An Unholy Alliance

by Susanna GREGORY

  "It is against the University regulations to be in a guild,' said Jonstan. 'And I most certainly was not a member of a coven.'

  'But what about the Guild of the Holy Trinity?' asked Michael. Then like Richard Harling believe as you do that continued sin will bring about a return of the Death.'

  Bartholomew had what he wanted and was struggling to open the packet with out making it rustle. Jonstan made a dismissive gesture at Michael, who licked dry lips.

  'If you were not a member of the covens, why did you kill Sybilla before new moon as the high priest demanded?' he asked.

  "I did nothing of the kind,' said Jonstan. "It was time for another whore to die — one every ten days so they will all be gone before Christmas — and that is why she died, not because that raving maniac in the mask told me to do it.' He took the knife away from Bartholomew's throat but put it back again when Tulyet made a move forward.

  Jonstan continued matter-of-factly. "I killed them because my mother did not like whores patrolling the streets outside her home. You must appreciate that the Death will return if we do not take steps to eradicate evil from our land. We have been warned, and God will send another plague to destroy us if we continue to sin.'

  'Why did you draw a circle on the feet of the victims?' asked Tulyet, seeing beads of sweat breaking out on Jonstan's face, and desperately trying to keep him talking.

  'Because that was the sign one of the guilds used: a fallen halo. A sign that represented evil seemed an appropriate mark for evil women,' said Jonstan. He gave a short chuckle and began to move the knife.

  'Matt!' yelled Michael, leaping forward. Bartholomew hurled the contents of his hand backwards into Jonstan's face, and struggled free as the Proctor fell back, choking and flailing wildly. As the powder began to burn jonstan's eyes, he dropped the knife and began to cry out, covering his face with his hands. Bartholomew staggered back, while Tulyet kicked the knife out of reach and pushed Jonstan up against the wall.

  "I cannot see!'Jonstan cried, struggling to wrench his arms from Tulyet to rub at his eyes.

  'Neither can Sybilla!' said Bartholomew quietly, as he left the house.

  Later that day, after they had spoken again to de Wetherset and had made formal statements to Tulyet, Bartholomew and Michael sat on the fallen tree next to the wall of the orchard, watching the sun sink down behind the trees. There was a haze of insects in the air, but it was quiet in the orchard, and Bartholomew did not want to answer any more questions that day.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. Next to him Michael fidgeted to get comfortable as he leaned back.

  'So,' Michael said. 'Jonstan acted alone in the murder of the women. He claimed his first victim the day that his mother died, selected a prostitute randomly every ten days or so, and intended to continue so that the town would be free of them by Christmas. He was wholly unconnected with the guilds and selected one of their symbols only because it represented evil to him, in much the same way that the poor prostitutes did.'

  Bartholomew was silent. Jonstan's mad claims had so unsettled him that he had asked Michael to return to Jonstan's house, just to make certain that there were no ancient mother still living upstairs as Jonstan had maintained. Michael had found no mother, but had found her room laid out as though she would return at any moment to use it.

  He watched a blackbird hopping through the grass, eyeing them cautiously with beady, yellow-rimmed eyes.

  Michael cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms.

  'So, we were called to investigate the possible death of a friar in the University chest, and we discover that the friar died because the Chancellor did not maintain his locks; that a man was killed and hidden in the bell tower because he saw the Chancellor's clerk changing his identity; that one of the town's best-known merchants was using witchcraft and kidnapping to terrify people into helping him gain a monopoly over the dyeing trade; and that the Senior Proctor was insane and was killing the town's prostitutes. Quite a feat of investigation considering how little we had to go on,' he said.

  They sat for a while longer, watching the red fade from the sky as it grew dark and silent; black bats flitted between the trees. Bartholomew was tired, but did not want to move. The air was cool and pleasant after the long, hot day. His students' disputations were the next morning, and he did not want them pestering him trying to find out what questions they might be asked.

  'What did you throw at Jonstan?' asked Michael after a while.

  'Pepper,' said Bartholomew. He smiled suddenly. "It is not a usual component of my medical supplies, but I was rash enough to ask Deynman to refill some of the bottles and packets that I wanted to replace after my bag was stolen in Primrose Alley. It is not a difficult task, and they are all clearly marked. I use ground mustard seeds for some treatments, but Deynman could not find any because it had all been used to make Walter sick. He gave me pepper instead. I meant to take it out and get the mustard, but never got around to it.'

  'Would mustard have worked?'

  Bartholomew shook his head. 'Not nearly as well as pepper.'

  A shadow fell across them and Bartholomew looked up to see Boniface. In place of his habit he wore baggy homespun leggings and a dark green tunic. He sat next to them on the fallen tree and looked up to where the bats were feasting on the thousands of insects that hovered in the air.

  "I assume you have decided what you wish to do,' said Bartholomew.

  Boniface nodded. 'I made my confession to Master Kenyngham, and he agreed that I should go home. He said I need time to consider, and that I will be a better friar if I return than if I stay.'

  'Wise advice,' said Bartholomew. 'And I imagine you do not wish to be a physician either?'

  Boniface grimaced. 'Never!' he said. "I only agreed to study medicine to follow in my father's footsteps.'

  'Your father is a physician?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. How had a physician managed to sire the surly Boniface, with his rigid ideas about bleeding and treatments?

  Boniface nodded. 'We seldom see eye to eye,' he added with a wry grin at Bartholomew. 'Perhaps we might do better now.'

  'You live in Durham, I recall?' said Bartholomew.

  Boniface nodded. 'Do you have enough money to travel?'

  Boniface shook his head. "I gave it all to Master Kenyngham for my College bill, but I will manage.'

  'Take this,' said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag and handing Boniface a package.

  'What is it?' he asked, taking it warily.

  'Saffron,' said Bartholomew. 'Friar Lucius gave it to me. You should be able to sell it for a high price, since it is apparently almost impossible to obtain these days.

  It should give you enough to get home.'

  'Saffron!' exclaimed Boniface, turning the package over in his hands. "I have not seen saffron since before the Death.' He thrust it back. "I cannot take this from you.'

  'You can,' said Bartholomew. 'And if you will not take a gift, you can send the money later. Go, Boniface, before Father William realises you are missing.'

  The student turned to leave, and then came back.

  'The Master was right,' he said, with a sudden smile that made him look young. 'You are a good man for a heretic!'

  He sped off through the trees and they heard the gate slam behind him as he left.

  'Father Lucius gave me some saffron too,' said Michael, standing stiffly and stretching.

  'And what did you do with yours, Brother?' asked Bartholomew, rising and looping his battered bag over his shoulder.

  "I gave half to Agatha and half to Lady Matilde,' said Michael. 'Agatha will now let me into the kitchen again, while Matilde has promised me a fine meal.'

  Since it was a pleasant evening to be out, they decided to walk along the river and then cut back to Michaelhouse along the High Street. The paths and streets were full of people returning home after a day at the Fair. Bartholomew saw Stanmore's apprentices pulling a cart, and realised that his brother
-in-law's already considerable fortune was still being made even when he was away chasing murderers and tricksters.

  Bartholomew stopped to buy some over-ripe pears from a scruffy child, and shared them with Michael as they walked. As they turned down St Michael's Lane, they met Master Kenyngham going in the opposite direction.

  'The Chancellor told me he is very grateful for your help over these last few days,' he said, beaming benignly at them. 'He has asked me to read over his account of it to ensure that it is accurate.'

  'His account? Why would he write an account?' said Bartholomew.

  'For the book of the University history,' said the Master, surprised at his question.

  'But de Wetherset burned the book,' said Michael.

  'He showed us.'

  'He burned the one in the University chest,' said Kenyngham, 'but there is a complete copy in the chest at the Carmelite Friary — one that is not missing the pages that Gilbert stole. Of course, there are duplicates of most documents there.'

  'And he is keeping that book up to date?' asked Michael incredulously.

  'Well, of course,' said Kenyngham. "It would be of no use to anyone incomplete.' He suddenly stood back, putting his hands over his mouth like a child. "I do hope I have not been indiscreet. The Chancellor told me to keep its presence secret, but I assumed you would know, since you have been involved with the affair during the last two weeks. Oh, dear!'

  'The Bishop told me there was a second chest,' said Michael. 'You have not told us anything we did not already guess.'

  Kenyngham looked relieved, and his habitual gentle smile returned. He patted Michael on the arm and went on his way. When he had turned the corner, Bartholomew started to laugh.

  'What is so funny?' said Michael. 'We have just learned that the Chancellor has deceived us yet again. He withheld important facts from us about members of the University; he hid vital pages when I was trying to discover a motive for the friar's death; and now he has claimed to have burned the book while all the time there is another!'

  'Yes,' said Bartholomew. 'But how can you fail to admire his guile? He not only misleads us into believing that he had burned the only copy of the book, but he is using our own Master to check his facts!'

  Michael laughed too, and took his arm. 'Come on, Matt. Let's go home.'