A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘And Michaelhouse attacked so that the Sheriff will be forced to take serious measures against the town. You incited both riots. You started rumours in the Market Square, Valence Marie and Godwinsson and they spread like wildfire. Experienced rabble-rousers, like Saul Potter, fanned them to see that they did not die out.’

  ‘Right,’ said d’Ambrey, nodding appreciatively. ‘You have reasoned all this out very well. The complaints of the University that it has been attacked will be sure to evoke a response from the King. Extra troops will be called in and crippling taxes imposed. That was my plan all along. After last night’s riots the Sheriff will be ordered to clamp down so hard on the townspeople – the townspeople that were so quick to believe ill of me after I had dedicated my life to helping them – that the town will be unable to function as a viable trading centre. Gradually, it will decline and the people will sink deeper and deeper into poverty.’

  Bartholomew wondered whether d’Ambrey really believed that the people he was so keen to punish were the same ones that had failed to rally to his defence twenty-five years before. Few, if any, of the scholars were the same, since the University was a transient place, and so many of the townspeople had died of the plague that d’Ambrey was lucky to be remembered by anyone at all. Seeing d’Ambrey begin to fidget, Bartholomew continued quickly before he lost interest altogether and ordered them shot.

  ‘Cecily told us that Dominica killed Radbeche. Is that true?’

  Dominica smiled at him, distracted from her conversation with Ivo by the mention of her name.

  ‘Yes,’ said d’Ambrey. ‘I had arranged for Radbeche to be away for the night, but he heard rumours that there might be a riot, abandoned his trip, and hurried home. Meanwhile, those silly Scots escaped as soon as I left the hostel – as I knew they would.’ He paused and looked down at the book on his knees. The rain was making the ink run but he seemed oblivious to the damage.

  ‘Unfortunately, when Radbeche came bursting into the hostel crying out that there would be murder and mayhem that night, he saw Dominica – not as Norbert the scullion, but as a woman with long, fair hair. She could not have him telling everyone about that, so she ensured his silence. Scarcely had she wiped the blood from her blade when John walked in.’

  ‘Dominica ran him through, too,’ said Ruthven, eager to tell his part in the story. ‘But her aim was false in the dark, and I could not bring myself to finish him off, so I stayed with him until he died. My part was finished anyway. All I had to do was to explain to the proctors that the mob had killed Radbeche and John and then ask the Chancellor’s permission to return to Scotland to recover from my terrible experience. I was convincing, was I not?’

  Bartholomew hoped Michael would not reveal that John was still alive, or d’Ambrey was certain to order his death. But the monk was far too self-composed to make such an error. He assessed d’Ambrey coldly.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, when you went out with John, Father William left you in no doubt that he would uncover you as a fraud. Your work, therefore, had to be finished today, or you would risk being reviled by the townspeople a second time.’

  ‘People are fickle,’ mused d’Ambrey sadly. ‘The scholars at David’s were fond of me but I do not doubt for an instant that they would denounce me had Father William uncovered my disguise. You are right. I had to finish all my business today.’

  Bartholomew wondered how he could have been so misled. The people at Godwinsson – Lydgate, Cecily, Edred and Werbergh – were an unsavoury crowd, but Bartholomew found them easier to understand than the smiling villains at David’s. He glanced behind him into the trees, wondering how much longer they would be able to keep d’Ambrey entertained.

  ‘But who killed Kenzie and Werbergh?’ asked Michael.

  His thin hair was plastered to his head, giving it a pointed appearance, and he, like Bartholomew, was shivering partly from sitting still in the rain, but mostly from the almost unbearable tension of wondering whether Tulyet would arrive in time to save them.

  ‘I imagine Ruthven killed Kenzie,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at the Scot. ‘Kenzie had lost his ring – or the fake – and was broken-hearted. Master d’Ambrey decided it was time to rid himself once and for all of the youngster who was not only careless with his belongings, but who had the audacity to fall in love with his daughter Dominica. So, Ruthven went with Kenzie to help him look for his ring, then hit him on the head when he, trustingly, went first along the top of the Ditch in the dark. Correct?’

  Ruthven’s eyes were fixed guiltily on Dominica.

  ‘James Kenzie was entirely the wrong choice for my Dominica,’ said d’Ambrey before the Scot could reply. ‘Ruthven agreed to solve the problem before it became overly serious.’

  Dominica did not appear to be impressed at this example of paternal care. ‘You introduced me to him,’ she said accusingly. ‘Anyway, I was not planning to marry him. He was just fun to be with and he was imaginative in fooling my parents.’

  ‘Well, Ruthven hit him on the head with the pommel of his dagger,’ said d’Ambrey unremorsefully. ‘And then poor Radbeche and I had to keep all our students in so that the University would think we were serious about discipline. It worked brilliantly. You never suspected any of us. ‘

  ‘Actually, we did,’ said Michael.

  Dominica shook her head slowly at Ruthven, ignoring d’Ambrey’s mild outrage at Michael’s claim. ‘But Jamie was your friend!’

  Ruthven declined to answer and stared at the wet grass, fiddling dangerously with the winding mechanism on the crossbow.

  ‘Very clever,’ said Michael, turning back to d’Ambrey. ‘Ruthven’s alibi for the time of the murder was the man who ordered the murder in the first place.’

  Bartholomew wondered whether Dominica might launch herself at Ruthven in her fury, and tensed himself to take advantage of the situation while Ruthven battled with her.

  He was unprepared for her sudden, dazzling smile. His spirits sank.

  ‘Such loving care! My parents never managed to prevent me from seeing the men of my choice but you two have!’

  ‘Then?’ asked d’Ambrey suspiciously. ‘There were others?’

  ‘And what of Werbergh?’ asked Michael, uninterested in Dominica’s romantic entanglements. ‘Why was he killed and his death made to look like an accident?’

  ‘Ah yes, Werbergh,’ said d’Ambrey, still looking uncertainly at Dominica. ‘Werbergh was employed by me as a spy to keep an eye on Lydgate’s movements, but he was next to worthless. He was so nervous that it must have been obvious to a child what he was doing. I began to distrust his discretion, so I had Ruthven slip out and kill him as he came back drunk from the celebrations at Valence Marie. Will hid the body near the Ditch, until Saul Potter and Huw were able to make his death look like an accident.’

  So that explained why the body had been wet and there were pieces of river weed on it, thought Bartholomew. It also explained why Werbergh had died so long before his accident in the shed, and why Saul Potter and Huw were the ones who said that he had been going to fetch some wood.

  ‘But I do not know what happened to Edred,’ said d’Ambrey. ‘I sent him to spin a few tales to confuse you and to have a good look for my book, but he never returned. He was playing a double game, passing information to Lydgate as well as to me. He could not be trusted either.’

  Bartholomew understood why Edred’s fear had been genuine: it was a dangerous game indeed that he had been playing.

  D’Ambrey stood. He held the book, now beginning to warp from the rain. ‘It is unfortunate you took my letters, but there are few who will understand their importance should they fall into the wrong hands. Now. It is getting dark, and it is time to leave.’

  He gave Ruthven a cursory nod, and began to gather his belongings together. Ruthven swung his crossbow up and pointed it at Bartholomew.

  ‘But why wait twenty-five years?’ asked Michael, his voice sounding panicky to Bartholomew’s ears. ‘Why not strike sooner,
when those that wronged you were still alive?’

  ‘Oh, I had other things to do,’ said d’Ambrey carelessly. ‘I travelled a good deal and used my considerable talent for fund-raising to my own advantage. And anyway, I wanted to wait until the time was right. People would have recognised me had I returned too soon, and Dominica would not have been old enough. But that is none of your concern. Ruthven, make an end to this infernal questioning.’

  Bartholomew forced himself to meet Ruthven’s eyes as the student checked the winding mechanism on his crossbow, and pointed it at him.

  The little clearing was totally silent. Even the birds seemed dispirited by the rain, while the group of horses tethered to one side hung their heads miserably.

  ‘Hurry it up,’ ordered d’Ambrey. ‘We have a long way to go tonight.’

  Ruthven took aim.

  ‘Drop it, Ruthven!’ came Tulyet’s voice, loud and strong from one side of the clearing. Bartholomew’s relief was short lived, as Ruthven, after lowering the weapon for an instant, brought it back up again to aim at Bartholomew’s chest. There was a whirring sound, and Ruthven keeled over, his loosed crossbow quarrel zinging harmlessly into the ground at Bartholomew’s feet. Bartholomew forced his cold legs to move and scrambled upright. Tulyet’s men were suddenly everywhere, advancing on the clearing with their clanking weapons. Huw was with them, held between two men-at-arms, and gagged securely. Hovering at the rear, away from any potential danger, was Heppel, swathed in a huge cloak against the rain.

  D’Ambrey looked at them in disbelief. ‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘Where have you come from? You should not be here!’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Tulyet dryly, helping the stiff Michael to his feet. ‘I have been listening to you for quite some time now, Father Andrew. Or do you prefer Master d’Ambrey? What you have said, in front of my men, will be more than enough to interest the King.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of treason?’ asked d’Ambrey, his voice high with indignation.

  ‘I would consider inciting riots and killing His Majesty’s loyal subjects a treasonable offence, yes,’ said Tulyet. He motioned to his men and they began to round up d’Ambrey’s band of followers. D’Ambrey watched aghast.

  ‘Not again!’ he said. ‘I have been betrayed again!’

  ‘This time,’ said Tulyet, ‘you have betrayed yourself.’

  D’Ambrey bent slowly to retrieve something from the ground. His action was so careful and deliberate that it seemed innocent. But then he straightened with frightening speed, a knife glinting in his hand. He tore towards Tulyet who had turned to supervise his men. Bartholomew hurled himself forward. He crashed into d’Ambrey, his weight bearing them both to the ground. D’Ambrey began to fight like a madman and, despite his superior size and strength, Bartholomew felt himself loosing ground.

  Tulyet and his men rushed to help, but it took several of them to drag the spitting, struggling man away, and to secure him in a cart.

  ‘He would have killed me!’ exclaimed Tulyet in horror. ‘The man is possessed! Is he mad, do you think?’

  Bartholomew shivered and not only from the cold. ‘It would be convenient to think so,’ he said ambiguously.

  Tulyet looked uneasily at where d’Ambrey glowered at him. ‘Well, I will only be happy when we have him well secured in the Castle prison.’

  ‘Me too!’ said Heppel with feeling. ‘That man is extremely dangerous and so are his associates!’

  ‘Be careful,’ Bartholomew warned Tulyet. ‘There are people who consider d’Ambrey a martyr. If it becomes known that you have him in your prison cart, you might well have a riot to free him.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Tulyet with a shudder. ‘I hope we have rounded up all the ringleaders of these riots now. With them gone the people will grow peaceful again in time. I plan to send the prisoners to London for trial. We need no more local martyrs here.’

  He turned his attention back to his captives, while Bartholomew went to Cecily. She was past anything he could do, and her breath was little more than a thready whisper.

  Thinking to make her more comfortable, Bartholomew loosened the tight bodice of her dress, recoiling in shock at what tumbled out into his hands.

  There, still with the blue-green ring on its little finger was the hand from Valence Marie. It was warm from being in Cecily’s gown and sticky with blood. Bartholomew flung it from him in disgust.

  ‘So, it was you who took it from Valence Marie,’ he said softly. ‘You slipped into the College when that greedy Thorpe and his scholars were off hoping to find more relics.’

  But she was past confirming or denying him. He stared up at the leafy branches of trees that swayed and dripped above his head. When he looked again she was dead, a grimace fixed on her face and her eyes turning glassy.

  Tulyet’s men came to take her away, while Michael retrieved the hand from the grass. ‘I expect the Chancellor would like this,’ he said, turning it over in his hand.

  ‘Each to his own,’ said Bartholomew, climbing to his feet. He handed Michael the rings from his sleeve.

  ‘Give him these, too. I imagine he will destroy them all together.’

  ‘I cannot think why he would keep them,’ said Michael. ‘Simon d’Ambrey returning from the dead twenty-five years after half the town saw him die is enough to make him a martyr all over again. The Chancellor will not want bits of him around the town acting as a focus for gatherings.’

  ‘Make sure Thorpe understands that,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I had news from the King this morning,’ said Heppel, pulling his cloak more closely around his neck. ‘Thorpe, although he does not know it yet, is going to be offered a position as master of a grammar school in York.’

  ‘A grammar school?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘That is something of a step down from Master of Valence Marie. Will he accept?’

  ‘Oh, he will accept,’ said Heppel. ‘One does not decline an offer from the King, you know. Thorpe is too unsubtle to be Master of a College.’ He exchanged a knowing glance with Michael, and moved away to talk to Tulyet.

  ‘Is he saying that if Thorpe had managed the matter of the hand with more tact and less zeal, he might still be in office?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Michael laughed at his shocked expression. ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said airily. ‘And do not look surprised, my friend. You have listened to a most appalling tale over the last hour. You cannot raise your eyebrows at the King or the Chancellor for that matter – when you have just heard the confessions of the Devil Incarnate.’ He began to laugh, and draped an arm over Bartholomew’s shoulders. Bartholomew shrugged it off quickly when he saw that it was the one that held the hand.

  ‘What a revolting affair,’ he said, moving away from the monk. ‘D’Ambrey was supposed to have been saintly, and look how many people have died because of him – Kenzie, Werbergh, Edred, Lydgate, Cecily, Radbeche, Joanna, the riot-dead, not to mention his entire household and a good part of the population of Dover twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘I always said Cambridge used d’Ambrey badly,’ said Michael. ‘It is a shame he decided to use violence to avenge himself. Had he elected to resume his charitable acts, I think many people might have flocked to him, perhaps even me. He could have been a saint had he chosen to be.’

  ‘I do not think so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Saints do not harbour murderous intentions for twenty-five years, help wives conceal the killings of their husbands, or assist scholars to rid themselves of unwanted pregnancies.’

  Michael yawned. ‘So you have solved the mystery surrounding Joanna – she was killed to allow Dominica to be free of her parents. But it seems your Tyler women did not know what d’Ambrey intended – at least, not before it happened. They guessed afterwards because they must have found all that blood in their house.’

  ‘I hope they are well away by now,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘But by killing her first husband, Mistress Tyler is as much a murderer as is d’Ambrey!’

 
‘I know, but Mistress Tyler is a good woman. She could have left me to the Frenchmen on the night of the riot, but she chose to stay and help, risking her life and the lives of her daughters. She also invited us in when we were attacked on the High Street without even knowing who we were. It was an act of selfless charity. I hope she reaches London safely and starts a new life.’

  But what of Eleanor? he thought. Would her escape from justice encourage her to use murderous means the next time someone did something of which she did not approve? That she had gone so abruptly from being friendly to attempting to kill him left him oddly disoriented. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped their paths would never cross again, and realised that Matilde had definitely been correct when she had accused him of knowing nothing of women. He decided that he would most definitely not embark on any more friendships with them until he had devoted more time to understanding them. Had he done as much years ago, he would not have been jilted by Philippa, and would not have allowed himself to become embroiled in the uncomfortable business at the Feast. Michael’s vast yawn interrupted his morose thoughts.

  ‘We were right about the riots,’ said Michael, yawning again. ‘We thought there was more to them than random violence and we were correct.’

  ‘All the clues that we uncovered piecemeal now fit together,’ said Bartholomew, smothering a yawn of his own, brought on by watching Michael. ‘I did not think they would ever match up.’

  ‘If you are honest, some do not,’ said Michael. ‘It was pure chance that Norbert and Kenzie were both killed by wounds to the back of the head, and we saw a connection where there was none. Well, not a direct one anyway. We also thought Bigod was at the centre of the whole business, since you heard him when we were attacked on the High Street. And you heard him discussing the second riot at Chesterton. But he was just following orders.’

  They began to walk back through the dripping trees towards Cambridge. Ahead of them was Tulyet’s convoy with its prisoners, the wheels of the carts groaning and creaking and the low voices of Tulyet’s men drifting on the breeze as they talked among themselves.