An Unholy Alliance

by Susanna GREGORY

  The Sheriff leaned back against the door frame and sneered at them. 'You heard my father,' he said. 'Leave, or be thrown out by my men.'

  'Are you not man enough to do it yourself?' asked Michael. The father unable to answer questions himself, and the son needing others to fight his battles. Come, Matt. This is no place for men.'

  Bartholomew was impressed by Michael's nerve, but uncertain that such fieriness was prudent, and followed him out into the street half expecting to feel a knife between his shoulder-blades. Sheriff Tulyet followed.

  'If I discover that either of you are interfering with my investigation again, or that you are intimidating my family, I will arrest you,' he said loudly. "I will put you in the Castle prison, and your Chancellor and Bishop will not be able to do anything to help you. How could they in matters of treason?'

  He slammed the door and stalked back towards the Castle, his men following.

  Treason?' said Michael, simultaneously startled and angry. 'On what grounds? This has nothing to do with treason!'

  'It is not unknown for officers of the law to fabricate evidence to fit a case, or for them to force false confessions,' said Bartholomew drily, taking the monk's arm and leading him away from Tulyet's house. Justice was swift and harsh in England, and often men accused of crimes were not given time to prove their innocence.

  'You should watch your tongue, Brother. It would not take much for Sheriff Tulyet to follow such a path. He seems unbalanced.'

  Me hanged for treason, and you burned for heresy,' said Michael with a flicker of a smile. 'What a pair the Chancellor has chosen for his agents.'

  Bartholomew walked quickly from Tulyet's house down Milne Street to Gonville Hall, to which its Master of Medicine, Father Philius, had invited two physicians from Paris, Bono and Matthieu.

  'Ah yes, Doctor Bartholomew,' said Bono, standing to bow to him as he was shown into the conclave by a porter. "I know your old master in Paris, Ibn Ibrahim.'

  Bartholomew was delighted, but not surprised. Paris was not so large that a man of his master's standing could remain hidden. 'How does he fare?'

  'Well enough,' said Bono, 'although I cannot imagine that he will remain so if he does not amend his beliefs.

  During the Death he suggested that the contagion was carried by animals! Can you credit such a foolish notion?'

  'Animals?' queried Philius, startled. 'On what premise?'

  That he conducted certain tests to show it was not spread by the wind. He concluded that it must have been carried by animals.'

  Bartholomew frowned. It was possible, he supposed, but he had not been in contact with animals during the dreadful winter months of 1348 and 1349, and he had been a victim of the plague. He wished Ibn Ibrahim was with them now that he might question him closer.

  The Arab usually had well-founded reasons for making such claims.

  The man is a heretic,' said Matthieu. "I would keep your apprenticeship with him quiet if I were you. Do you know he practises more surgery than ever now?'

  Bartholomew was silent. He too was using a greater number of surgical techniques, and the more he used them, the more he found them useful. He listened to the others discussing how surgery was an abomination that should be left to the inferior barber-surgeons. As the discussion evolved, Bartholomew began to feel a growing concern that his own teaching and beliefs would be considered as heretical as those of Ibn Ibrahim, and that he soon might have to answer for them.

  The discussion moved from surgery to contagion, and Bartholomew found himself attacked again because of his insistence that a physician might spread contagion if he did not wash his hands. Bono shook his head in disbelief, while Matthieu merely laughed. Father Philius said nothing, for he and Bartholomew had debated this many times, and had never found common ground.

  By the time the daylight began to fade and Gonville Hall's bell rang to announce the evening meal was ready, Bartholomew felt drained. He declined the invitation to stay to eat, and walked back along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse. As he reached the gates, the porter told him he was needed at the Castle. Wearily he set off, wondering why Tulyet should have summoned him so near the curfew, and whether he would have the strength to deal with the hostile Sheriff.

  As he climbed Castle Hill, a sergeant hurried towards him with evident relief.

  'You came!' he said, taking Bartholomew's arm and setting a vigorous pace towards the Castle. "I thought you might not — under the circumstances.'

  What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew, disengaging his arm.

  The de Belem girl was a friend of yours, and the Sheriff is doing little to search out her killer,' he said, glancing around nervously. He added more firmly, 'He was a good Sheriff, but these last few weeks he has changed.'

  'How?' asked Bartholomew.

  The sergeant shrugged. 'Family problems, we think.

  But none of us know for certain. Here we are.'

  They arrived at the gate-house, and Bartholomew was escorted inside. Torches hung in sconces along the walls so that the entire courtyard was filled with a dim, flickering light. The towers and crenellated curtain walls were great black masses against the darkening sky.

  The soldier steered Bartholomew to the Great Hall against the north wall. In a small chamber off the stairs a man lay on a dirty straw pallet, groaning and swearing.

  Other soldiers stood around him, but moved aside as Bartholomew entered.

  'A stupid accident,' said the sergeant in response to Bartholomew's unasked question. "I told him to take down the archery targets, and Rufus here did not hear me shout that practice was over.'

  Rufus slunk back into the shadows, aware that the eyes of all his colleagues were on him accusingly. "It was an accident!' he insisted.

  Bartholomew knelt and inspected the wound in the injured man's upper arm. The arrowhead that was embedded there was barbed, and Bartholomew hesitated. Two options were open to him: he could force the arrowhead through the arm and out the other side, or he could cut the flesh and pull the barbs free. The second option was clearly the better one for the injured man, since the arrowhead was not embedded sufficiently deeply to warrant forcing it through the arm. But it would involve surgery, and Bartholomew had just spent an entire day hearing how physicians that stooped to use methods suited to barbers were heretics. The injured man opened pleading eyes.

  Bartholomew took one of the powerful sense-dulling potions he carried, mixed it into a cup of wine near the bed and gave it to the man to drink. When he saw the man begin to drowse, he indicated to the others that they should hold his patient down. He took a small knife and, ignoring the man's increasingly agonised screams, quickly cut the flesh away from the arrowhead and eased it out. The man slumped in relief as Bartholomew held the arrow for him to see. Bartholomew bound the arm with a poultice of healing herbs, gave him a sleeping potion, and said he would return later to ensure no infection had crept in.

  Bartholomew was escorted to the gate by the sergeant.

  Thank you,' he said, handing Bartholomew an odd assortment of coins. 'Will he live, do you think? Will he keep the arm?'

  Bartholomew was surprised by the question. "It is not a very serious wound, and there seems to be no damage to the main blood-vessels. There should be no problem if it does not become infected.'

  'Father Philius came this morning. He said he could do nothing, and that we needed Robin of Grantchester, the barber-surgeon. Robin offered to saw the arm off at the shoulder for five silver pennies payable in advance, but we could not raise one between us and he refused to give credit. We decided to ask you to come when the Sheriff left for the night.' He smiled suddenly, revealing an impressive collection of long, brown teeth. 'Agatha, your College laundress, is a cousin of mine, and she told me you are flexible about payments for your services.'

  Bartholomew smiled back, and shook the sergeant's proffered hand before taking his leave. Agatha was right: although Bartholomew kept careful records about the medicines he dispensed, he kept no notes
of payments due, and more often than not, he forgot what he was owed. It was a bone of contention between Bartholomew and Gray, who argued that there were those who would take advantage of such carelessness. Master Kenyngham, however, saw that Bartholomew was popular among his patients, and encouraged Bartholomew's casual attitude towards remuneration on the grounds that it made for favourable relations between Michaelhouse and the town.

  As he walked back to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew's doubts about his methods began to recede. Few patients who underwent amputations survived, especially amputations performed by the unsavoury Robin, who was so slow that many of his patients died from bleeding or shock before he had finished. He always demanded advance payments, because so few patients survived his ministrations and he had learned that it was difficult to extract payments from grieving relatives. In the young soldier's case, there had been no cause to amputate anyway, when all that was needed were a few careful incisions.

  As he walked down Castle Hill, he was accosted by a breathless urchin.

  "I was sent for you,' he gasped. There has been an accident. You are needed, Doctor. You must come with me!'

  Bartholomew followed the lad, wondering what else would happen before he could go home. The boy trotted along the High Street and cut behind St Mary's Church.

  The first inclination Bartholomew had that something was not right was when the lad suddenly darted off to one side. Bartholomew watched in surprise as he disappeared between the bushes. Realising that he had been led into a trap, he turned and began to run back towards the main road.

  A line of men emerged, cutting off his escape.

  Bartholomew put his head down and pounded towards them. They faltered, and for a moment he thought he would be able to force his way through them. Then he felt something akin to a brewer's cart slam into him and he went sprawling onto the wet grass. Something landed on top of him with such force that all the breath was driven from his body. He struggled frantically and uselessly.

  Just as he was beginning to turn dizzy from lack of air, the weight lifted and he was dragged to his feet. As he leaned over, gasping for breath, he saw something large move through the undergrowth away from him, but when he looked a second time, there was nothing except two or three waving branches that indicated something had passed between them.

  'Matthew Bartholomew! You go where you are uninvited and you run away from where you are welcome!' said Janetta, thick black hair falling like gauze around her face. She nodded to the two men holding him, and his arms were released. "I thought you wanted to talk to me.'

  Bartholomew, still trying to catch his breath, looked wildly around him. The men were withdrawing silently, although he knew they would reappear rapidly if she called for them. Within seconds, they were alone, although he knew they were being watched closely.

  'Well?' she said, still smiling at him. 'What do you want?'

  He thought of Matilde's words of warning, and tried to collect his confused thoughts.

  'Master Tulyet told us that you were a witness to the murder of Froissart's wife,' he said. "I wanted to ask you about that.'

  'He told you what?' she said, her eyes opening wide with shock.

  Bartholomew sat on a tombstone and watched Janetta suspiciously.

  "I have never spoken to this Tulyet,' pro tested Janetta.

  "I know of him by reputation, of course. But I have never spoken to him.'

  'But why would he lie?' asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.

  Janetta sat on the tombstone next to him, although she was careful to maintain a good distance between them. "I have no idea. I do not know how he would even know my name.'

  'Did you know Froissart?' "I know him,' she said. She shuddered suddenly. 'Do you know what people are saying? That Froissart is the one who is killing the whores.'

  'Tulyet does not believe that,' said Bartholomew.

  That is because Tulyet almost had Froissart in his hands when he claimed sanctuary in the church, and his men allowed him to escape. What does that tell you about Tulyet?' Janetta spat.

  'Do you believe Froissart is the killer?'

  Janetta let out a deep breath and looked up at the darkening sky. "I think that is likely.'

  'On what grounds?'

  Janetta turned to him with her slow smile. 'Questions!

  You are like the inquisition!' She leaned down, and picked a stem of grass that she began to chew. 'Froissart is a rough man who drinks heavily and is violent to his wife and sister.

  You are lucky he was not one of the ones who caught you in our alley last week.'

  'Why did he flee to the church for sanctuary if there was no murder?' asked Bartholomew. In the darkening gloom, the scars on her jaw were almost invisible, and he wondered why she did not make an attempt to hide them with the powders she used on her cheeks.

  "I did not say there was no murder. I said I did not witness it, and I did not speak to Tulyet.

  Marius Froissart's wife was murdered about two weeks ago.'

  'So did Froissart kill her?' asked Bartholomew. This woman was worse than Boniface with her twisting and turning of words.

  "I could not say. I did not witness it, as I have just said.'

  Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. He forced himself not to show his impatience, knowing it would probably amuse her. He smiled. 'But what do you think?' he insisted as pleasantly as he could.

  "I imagine he killed her,' she said, turning to face him.

  'Where are the rest of his family?'

  They have fled the town because people believe Froissart is the killer. His family will not be safe here until Froissart is caught. People believed they were hiding him, and they left at my suggestion.'

  'Where are they?' he asked.

  "I do not know, and if I did, it would remain my secret,' she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. They have suffered enough.'

  Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Do you know a Father Lucius?'

  Janetta looked amazed. 'A priest? Priests do not come to Primrose Alley!'

  'What about high priests?' said Bartholomew, watching her carefully.

  'High priests? You mean bishops?' she asked.

  "I mean priests of satanism,' said Bartholomew, still eyeing her intently.

  'Satanism?' She made an exasperated sound and flashed him a quick smile. 'You must think I am without wits: I keep repeating everything you say. Now, satanism.

  It is certainly practised in the town. But the poor only mumble the odd blasphemy and steal holy water to feed to their pigs. The rich summon great demons from hell.

  If you are wanting high priests, Doctor, do not look to our community, look to the merchants and the lawyers.

  And even the wealthier of the scholars.'

  She mused for a moment. 'Why are you involved in all this? You are not a Proctor. Can you not see that this business is dangerous? Powerful men are involved who would kill you without a second thought. Leave this business for others to sort out.'

  Bartholomew looked at her as she sat, her face shadowed. Another warning to stay away? 'Do you know where I might find the lay-brother who locked the church on the night of the friar's death?' he asked finally.

  She sighed. 'So you will not heed my warning?'

  Bartholomew did not reply, but waited for her to answer his question. She sighed again. The lay-brother you were chasing in our lane? No. That was the last any of us saw of him. You frightened him clean off the face of the earth.'

  Bartholomew stood to leave. It was dark, and, although he would not have admitted it to Janetta, he did not feel safe with her in the churchyard. He wondered why she had picked this time and place to meet him, and felt uneasy. Was she watching his every move? Had she taken the arsenic from his bag and substituted it with white sugar? Was it Janetta who had left the goat's head on Michael's bed to warn him as she was warning Bartholomew now? 'You have been most helpful, Mistress Janetta,' he said. 'But please remember next time that it should not be necessary for your friends to
sit on me to make me stay.'

  A spark of anger glinted in her eyes so fast that Bartholomew thought he had imagined it, before it was masked by her enigmatic smile. He smiled, bowed, and walked purposefully away. His nerves tingled as he waited for figures looming out of the bushes that would block his escape. But there was nothing. He walked unmolested to the High Street and home to Michaelhouse.

  When the sturdy gates of the College were barred behind him, he went straight to find Michael. The monk had just gone to bed, but was uncomplaining when Bartholomew dragged him from his sleep. They went to Bartholomew's room, where they would not disturb Michael's room-mates. Once Michael had settled himself comfortably on a stool, Bartholomew related the details of his meeting with Janetta.

  'Oh Lord, Matt! I do not like that woman.'

  He listened without further interruption until Bartholomew had finished his story and then sat thinking in silence.

  "I think your other whore friend is right. I feel this Janetta is untrustworthy. Why did you not ask her about her scars?'

  That would not have been polite,' said Bartholomew.

  'Why should I question her about a crime for which she had already paid?'

  'You are too gentle,' said Michael. "I suppose that and your curly black hair are the reasons you seem to have half the whores in Cambridge demanding your company. Janetta, Sybilla, "Lady" Matilde. What would the Franciscans say if they were to find out?'

  'Michael, please,' said Bartholomew irritably. Think about what Janetta told me instead of troubling your monkish brain with unmonkish thoughts of prostitutes.

  Tulyet said Janetta was a witness to murder; she says she is not and has never spoken to him. It is black and white. They both cannot be right, so one of them is lying. Which? Is it Tulyet, who seems to be dragging his feet over the investigation, perhaps because of his family's involvement with the Guild of the Coming? Or is it Janetta, who holds sway over ruffians, and appears and disappears at will?'