An Unholy Alliance

by Susanna GREGORY

  The high priest was waiting for them, and he and the smaller man stood for a moment talking in low voices, while the other kept a respectful distance. Bartholomew strained to see their faces, but they wore gowns with deep cowls and were taking no chances that one of the others might come back and recognise them. The high priest ushered them out and began to tidy up. After what seemed like hours, he doused the last torch, and removed his mask, dropping it into a bag with his other belongings. He drew his hood over his head and left.

  Bartholomew swore softly. He had not been able to see his face, and hoped one of the others had.

  Stiffly, Bartholomew eased himself up and stretched.

  He had no idea how long the ceremony had taken, but his shoulders ached with tension. As he made the treacherous journey back across the rotten rafters he glimpsed the aisle floor a long way down. For an instant he felt dizzy, and had to stand still until the feeling passed.

  Jonstan was waiting for him by the stairs, a sheen of sweat on his white face.

  'Hell's teeth, Matthew!' he said. "I have never been so frightened in my life! We must get away from this foul place as quickly as possible!'

  Bartholomew helped him down the stairs. Jonstan started violently as Cynric materialised behind him, and clutched at his chest.

  'They have all gone,' said Cynric in a low voice. I tried to follow the last one, but he was away over the Fens before I could get close enough.' He refused to meet Bartholomew's eye, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been as assiduous in his trailing as usual.

  Michael joined them, his flabby face pallid. 'We should not stay here,' he said and grabbed Bartholomew's arm.

  'De Belem was wrong. This was nothing harmless: it was evil and terrifying. I have no doubt those vile people are behind much that is wrong in the town.'

  Cynric led the way, scouting ahead to make certain none of the worshippers still lurked. Bartholomew and Michael followed, almost carrying Jonstan between them.

  They forded the river as before, wading waist-deep through the cold water. Jonstan leaned on them heavily, making their progress slower than Bartholomew would have wished. It was with considerable relief that they finally reached the back gate at Michaelhouse and slipped through the orchard to the kitchen. While Cynric went to explain to Jonstan's beadles that he had sprained his ankle, Bartholomew kindled a fire.

  It was cold for summer, and while he and Jonstan had stayed relatively dry, Michael and Cynric were soaked to the skin.

  He set some wine to mull and inspectedjonstan's foot.

  It was twice its normal size, and already turning dark with bruising. Deftly, he wrapped it in wet bandages and placed it on a stool, cushioned with his cloak. He looked around at the others. They were all pale and subdued, and Michael was shivering uncontrollably.

  Bartholomew poured the wine and Michael gulped his and Bartholomew's down at an impressive rate, even for him, and held his cup out for more.

  Jonstan took a deep breath. 'Did anyone see the face of that cavorting leader?'

  The others shook their heads. 'Damn,' said Bartholomew.

  "I thought you might, Michael.'

  Michael shook his head. 'He was too far away, and he had his hood pulled over his head. I am surprised he could see where he was walking. I saw Richard Tulyet, though.'

  The Sheriff?' gasped Jonstan.

  'No, his father, the merchant. Perhaps the Sheriff was there, but I did not see him.' "I saw his mother,' said Bartholomew. 'Her husband abandoned her when the blood started raining down.'

  That was disgusting,' said Cynric with a shudder. I thought it was just some dye at first, but I had a good look and it really was blood.'

  'Probably from the goat,' said Bartholomew.

  'Of course,' said Jonstan, looking relieved. 'From the goat.' "I was scared out of my wits,' said Michael in a low voice. 'Did you see that bird appear out of nowhere?

  And that head just lowered itself from the sky. I will never again mock powers I do not understand.'

  Cynric nodded vigorously, while Jonstan closed his eyes and crossed himself. 'What were that pair up to near you, Matthew?' he asked weakly. "I could not see.'

  Bartholomew suddenly realised that he had been the only one able to see how the hoax was enacted. Cynric and Michael were outside, and Jonstan was too far away. They had been duped in the same way that the worshippers had. No wonder they were subdued.

  They were proving what you have always held, Michael,' he said, smiling. That the Devil's worst crimes are the handiwork of people.'

  Jonstan slept on the pallet bed in Bartholomew's storeroom for the few remaining hours of the night and was helped home by his two beadles at first light.

  'You must rest your foot for a few days,' Bartholomew advised. 'Do you have someone who can care for you?'

  'My mother will attend to me,' said Jonstan, smiling weakly. 'Although she will tell me that it is my own fault for climbing around old buildings in the dark.'

  Bartholomew watched him hobble out of the yard, and turned his thoughts to what they had learned. The high priest and his two helpers could not have been the same three Bartholomew had encountered in the orchard, because the man who had bitten him had been huge, and none of the three satanists were above average size. Could one of them be Sybilla's 'average man'? Bartholomew supposed that must be likely, since the high priest had forecast that another murder would occur before the new moon, and how else would he know unless he or one of his associates was planning to commit the crime?

  Perhaps the high priest was Nicholas of York, newly returned from the dead to frighten the living daylights out of his coven. The more Bartholomew thought about it, and the other tricks used to keep the congregation in a state of terror, the more he became convinced it was plausible. What better trick than to rise from the grave? Especially since so many people had seen him dead.

  'We must do something to stop another murder being committed,' said Bartholomew to Michael, who had poked his head around the door of Bartholomew's room.

  "I agree,' said Michael, moving to sit on the bed.

  'But what do you suggest? Shall we entertain the town's prostitutes in College to keep them off the streets for the next few nights?'

  'No, but I know something we might do,' said Bartholomew, making for the door. Michael scrambled to follow, grumbling.

  Bartholomew went to the kitchen and asked Agatha where he might find the Lady Matilde. The large laundress offered to show him, leaving through the back gate and cutting across the fields so that no one would ask why they were missing church. She took them to a small timber-framed house in the area near St John's Hospital known as The Jewry, dating from the time when it had been the home of Jewish merchants before their expulsion from England in 1290. Despite the fact that it was barely light, the town was already busy, and people ran here and there preparing for the day's business.

  'Matilde,' Agatha yelled at the top of her voice, drawing the attention of several passers-by. 'Customers!'

  Bartholomew cringed, while Michael looked furtive.

  Agatha gave them a knowing wink and marched into the house next door, calling loudly for yet another cousin.

  Bartholomew saw one or two people nudging each other at the sight of a physician and a monk outside the door of a well-known prostitute. Michael pulled his cowl over his head as if he imagined it might make him anonymous, and succeeded in making himself look more furtive than ever.

  Matilde answered the door and ushered them inside, smiling at their obvious discomfort. She brought them cups of cool white wine and saw that they were comfortably seated before sitting herself. The room was impeccably clean, with fine wool rugs scattered about the floor, and tapestries on the walls. The furniture was exquisitely carved, and the chairs were adorned with embroidered cushions. A table with quills and parchment stood next to the window, suggesting that Lady Matilde could write as well as speak Court French.

  'How may I help you?' she said. She gave Michael a sidelong g
lance that oozed mischief. "I assume you have not come for my professional attentions?'

  Michael, his composure regained now that he was away from public view, winked at her, and grinned.

  'We have come to give you some information,' said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could side-track them by flirting. 'We cannot reveal our sources, but we have reason to believe that there will be another murder in the town before the new moon.'

  She looked at him intently, all humour gone from her face. The new moon is due in four days. When one is out at night, one knows these things,' she added, seeing Michael's surprise. She stood and went to look out of the small window, drumming her long, slender fingers on the sill as she thought.

  Bartholomew watched her. She was indeed an attractive woman, with long, honey-coloured hair twisted into a braid that hung heavily down her back. She was tall, and carried herself with a grace that he had seen in few women other than Philippa, his betrothed. The thought of Philippa made him look away from Matilde guiltily: he had scarcely given her a thought since the business with the University chest had begun, and he realised he had not even remembered to write to her the day before the first Sunday he had not sent her a letter since she had left for London two months previously.

  Thank you for telling me this,' said Matilde, turning to them, her voice breaking across Bartholomew's thoughts.

  "I will ensure the word gets around to my sisters that they take extra care.'

  'Sisters?' queried Michael, his green eyes dancing merrily.

  'Fellow whores, Brother,' she said, with a gaze that would have discomfited most men.

  Michael stared back unabashed, favouring her with what Bartholomew could only describe as a leer. 'Sisters mean something different to us holy men,' he said.

  She smiled at him. 'Well, now you know what it means to us prostitutes,' she said.

  Bartholomew had trouble dragging Michael away, and wondered yet again how someone with Michael's obvious interest in women could have chosen a vocation that demanded chastity. Bartholomew knew that Michael regularly broke other rules of his Order — he nearly always started eating before grace, he did not keep his offices, and his lifestyle was far from simple. Bartholomew wondered which other rules the large monk might bend or break.

  They finally took their leave of Matilde, and walked home as early morning sun bathed the town. The High Street seethed with carts heading to the Fair, loaded way beyond safety limits with clothes, cheeses, meats, animals, furniture, and pots and pans. The drains at the side of the street were overflowing from the rain the night before, and great puddles of brown ooze forced Bartholomew and Michael to make some spectacular leaps to avoid them. In one, a sheep bleated pitifully as it stood up to its neck in mire, while a farmer tried to coax it out with a handful of grass.

  Since they had missed breakfast, they bought hot oatcakes from a baker. Bartholomew winced as the coarse grain and particles of stone grated against his teeth. When he had finished, he was still hungry, but the few pennies in his pocket were not enough to buy one of the delicious pies carried on a baker's tray, nor the soft white bread carried in the basket of another. He saw some children jostle the man with the bread, and one of them escaped with a loaf. Two of the children were the tinker's daughters, and Bartholomew wondered if their younger brother were still alive.

  Michael stopped off to report to de Wetherset, while Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse to test his students on the Galen that they were supposed to have read. He was not pleased to discover that they had become side-tracked before finishing the first paragraph.

  'Brother Boniface says that predicting the outcome of a disease is tantamount to predicting the will of God, and that is heresy,' said Gray in explanation.

  Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.

  Surely Boniface could not claim Galen's works were heretical? They had been standard, uncontroversial texts for physicians for hundreds of years. In fact, they were so old that newer discoveries were beginning to throw some of Galen's theories into question.

  He picked up a cup from the table and held it in the air. 'Brother Boniface. If I allow this to fall from my hand, what will happen?'

  Boniface eyed him warily. "It will drop to the floor,' he said.

  'And if I drop a lighted candle into these dry rushes, what will happen?'

  They will burn.'

  'You are making predictions about events. Why is predicting the outcome of a disease any different?' "It is not heresy to predict the obvious,' said Boniface coldly. "It is heresy to predict whether a man lives or dies.'

  'But there are some injuries and wasting diseases from which it is clear a man will never recover, no matter what a physician might do,' said Bartholomew, frustrated. 'Is that knowledge heresy?'

  'But those cases are obvious!' said Boniface, becoming angry.

  'And at what point does the outcome become obvious, exactly?' said Bartholomew. 'And what is the difference between you deciding which cases are obvious and which are not, and predicting whether a patient lives or dies?'

  Boniface glared at him, but was silent. Bartholomew could have taken the argument further, but he had made his point. He instructed that Gray was to read the passages from Galen that they should have read earlier with others from the Tegni The students groaned. They would be busy until nightfall, but since they had already wasted time on meaningless debate, they had no choice if they wanted to pass their disputations.

  That was a neat argument,' said Michael, who had been listening. "It put that beggarly Franciscan in his place. He is disruptive in my theology classes. I would not mind if he stimulated lively debate, but his arguments are based on ignorance and bigotry.'

  Bartholomew frowned. 'Except for Deynman, the others will pass if Boniface lets them study. But I do not want to waste the day talking about Boniface. I have been invited to Gonville Hall for a debate on contagion with two physicians from Paris.'

  He smiled enthusiastically, and ducked into his room for his bag. Michael waited outside. 'We have to go to see Sir Richard Tulyet,' he called.

  'Tulyet?' said Bartholomew, looking out of his window at Michael. 'Is that not rather rash, considering what we saw yesterday?'

  'We have been discreet for days, and it has got us nowhere,' said Michael. 'De Wetherset believes it is time for a more direct approach.'

  'Easy for him to say, sitting safely next to his wretched chest,' grumbled Bartholomew.

  Michael smiled grimly. 'De Wetherset wants us to go immediately.'

  Bartholomew emerged from his room. 'Immediately?

  But what about my debate?'

  'We will hurry. You will not miss much of it,' said Michael.

  Bartholomew sighed. 'Damn this business!' he said.

  'Come on, then. But no lagging on the way.'

  The home of Richard Tulyet the elder was a gracious building near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was half-timbered, rather than stone, but was sturdily built.

  There were expensive rugs on the polished floors, and the monotony of white walls was broken with fine tapestries.

  Bartholomew and Michael were shown into a sunny room overlooking a garden at the rear of the house.

  Tulyet did not hurry to see them, and Bartholomew began to pace irritably. Even Michael, helping himself to several exotic pastries from a dish on the table, considered that Tulyet had exceeded the limit of courtesy for which visitors might be expected to wait. Eventually, Tulyet puffed into the room, spreading his hands in apology, although the expression on his face suggested anything but repentance. He was a small man with the same fluffy beige hair as his son.

  "I have had a most busy morning,' he said, seating himself at the table and stretching his hand towards the pastry dish before realising that it was empty.

  'We have not,' said Michael, pointedly.

  Tulyet ignored his comment, and studied the monk over his steepled fingers. 'How might I help you?'

  'How long have you been a member
of the Guild of the Coming?' asked Michael bluntly.

  Tulyet stared at him, the smile fading from his face.

  "I do not know what you are talking about.'

  'You were seen last night leaving All Saints' Church after a less than religious ceremony was conducted there,' said Michael. 'How is your wife, by the way?'

  Bartholomew cringed. He realised that Michael was aiming to needle Tulyet into indiscretion, but suspected that this was not the way to gain the information they needed. Tulyet had been a burgess and Lord Mayor, and was unlikely to be goaded into revealing matters he wished to remain secret. Bartholomew stepped forward to intervene.

  'Perhaps we might talk to Mistress Tulyet too,' he said politely.

  'You may not,' Tulyet snapped. 'She is unwell. And before you tell me you are a physician, she has already seen one, and he advised her to rest after he finished bleeding her. Not that this is any of your affair. Good morning.'

  He made to sweep past them. Bartholomew blocked his way. 'Who is it in the Guild of the Coming that you hold in such fear?' he asked softly.

  Tulyet stopped abruptly and Bartholomew saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

  This must be stopped,' Bartholomew said gently. 'If you help us, we might be able to make an end to it.'

  Hope flared on Tulyet's face, and he took a step forward.

  "I do not believe my father wishes to talk to you.'

  Bartholomew looked behind him and saw Tulyet's youngest son standing in the doorway with two of his sergeants from the Castle. 'We are trying to help,' said Bartholomew.

  'You are trying to interfere, and succeeding very well,' snapped the Sheriff. 'My father's affairs are none of your business. Now, please leave our house.'

  'Why will you not let your father answer for himself?' asked Michael.

  'Get out!' yelled Tulyet the elder. "I will not tolerate this in my own home. Leave now, or these men will throw you out.'

  He spun on his heel and stormed out, all trace of his momentary weakness gone. Bartholomew was frustrated.

  The old man had almost told them what they needed to know, and he was clearly terrified by it. He had obviously sent to the Castle for his son while he kept him and Michael waiting, which meant that he must have felt he needed protection. Perhaps he had joined the Guild of the Coming for similar reasons to de Belem, and had become too deeply embroiled to back out.