘Everyone who works here is a Tangmer,’
Eudo said. ‘Henry and Amphelisa have no children, but his father had six brothers, so he has uncles and cousins galore. Lots of us were eager to come and work for him.’
Bartholomew had been told this before, and remembered that the policy of kin-only staff had caused great resentment in the town – there had been an expectation of employment for locals, and folk were disappointed when none was offered. Worse, the Tangmers declined to socialise outside the Spital, which, along with them refusing visitors, had given rise to rumours that it was haunted and that all its patients were dangerously insane.
‘Do you like Cambridge, Eudo?’ Bartholomew asked conversationally.
Eudo shook his massive head. ‘I used to go there to buy candles – before we started making our own – and there was always some spat between students and apprentices. I think it is a violent little place, so I try to avoid going there.’
‘You are not obliged to practise your archery, like the rest of us?’
‘Cousin Henry arranged for us to do it here instead, which is much nicer than rubbing shoulders with brawlers.’
When he had finished tending Eudo’s burns, Bartholomew started to walk back to the gate, but was intercepted by the founders themselves – Henry and Amphelisa Tangmer.
They were a curious pair. Tangmer was a heavyset, rosy-cheeked man who could have been nothing but an English yeoman. His wife was an elegant lady in a burgundy-coloured robe, who smelled strongly of fragrant oils. To Bartholomew’s eye, her facial features and casual grace were unmistakably French, and with sudden, blinding clarity, he understood exactly why they discouraged visitors. It was a sensible precaution in the current climate of intolerance and unease.
‘Thank you for helping Eudo,’ said Tangmer, stiffly formal. ‘But we can manage now. The shed is lost, but it was due to be demolished anyway, so it does not matter. All it means is that we shall have to build our bathhouse a bit sooner than we anticipated.’
‘Bathhouse?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately interested.
Amphelisa smiled. ‘We feel cleanliness is important in a hospital.’
Bartholomew thought so, too, although he was in a distinct minority, as most medical practitioners considered hygiene a waste of time. He opened his mouth to see what else he and Amphelisa might have in common, but Tangmer cut across him.
‘The children love to play in the shed, and I imagine one knocked over a candle. But the blaze is under control now, so if there is nothing else . . .’
‘I saw children by the hall,’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Are they patients?’
‘No, but we believe madness can be cured faster when the afflicted person is surrounded by his loved ones,’ explained Amphelisa. ‘We encourage our inmates to bring their families.’
‘Does it work?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.
Amphelisa was willing to discuss it, but her husband cleared his throat meaningfully, so she made an apologetic face. ‘Perhaps we can talk another time, but now I must soothe those who are distressed by the commotion.’
‘I can help,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘A decoction of chamomile and dittany will—’
‘We have our own remedies, thank you,’ interrupted Tangmer, polite but firm. ‘And now, if you will excuse us . . .’
He took Bartholomew’s arm and began to propel him towards the gate, but stopped when there was an urgent yell from Eudo, who had returned to help with the fire. At the same time, a flame burst through the roof in a slender orange tongue.
‘Let it burn,’ Tangmer called. ‘It will save us the bother of knocking it down later.’
Eudo turned a stricken face towards him. ‘But I heard something. I think someone is still inside!’
Loath to get in the way while the Spital’s people effected a rescue, Bartholomew returned to Michael, Tulyet and the knights. The nuns also kept their distance, other than the mannish Prioress Joan, who abandoned the horses and strode forward to see if she could be of any use. Meanwhile, all the inmates raced towards the shed and began to hammer on it with their fists.
‘Stop! Get back!’ shouted Tangmer in alarm. ‘You will hurt yourselves. Eudo is mistaken – no one is inside. Is that not right, Goda?’
He turned to a woman who stood nearby. She was so small that Bartholomew had assumed she was a child, especially as she wore a bright yellow dress – an unusual colour for an adult – but Michael murmured that she was wife to the vast Eudo, leading the physician to speculate, somewhat voyeurishly, about the difficulties their disparity in size must generate in the marriage bed.
‘Of course it is empty,’ Goda said irritably. ‘The door was ajar, and the fire had not taken hold when I first saw the smoke. Anyone inside would have walked out then.’
‘Well, the door is closed now,’ said Prioress Joan, peering at it through the smoke. ‘So perhaps we had better open it and have a look inside.’
‘I ordered it shut after Goda raised the alarm,’ explained Tangmer, ‘to contain the blaze and make it easier to put out. But I can assure you that no one is—’
‘There!’ yelled Eudo, cocking his head to one side. ‘Voices – a woman’s.’
Bartholomew suspected the big man was mistaken, as the fire had been going for some time, belching smoke at a colossal rate. It was unlikely that anyone was still alive inside.
‘I heard it, too!’ shouted another of the staff, his face tight with horror. ‘We have to get her out. Open the door! Quick!’
‘No!’ howled Bartholomew, darting forward to stop him. ‘The door is smouldering – open it, and the fire will explode outwards, greedy for air. Is there another way in?’
Tangmer shook his head, his face pale. ‘All we can do is to hurl water at the flames until they are extinguished, and hope we are in time. Everyone – remove your shoes and fill them from the stream over the—’
‘Shoes will not suffice,’ snapped Prioress Joan. ‘Sheriff – set the men in a chain between here and the brook. Amphelisa – round up the women and children and send them for buckets. Well? What are you waiting for? Move!’
The urgency of the situation had caused her to lapse into French, the first language of most high-born ladies who held positions of authority in the Church. Bartholomew began to translate, sure few Spital folk would understand, but most immediately looked at Tulyet and Amphelisa, suggesting that they had.
‘But we do not have more buckets,’ gulped Amphelisa. ‘We have already used—’
‘Then bring pots and pans,’ barked Joan. ‘Anything that holds water. Master Tangmer – take your elderly lunatics and the smallest brats to the chapel. They are in the way here.’
‘If there is no other entrance, we will have to make one,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘At the back, where the fire burns less fiercely.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Joan. ‘Come with me and choose the best place.’ She jabbed a thick forefinger at one of the inmates, a dark-haired, wiry man with angry eyes. ‘You, bring us an axe. The rest of you, human chain and water now!’
She hitched up her habit and strode to the back of the shed, managing a pace that had Bartholomew running to keep up. They arrived to find smoke oozing between the planks that formed the walls. Bartholomew put his hand to one and found it was cool – the flames had not yet reached it. He heard the faintest of moans. Eudo was right: someone was inside!
He grabbed a stone and pounded the wall with it, to reassure whoever was inside that help was coming. Joan did likewise, although her blows caused significant dents.
‘Where is that lunatic with the axe?’ she demanded in agitation. ‘Hah! Here he is at last. Where have you been, man? To buy it in town?’
‘I did not know where to look,’ snapped the man, bristling. ‘And my name is Delacroix. I am no man’s servant, so do not address me as one.’
‘Keep your bruised dignity for later, Delacroix,’ said Joan acidly, grabbing the hatchet from him and swinging at the walls with all her might.
Splinters flew. Then the massive Eudo arrived with the biggest chop
per Bartholomew had ever seen. In three mighty swipes, he had smashed a head-sized hole.
Bartholomew darted forward to peer through it, blinking away tears as fumes wafted out. It was impossible to see anything inside, and it occurred to him that whoever was in there had probably suffocated by now. Then he glimpsed movement. Someone was struggling to stand, and he had a brief impression of a bloodstained kirtle and a bundle shoved at him. He saw golden curls. The bundle was a child.
‘Stand back!’ he yelled, and indicated that Eudo was to hit the wall again.
More wood shattered. Then Delacroix snatched Joan’s axe and began a frenzied assault that had no impact and prevented Eudo from working. Bartholomew tried to stop him, but Delacroix fought him off. Then a fist shot out and Delacroix reeled backwards.
‘Put your back into it before it is too late,’ roared Joan at Eudo, wringing her bruised knuckles. ‘Hurry!’
Eudo obliged, and the hole expanded. Joan struggled to clamber through it, careless of the smoke that belched around her. She was too big to fit, obliging Bartholomew to haul her out again. She emerged smouldering, her wimple alight. Eudo threw her to the ground and rolled her over, whipping off his shirt to smother the flames.
‘No, help her!’ she snarled, pushing him away. Her face was streaked with soot, her habit was rucked up to reveal two powerful white thighs, and her wimple was in a blackened, unsalvageable mess. ‘The child!’
Bartholomew thrust his arms through the hole. Immediately, something was pushed into them. He pulled hard. There was an agonising moment when clothes snagged on the jagged edges, but Eudo drew a knife and hacked the material free.
Leaving Eudo and Delacroix to rescue the woman, Bartholomew and Joan carried the child away from the smoke. Her eyes were closed and there was no heartbeat. Bartholomew began to press rhythmically on her chest, pausing every so often to blow into her lungs. Nothing happened, so he did it again. And again, and again.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 6