The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Yes, and Isabel has told everyone her suspicions, so you can never return to Lym—’

  But Joan was already sweeping out, Amphelisa’s cloak billowing around her. The soldiers followed, and the door slammed shut behind them.

  For a moment, the only sounds were the growing roar of the flames below and footsteps thumping down the stairs. Then the Jacques released bellows of rage and ran at the door like bulls, kicking and pounding on it with all their might. But the wood was thick, and Bartholomew knew it would never yield to an assault, no matter how determined. The other adults began to wrap cloaks and hats around their faces and those of the children.

  ‘Tangmer!’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Is there another way out?’

  ‘No – we never imagined one would be necessary,’ gasped the Warden, his face ashen.

  ‘We lied,’ whispered Father Julien, who was on his knees, hands clasped in prayer. ‘And this is God’s judgement on us.’

  ‘Lied about what?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘The dagger that killed the Girards,’ said Julien. ‘Of course we recognised it – they are made all around Rouen. But if we had admitted it, you would have accused us of murder . . .’

  It was no time for recriminations, so Michael went to help with the children, while Bartholomew conducted a panicky search of the balcony. But Tangmer was right: there was only one way in or out, and that was locked. Three of the walls were solid stone, while the fourth was the wooden screen designed to keep lepers away from the healthy. The screen was sturdy, and would not be smashed without an axe – which they did not have.

  Yet it did flex when Bartholomew thumped it in frustration. He examined the way it had been secured to the wall, and saw someone had been criminally miserly with the nails. There were plenty to anchor it in place where it met the knee-high wall at the bottom, but there were only a few at the sides, and none at all along the top.

  ‘Help me!’ he rasped, kicking it as hard as he could. The Jacques joined in and so did Tangmer, but their efforts were more frantic than scientific, and were aimed at the wrong spots entirely. Then Michael approached.

  ‘Stand back!’ he shouted.

  He trotted to the back of the balcony, lowered his shoulder and charged, gaining speed with every thundering step. He struck the screen plumb in the middle, so hard that Bartholomew flinched for him. There was a screaming groan as the wood tore free at the top and sides, although the bottom held firm. Then the top flopped forward in a graceful arc to land with a crash on the nave floor below.

  Michael was moving far too fast to stop, so his momentum carried him over the wall and out of sight. Horrified, Bartholomew darted forward to see that the screen now formed a very steep ramp, down which Michael was dancing, arms flailing in alarm. The monk reached the bottom and staggered to a standstill.

  ‘I meant to do that,’ he lied. ‘Now bring everyone down. Hurry!’

  No one needed to be told twice. They slid and scampered down the screen like monkeys, grateful that the smoke was less dense below. Confident no one would escape, Joan had not bothered to lock the side door, so everyone was soon outside, coughing and gasping in relief. The Jacques began to scout for signs of their would-be killers.

  ‘We can douse the flames,’ rasped Tangmer. ‘Save our chapel.’

  ‘No,’ barked Bartholomew. ‘You must leave now or the rioters will—’

  He faltered when there was an urgent yell from Delacroix. The townsfolk had finally succeeded in setting the gates alight, and were hammering through the weakened wood with a battering ram.

  ‘To the tunnel!’ shouted Bartholomew, hoping Cynric would be able to stage a second diversion with very little warning.

  He began to lead the way, aware that the besiegers’ howls had changed to something harder and darker now that victory was within their grasp. He had no doubt that anyone caught inside the Spital would be cut down, regardless of who they were. There would be regrets and shame later, but that would not help those who were dead.

  Then there was a crash, and the gates fell inwards. The rioters poured across them, screaming for blood. In the vanguard were Heltisle’s Horde, their faces twisted with hate. The peregrini children whimpered in terror.

  Bartholomew stopped running and turned to face them. It was too late to lead anyone to safety now. He picked up a stick from the ground and prepared to fight. Michael came to stand next to him.

  ‘We nearly did it,’ the monk whispered, his voice heavy with regret. ‘Just a few more moments and we would have been away.’

  Suddenly, there was a rumble of hoofs, and Joan emerged from the stables on Dusty, the three knights at her heels. Their appearance through the drifting smoke was distinctly unearthly. All wore cloaks that flapped behind them and masks that hid their faces. Seeing the gate down, and knowing it would be easier to escape that way than coaxing their nervous mounts back along the tunnel, they thundered towards it.

  ‘Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse,’ muttered Bartholomew, sickened to know they would never face justice.

  ‘With Joan as Death,’ said Michael. ‘It is an apt analogy.’

  But as the Prioress approached the gate, a spark from the burning chapel landed on the cloak she had taken from Amphelisa. There was a dull thump as the oils in it ignited. Suddenly, she was no longer a person, but a mass of bright, leaping flames. She screamed in horror and pain, and Dusty, terrified by the inferno that raged so suddenly above him, took off like an arrow. Those in his path scattered in alarm.

  Then there came an unmistakable voice from behind them. It was Cynric, who had grown increasingly alarmed by the length of time Bartholomew and Michael were taking, so had come to find out what they were doing.

  ‘Satan!’ he howled. ‘It is Satan, straight from Hell!’

  ‘He is right,’ yelled Isnard. ‘Margery said he was coming to live here. Well, here he is!’

  ‘Run!’ screamed Cynric at the top of his lungs. ‘He wants our souls!’

  Joan was burning more brilliantly than ever, and gave a shriek of such agony that it did not sound human. Heltisle’s Horde turned and raced back through the gates. Their panic was contagious and within moments the Spital was empty, scholars jostling with townsfolk to hare towards the safety of home.

  In the distance, louder and shriller than the wails of the mob, was Joan’s voice, as Dusty bore her in the opposite direction. Bartholomew ran to the gates and looked down the road after her. She blazed for what seemed like a very long time before the flames finally winked out of sight.

  EPILOGUE

  It was surprisingly easy for Michael and Tulyet to restore the peace following the events at the Spital. Word spread fast that Satan had appeared in the form of blazing Death, and most people fled to the churches, where their priests urged them to pray for deliverance.

  Once they had begged the Almighty for mercy, few felt like risking His wrath by indulging in another skirmish. They emerged subdued when dawn broke the following morning, and most went about their business quietly, lest they attracted the wrong kind of attention. A few hotheads declined to give up, but Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers quickly rounded them up and locked them away until their tempers cooled.

  As soon as it was light enough to see, Bartholomew and Michael went to look for Joan, to retrieve her body before anyone guessed the truth and decided to resume the assault on the Spital. They found her by the side of the road, still smouldering, but identifiable by her size and the Lyminster ring-seal on her finger. They also found Dusty. The horse had managed to throw his rider before she had done him any serious harm, after which he found a quiet woodland glade and began to denude it of grass.

  Joan’s nuns collected her charred remains, and arranged to take them home. Michael could not imagine how they would explain what had happened to her in their official report – he was not sure what to say in his own. Magistra Katherine assumed command, and seemed much more comfortable in the role than Joan had ever been.

  Leg
er and his two cronies did not get far either. Their plan had been to ride straight to the King and denounce Tulyet as a traitor, but the road south was so badly rutted that they were forced to dismount and walk. The call to arms meant the whole country was alert for suspicious activities, and three warriors slinking along in the dark shocked the villagers of nearby Trumpington into action. The next day, they presented a trio of arrow-studded corpses to Tulyet, and informed him that the French army was now minus three of its spies.

  Bartholomew returned to his teaching, determined his lads would learn all they could humanly absorb in the last few weeks of term. At the end of one busy day, he went to the orchard to read his lecture notes ready for the following morning. An apple tree had fallen years before, and provided a comfortable bench for anyone wanting peace and quiet. The sun was low in the sky, sending a warm orange glow over the town, and the air smelled of scythed grass and summer herbs. Michael joined him there.

  ‘I am keeping Dusty,’ the monk announced. ‘He should have a rider worthy of him.’

  ‘I suppose he deserves some reward for carrying “Satan” away from the Spital,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Cynric adores him for it, so he will certainly be well looked after here.’

  ‘Yelling that Joan was the Devil was impressively quick thinking on his part,’ said Michael. ‘Such a ruse would never have occurred to me. It saved our lives.’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘It was not a ruse – he believed it. Thank God for superstition!’

  ‘I had a letter from Father Julien today,’ said Michael, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to feel the setting sun on his cheeks. ‘The nuns of Ickleton were delighted to accommodate him and his flock in exchange for me ridding them of Alice. The peregrini are safe now.’

  ‘But for how long?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Perhaps another mob, buoyed up by ignorance and misguided patriotism, will assemble, and they will be forced to run again.’

  ‘Ickleton is well off the beaten track, and no one ever goes there. They will live dull but peaceful lives eking a living from the land. Julien says they are all grateful and very happy.’

  ‘Even Delacroix? I cannot see him being content to wield a spade for long.’

  Michael smiled. ‘He also mistook Joan for Satan and plans to take the cowl – to make amends for all the vile things he did in the Jacquerie. Incidentally, it was conscience that brought him and his friends back to the Spital that night – they realised it was wrong to leave the others alone, so they returned to help them.’

  ‘The Spital,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘What will happen to it now? It is only a question of time before someone decides to punish Tangmer and his family for hiding Frenchmen.’

  ‘The Tangmers have made their peace with a public apology and an offer of free treatment for all local lunatics. As no one knows when such a boon might come in useful, both the town and the University have promised to leave them unmolested.’

  ‘A public apology?’ echoed Bartholomew in disgust. ‘For offering sanctuary to people fleeing persecution? We should commend their compassion, not force them to say sorry.’

  ‘It was an expedient solution, Matt. Besides, Tangmer’s motives were not entirely altruistic. It transpired that he charged the peregrini a fortune for the privilege of hiding with him, although Amphelisa still labours under the illusion that they paid a pittance.’

  They were silent for a while, thinking about Joan and the havoc she had wrought with her warped pursuit of vengeance. Eventually, Bartholomew spoke.

  ‘So she stabbed Paris, Bonet, the Girard family, Bruges and Sauvage with blades left behind after the raid on Winchelsea, although Bruges was from Flanders and Sauvage just happened to have an unlucky name. Then she dispatched Goda to ensure her silence, and aimed to murder the peregrini and the entire Tangmer clan in the chapel.’

  ‘And de Wetherset brained Wyse to “prove” that I am incapable of keeping the peace. Orwel guessed it was him from what he learned in the Griffin, so de Wetherset murdered him as well. And I sealed poor Abbess Isabel’s fate by claiming that she could identify the culprit.’

  Bartholomew winced. ‘His actions beggar belief! What will happen to him?’

  ‘I sent him to Ely, to face an ecclesiastical court. Unfortunately, he hit Meadowman over the head with a stone and escaped en route.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in dismay. ‘Meadowman is dead?’

  ‘No, thank God – just very embarrassed. I imagine de Wetherset will flee the country now. It is unfortunate, but at least his exploits will never become public, as they would with a trial. The town would go to war with us in a second if they ever learned the full extent of what he did.’

  ‘And Heltisle is dead, of course. He bled to death after de Wetherset slashed his arm. I could have saved him, but he refused to let me.’

  ‘You were right about Aynton, much as it irks me to admit it. Since the crisis, he has worked tirelessly for peace, and has done much to soothe ragged tempers.’

  ‘Will you summon Suttone back now? His resignation must be invalid, given that Heltisle forced him out by sly means.’

  ‘I offered to reinstate him, but he wrote to say that he is happier away from the turbulent world of University politics. He told me the nature of Heltisle’s threat, by the way: a promise to fabricate evidence “proving” that Michaelhouse is full of heretics.’

  Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why did either of them think people would believe such an outrageous claim?’

  ‘Because Heltisle intended to base his allegations on your controversial approach to medicine, Clippesby’s mad relationship with animals, William’s worrisome fanaticism, and my association with a bishop of dubious morality. It would have been extremely difficult for us to refute his charges, given how cunningly he aimed to weave truth with lies.’

  Bartholomew winced. ‘I see.’

  ‘But as regards a new Chancellor, Aynton has agreed to take advice from me, so I have arranged for him to be elected next week. I think he and I will do well together.’

  Bartholomew was torn between amusement and despair. They had been through hell because some scholars felt Michael had accrued too much power, and now there was to be yet another of his puppets on the throne. Nothing had changed except some new graves in the churchyards. It all seemed so futile.

  ‘Will you appoint a new Junior Proctor to replace Theophilis?’ he asked.

  ‘Eventually. I suppose I should have been suspicious of someone with such a glorious name. “Loved by God” indeed!’

  ‘Aungel thinks he chose it himself,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a conversation held when the Junior Proctor had been writing down other scholars’ opinions about Clippesby’s thesis, almost certainly with a view to passing them off as his own.

  ‘Aungel is right – Theophilis’ real name is John Clippesby, and – irony of ironies – he changed it because he did not want to be confused with a lunatic. But in his defence, he did not steal the letter you wrote to me outlining Norbert’s confession, and he was innocent of betraying me to the triumvirate.’

  ‘So who did take the letter?’

  ‘No one – it had fallen behind my desk. But trying to filch Clippesby’s ideas was a low thing to have done, like snatching sweetmeats from a baby.’

  ‘Not entirely. It transpires that Theophilis is the one who was taken advantage of – every time Clippesby mentioned a text that he thought might be relevant, Theophilis raced off to read it. Then he reported back on what he had learned, thus saving Clippesby the trouble of ploughing through it himself.’

  Michael laughed. ‘And Clippesby certainly bested Heltisle over selling his treatise. Bene’t College insists on honouring the contract, in the hope that we will overlook the fact that their erstwhile Master tried to cheat the University’s favourite genius.’

  They were silent for a while, each thinking about the events that had so very nearly destroyed the University and the town that housed it. Then Bartholomew brightened.

  ‘
I had a letter today. Matilde and my sister are coming home tomorrow. I have missed them both.’

  Michael smiled contentedly. ‘So all is well at last. You are to be reunited with your loved ones, I shall soon have another malleable Chancellor, all the nuns have gone home, I now own a magnificent horse, and Michaelhouse prospers beyond its wildest dreams.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘The Pope has given the Chicken Debate his seal of approval, so the demand for copies will soar. Not only will we be paid every time one is sold, but we are on the verge of international fame. It is high time – our College is a good place, and I am glad its future is assured. You may be leaving us, but we will survive.’

  Bartholomew was delighted to hear it.

  * * *

  De Wetherset was not really equipped for life as a fugitive in the Fens. He had grown soft and fat from easy living in the University, and hated sleeping in the open like a beggar. But it was better than being paraded as a criminal, as he was sure that Michael had amassed more than enough evidence to see him convicted by the Bishop’s court.

  He grimaced. He had been right to try to claw power back from the monk, although he realised now that he should have done it gradually, rather than racing at the problem like a bull at a fence. But he had been impatient for change, and ever since his pilgrimage to Walsingham, he had been imbued with great energy and ambition.

  Now all his plans lay in ashes, and he was not sure what to do. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to avenge himself, but he had no idea how to go about it. Should he slip back to reignite the trouble between University and town that he had so carefully stoked up? Or go to Avignon, to give the Pope his own version of events?

  He winced as he moved the foot that his so-called friend Heltisle had stabbed. He had refused to let Bartholomew examine it again, preferring instead to hire Doctor Rougham. Bartholomew had warned Rougham that slivers of the pen might still be in the wound, but Rougham had scoffed his disagreement. Unfortunately, Bartholomew had been right, because the wound was festering and it hurt like the Devil.