‘Walcote offered to distract patrolling beadles, so that Timothy and I could hide Kyrkeby’s corpse without being seen,’ said Janius resentfully. ‘We should never have trusted him. We were furious when we realised that he had taken the essay.’
‘So furious, that you broke Kyrkeby’s neck and smashed his skull when you hid the body?’
‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘That was not our fault. The tunnel collapsed on him.’
‘But why was Walcote prepared to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why not just say that Kyrkeby’s heart had failed?’
‘We told Walcote that he would hang for murder if he tried that,’ said Janius smugly. ‘We said we should dispose of the body, so he recommended using the tunnel he had discovered earlier. Timothy climbed through it, pulling the body behind him.’
‘I reached the other side, and was in the process of dragging Kyrkeby after me when the tunnel caved in,’ explained Timothy. ‘I suppose a combination of exceptionally wet weather and having a heavy object dragged through it caused it to collapse. Unfortunately, I then found myself on the wrong side of the Carmelite Friary walls.’
‘How did you escape?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at the small window to assess whether he could hurl himself through it before Timothy reached him. He could not: it was too small and he knew Timothy would get him before he even turned.
‘Walcote obligingly fetched a rope from St Mary’s Church,’ said Timothy. ‘He always did what he was told. He threw it to me, and I was able to climb out.’
‘And, of course, it came in useful to hang him with,’ said Janius, chillingly cold.
‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the door and realising that his chances of reaching it before Timothy acted were even less than an escape through the window. ‘You killed once to gain possession of the essay, and you killed again because you wanted rid of Walcote. Which was more important – obtaining the essay or being appointed as proctors?’
‘One led nicely to the other,’ said Timothy. ‘Faricius’s essay is a brilliant piece of logic that no one has yet seen, because his narrow-minded Order forced him to keep his ideas hidden. But now he is dead, there is no reason why Janius and I cannot take credit for them. Blind Paul obviously has not read the essay and Lynne is dead, so no one will ever be able to prove that Faricius wrote what we will claim as our work.’
‘It will make us rich,’ said Janius smugly, ‘and we will be able to use the wealth that will accrue to spread the word of God among disbelievers. If the world does not mend its wicked ways, the plague will come again. It is my intention to prevent that.’
‘And is that why you want to become proctors?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because such positions of power will enable you to force your own rigid religious views on people?’
Janius’s blue eyes were hard. ‘It will be for their own good. If we do not want God to send another Great Pestilence, we must act now. Walcote was too weak, and Michael is a debauched glutton who is more interested in making suspect deals with Oxford than in safeguarding the spiritual well-being of the University. Neither was fit to be a proctor.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Walcote uncovered a plot to kill Michael at Christmas: your plot.’
‘Unrealised plot, unfortunately,’ said Janius. ‘That stupid beadle drank so much with the money we paid him to deliver our message to a hired assassin, that he fell into a puddle and drowned. Walcote found the document, and started to investigate. It was me who suggested that it would be kinder not to tell Michael about it.’
‘And, as everyone knows, Walcote could be made to agree to anything,’ added Timothy. ‘When Janius said sharing such information would only upset Michael, he immediately agreed to keep it from him.’
‘Walcote told the men who attended his nocturnal meetings, though,’ said Janius, peeved. ‘I have no idea who told him to hold those gatherings, but I am sure they were not his own idea.’
‘They were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He paid for St Radegund’s room with money he had seized from Master Wilson’s broken effigy. He believed he was acting in the best interests of the University.’
‘And look what he did,’ said Janius in disgust. ‘He encouraged the two factions in the realism – nominalism debate to argue with each other more fiercely than ever. The issue would never have become so violent if he had not provided a forum for like-minded men to whip each other into a frenzy. Stupid man!’
‘It did work in our favour, though,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘It showed all those scholars that Walcote was acting behind Michael’s back, and that Michael was too incompetent to prevent it.’
‘Then why kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. He was finding the discussion exhausting, and was not sure how much longer he could keep it up. And why should he try anyway? Help would not be coming. Even if Cynric thought he was taking too long, there would be little the book-bearer could do. ‘Why not wait until someone complained that Walcote was not the man for the job? Michael said his days as Junior Proctor were numbered.’
‘This business with Oxford forced us to act sooner,’ said Janius. ‘We do not approve of it.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Michael plans to use the information from Heytesbury to Cambridge’s advantage.’
‘No,’ said Janius. ‘He wants to use the information to ensure he will dine on good cheese and fresh butter for the rest of his days. Imagine how it will look when word spreads that the Benedictine Order dispenses with University property for the good of its stomach.’
‘Michael may have allowed people to believe that personal greed is his motive, but I can assure you it is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was simply trying to fool Heytesbury into thinking he had the better end of the bargain. And it worked. Heytesbury signed the deed today.’
‘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,’ sai
d 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.’
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