John’s face crumpled with remorse. ‘I am sorry! I did not see how it could be important, and I had promised Father Andrew that I would not tell. It is only now, when Father Andrew seems to have been pretending to be something he is not, that I feel free to break my promise.’
‘When I last visited David’s, Father Andrew said that he did not know Jamie had a lover, and that he certainly did not know it was Dominica.’
‘Then he was not telling you the truth. He knew all about Dominica, although I do not know who told him – it was not me.’
‘Why did you not tell me that Father Andrew was lying at the time?’
‘I did not hear him make any such claim to you. I was cleaning the yard on Monday and only heard the last part of your conversation, while the first time you came I was with my sick brother upstairs. Believe me, I would have exposed him as a liar had I heard him say he knew nothing about Jamie’s romance!’
‘Did you tell anyone else about this peculiar plan to pray over the ring?’
‘No. Father Andrew ordered me not to. I did not even tell Robert, my brother. He would not have approved of my stealing from Jamie anyway, even if it was for his own good.’
As Bartholomew helped him to sit, the colour drained from his face as he glimpsed the blood on the front of his shirt. Bartholomew had encountered people who were overly sensitive before, but none of them had been as feeble as poor John of Stirling. No wonder the lad had been insensible half the night! He made the Scot lie down again, his mind whirling with questions and fragmented pieces of information. What confused Bartholomew most was the relationship between Norbert and the disguised Dominica. It was too much of a coincidence that Bartholomew should have found copies of letters written years before, and Dominica just happened to be in the hostel where they had been concealed using the alias of Norbert. He racked his brain for answers, but every solution he could produce seemed flawed in some way.
He thought about Radbeche, who was supposed to have been away, but had returned only to die. Was he involved in the riot somehow? And perhaps most importantly of all, where was Father Andrew now that his hostel was abandoned and his Principal murdered?
It was not long before the Austin Canons from St John’s Hospital came to help John away. Michael was waiting for Bartholomew outside and told him that Ruthven had been dispatched to inform the Chancellor that Radbeche had been murdered. Bartholomew was concerned.
‘Was it wise to let the lad go on his own? He was deeply shocked by what had happened.’
‘I released him into the care of one of Tulyet’s sergeants,’ said Michael. ‘The one whose son you cured of an arrow wound last year. He will look after him, and I thought it best to get him as far away from David’s as possible.’
‘So, what did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew, still doubtful as to the wisdom of Michael’s decision.
‘Nothing much,’ said Michael. ‘As soon as Father Andrew took John off to buy bread, thus leaving the students without a nursemaid for the first time in days, they took advantage of it. All were out of the hostel before Father Andrew had scarce turned the corner, although Ruthven remained behind to study.’
‘Ruthven and Davy Grahame are the two who seem most interested in learning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The others would rather be away cattle-rustling.’
‘You have been reading too much of the rantings of this English astrologer who casts national horoscopes,’ said Michael admonishingly. ‘Such a bigoted comment is unworthy of you. As I was saying, Father Andrew was barely out of Shoemaker Row when the David’s lads were away, looking to enjoy themselves for a night on the town. Shortly afterwards, the riot broke out. Ruthven heard a mob gathering and objects were hurled at the windows. Terrified, he fled upstairs and hid under the pile of mattresses. He is not sure how long he remained there, but he only emerged when all was quiet. He found Radbeche dead and John mortally wounded. He sat with John until he died, and was too frightened to move until we arrived.’
‘We should tell him John is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He just fainted at the sight of his own blood. Many people are affected in that way, although John’s aversion is unusually powerful.’
‘Did John tell you anything we did not already know?’
Bartholomew summarised what John had said as they waited for Guy Heppel to arrive and take charge of Radbeche’s body. Heppel was, as usual, white-faced and wheezing.
‘This is a dreadful business,’ he gasped. ‘Murders and mayhem. No wonder God sent the plague to punish us if the rest of England is like Cambridge!’
‘Are you ill?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned by the man’s pallor.
‘I feel quite dreadful,’ replied Heppel, raising a hand to his head. ‘I must have that consultation with you as soon as possible. I should not have gone to that Founder’s Feast of yours without it, because I have not been myself ever since.’
‘Did you eat any fish giblets at Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
Heppel gripped his stomach and flashed him a guilty glance. ‘I have always been rather partial to fish livers and you did not tell me why I should avoid them, specifically. You said Saturn was ascendant and that I should take more of the medicine you gave me, but that had nothing to do with fish livers.’
‘I told you to avoid them because I knew they were bad.’
‘Not because of Saturn?’ asked Heppel. ‘And not because Jupiter will be dominant later in the week?’
‘Jupiter will not be dominant this week,’ said Bartholomew, thinking to comfort him. ‘Mars will.’
‘Mars! ‘ breathed Heppel, sagging against a wall weakly. ‘Worse still! Once I see this corpse to the church, I shall return to my room and lie down before I take a serious sickness.’
‘See?’ demanded Bartholomew of Michael as they set off back towards the High Street, leaving Heppel and two beadles to take Radbeche’s corpse to nearby Holy Trinity Church. ‘Astrology is nothing but hocus pocus! Heppel imagined himself to be far worse when he thought Mars was dominant. And the truth of the matter is that Mars will be nothing of the sort. I made it up thinking it would make him feel better.’
‘You should know better than to mess with Heppel’s stars,’ said Michael. ‘And you don’t lie! What has got into you? Have you been taking lessons from Gray?’
‘Heppel is an odd fellow,’ said Bartholomew, glancing back to where the Junior Proctor had his mouth covered with his pomander as he supervised the removal of Radbeche’s body. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether he is all he seems.’
‘Who is in this town? We have old men pretending to be friars, rabble-rousers pretending to be scullions, and Principal’s daughters pretending to be boys – not to mention the extremes to which prostitutes will go to slip into colleges.’ He cast a sidelong glance at Bartholomew.
‘The only people I am sure about are you and me. And even you have been revealing a different aspect of your character over these last few days with your indecent obsessions with all these harlots. You have become like a Mohammedan with his harem.’
Bartholomew sighed heavily. ‘I have decided to have done with all that. One, or possibly two, members of my harem, as you put it, tried to kill me, while the other can only talk to me without causing a scandal if she dresses as an old lady.’
‘Yes, you have shown an appalling lack of judgement in your choices,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘But you should not despair. Perhaps I can arrange one or two ladies…’
‘Here comes Heppel again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now what? I wonder what caused him to leave Radbeche.’
‘He has probably found out you have lied to him about Mars, and is coming to accuse you of heresy.’
Heppel’s pale face was glistening under its habitual sheen of sweat. ‘Master Lydgate is dying,’ he gasped. ‘A soldier has just informed me that he is at Godwinsson and recommends that you go there immediately before it is too late.’
‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ groaned Michael, turning away from the Junior Proctor to
hurry towards Godwinsson. ‘It is all beginning to come together. Someone’s master plan has been set in motion, and it is playing itself out.’
‘But we still do not know what this master plan is,’ Bartholomew pointed out, keeping pace with the monk.
‘And, as has been true all along with this wretched affair, the more information we gather, the less clear matters become. How did Lydgate allow himself to be drawn into it after our discussion last night? It was obvious there was some kind of danger.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘As we know, Master Lydgate is not overly endowed with powers of reasoning. Come on. We should not dally if the man is dying.’
Bartholomew glanced behind him to where Heppel was almost bent double, trying to catch his breath, fanning himself with his hand. All Bartholomew’s doubts about him bubbled to the forefront of his mind yet again.
‘That man is far too unhealthy for proctorial duties,’ he commented. ‘I still cannot imagine what possessed the Chancellor to make such a choice.’
‘Since you ask, Matt, I made inquiries about Guy Heppel while I was at Peterhouse last night. He is one of the King’s spies, planted here to see whether anything subversive is underway.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, not surprised to learn that Heppel had another role, but astonished that it was one of such importance.
‘After everyone else had gone to bed, I seized the opportunity to glance at one or two documents in the Peterhouse muniments chest – the Chancellor often stores some of his sensitive papers there in order to keep them from certain members of his staff.’
‘Such as you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Of course not such as me!’ said Michael, offended. ‘I am one of his most trusted advisers.’
‘Then why did he not tell you about Heppel?’
‘I imagine he knew I would find out anyway,’ said Michael airily. ‘Perhaps he thought it might provide me with an intellectual challenge.’
Bartholomew gave him a sidelong glance, wondering whether he would ever understand the peculiarities of the University administration.
Michael continued. ‘It was all there in black and white. Heppel is here as an agent of the King and his mission is to detect why the town is so uneasy this year.’
‘I would have credited the King with more common sense than to plant a spy who stands out like a diseased limb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Heppel wears his cowardice like a banner – hardly a trait to make him a suitable Junior Proctor.’
‘It is not your place to question the King, Matthew,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Again, I tell you, watch your words or you will be accused of treason as well as heresy. Ah! Here we are.’
Godwinsson’s once-fine building had been reduced to little more than a shell. Its strong timbers were blackened and charred and fire had blown the expensive glass out of the windows. It littered the street below, causing considerable risk to those who walked barefoot. One of Tulyet’s sergeants waited for them and directed them to the solar.
Inside the hostel the fine tapestries had gone – those not burned had been ripped from the walls by looters.
Chests lay overturned, and anything not considered worth taking had been left strewn across the floor. Even the woollen rugs had been stolen so that Bartholomew’s footsteps echoed eerily in the room where sound had once been muffled by the richness of its furnishings.
Lydgate was sprawled on the floor. One arm was draped across his stomach and a thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. Bartholomew grabbed a partly burned rug and eased it under the man’s head, trying to straighten his limbs to make him more comfortable.
Michael began to drone prayers for the dying, his alert eyes darting around the room suggesting that he was more concerned with clues to find Lydgate’s killer than with his eternal rest.
Lydgate started to speak, and Michael leaned towards him, expecting a confession. Bartholomew, respecting his privacy, moved away and went to fetch a jug of water with which he might moisten the man’s parched lips.
When he returned, Michael was kneeling on the floor.
‘Master Lydgate maintains he has been poisoned,’ he said.
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘How? By whom?’
Michael flapped a hand towards a cup that lay on the floor. Bartholomew picked it up and inspected it carefully.
It had held wine, but there was a bitter smell to it and a grittiness in the dregs. He would need to test it, but Bartholomew thought it was probably henbane. The cup was sticky, which meant that there had been enough time since Lydgate had drunk the wine for it to dry, leaving the tacky residue. Therefore, it was not the same powerful poison that had killed Edred, or Lydgate would never have finished his wine without beginning to feel ill.
‘I have things I must say,’ Lydgate whispered hoarsely. ‘Before I die. I must reveal my killer, bitter though that might be, and I must set certain things straight.’
‘Can you give him an antidote?’ asked Michael, sensing that Lydgate had a good deal to say, and afraid the man might die before he finished.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘There is nothing I can do. It is too late and there is no antidote that I know.’
‘Poisons aren’t your strong point, are they?’ said Michael, somewhat maliciously.
Bartholomew winced, thinking of Edred. ‘Do you know who did this to you?’ he asked Lydgate, slipping off his tabard to cover the dying man. ‘Was it Norbert?’
‘I wish it had been,’ breathed Lydgate. ‘I wish to God it had been. But, for my sins, it was Dominica.’
‘Dominica?’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I thought she was supposed to be the decent member of the family! Now we find out that she is a poisoner?’
Bartholomew thought quickly. Dominica was certainly alive – John’s story proved that – and, if she had been driven to living in the hostel of her dead lover disguised as a servant, then she may very well feel bitter towards the father whose domineering nature had forced her there in the first place. But was she bitter enough to kill him?
‘Dominica,’ said Lydgate softly. He waved away the potion Bartholomew had made for him to ease his discomfort.
‘I feel no pain, only a coldness and a tingling in my limbs. I must make my confession now, before this poison takes my voice. Stay, Bartholomew. You might as well listen, too. My only problem is that I do not know where to start.’
‘Try the beginning,’ said Michael. He sensed he was in for a lengthy session with the dying Principal, and glanced anxiously out of the window at the sky. He had a great deal to do and knew he should not spend too much time listening to the ramblings of the mortally ill – especially since Lydgate had already named his killer. Bartholomew also had patients waiting who had been injured during the night’s upheavals, and he needed to be with people he could help, not those with one foot and four toes already in the grave.
‘Shall I start at the very beginning?’ asked Lydgate huskily.
‘Well, start at the onset of events that led to your…’ Michael paused, uncertain which word to use.
‘Then I must take you back twenty-five years,’ said Lydgate. Michael stifled a sigh, reluctant to sit through another tedious dive into local history, but obliged to do so since the man was making his final confession.
Oblivious or uncaring, Lydgate continued. ‘I was not entirely honest with you last night. You see, I did not burn the tithe barn, Simon d’Ambrey did.’
Bartholomew had thought he was beyond being surprised by Lydgate, but this latest statement truly confounded him. He wondered whether Lydgate was still in command of all his faculties, that perhaps the henbane had affected his mind.
‘But half the town witnessed Simon d’Ambrey’s death the day before the barn burned,’ he protested. ‘Myself included.’
‘Then half the town, yourself included, was mistaken,’ said Lydgate, a waspish edge to his voice. ‘I also witnessed what I thought to be d’Ambrey’s death, but we were all wrong. It was not Simon d’Ambrey who di
ed that night at the hands of the King’s soldiers, but his brother – the cause of d’Ambrey’s downfall. D’Ambrey dedicated his life to preventing injustice, but his brother proved to be dishonest and stole the money intended for the poor. D’Ambrey himself was accused of the thefts and the townspeople were quick to believe the accusations. But it was d’Ambrey’s brother who died in the King’s Ditch.’
‘This news will put a different slant on Thorpe’s relic business,’ said Michael, inappropriately gleeful given he was hearing a death-bed confession. ‘He has the thieving hand of d’Ambrey’s brother, a pretty criminal!’
‘D’Ambrey went from being adored by the townspeople, to being despised as a thief within a few hours,’ Lydgate continued softly. ‘But he was clever. He led the soldiers to his house and told his brother – the root of all his problems – that the soldiers were coming not for him, but for his brother, and that he should run. He lent him his own cloak as a disguise and then sent him off. Everyone knew d’Ambrey’s green and gold cloak and the soldiers spotted it in an instant. They chased after his brother like a pack of dogs. You know the rest of the story. He reached the Ditch, an arrow took him in the throat and he drowned. His body was never found.’
He stopped speaking, and Michael began to fidget restlessly, casting anxious glances at the sun and keen to be about his business.
‘But what of Simon?’ asked Bartholomew. He wondered how much of Lydgate’s story could be true. He, with so many others, had seen Simon d’Ambrey on the bank of the King’s Ditch, his cloak billowing around him. He recalled vividly the copper hair whipping around his face as he looked back at his pursuers. Bartholomew thought again. The copper hair was what he remembered, along with the green cloak with its crusader’s cross on the back. He had not actually seen the man’s face, and he had been a fair distance away watching in poor light, even with a child’s sharp eyes. If Simon and his brother looked anything alike, it would have been possible to mistake one for the other in the fading daylight.
Lydgate coughed, and Bartholomew helped him sip some water. After a moment, the Principal of Godwinsson nodded that he was able to continue.
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