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 died 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.
'Butwhat 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.
'Simon took the opportunity to escape. He was expecting his brother to be recognised, and a search sent out for him, but that did not happen — his ruse had worked more perfectly than he could have dared hope. Rather than set out immediately in pursuit of his fleeing household, and run the risk of meeting the three burgesses who were charged with hunting them down, d'Ambrey hid for a night or two in Trumpington.'
He paused, and Michael cleared his throat noisily. 'An interesting conjecture, Master Lydgate, but we must think about your absolution. Time is short. Do you repent of your sins?'
Lydgate looked at him, some of his old belligerence returning. 'You will allow a dying man the courtesy of completing his tale in his own time, Brother,' he whispered harshly. He coughed again, then continued, his voice growing weaker, so that Bartholomew and Michael had to strain to hear.
'At the time, I was betrothed to Cecily. It was not my choice, and hers neither. But the contract was s
ealed and we were bound by it. The day after d'Ambrey's supposed death, I saw Cecily enter the tithe barn and leave some time later. I went into the barn myself, hoping she might have a lover there. If that were the case, I mightyet escape the marriage contract that I did not want. D'Ambrey was there, leaning back in the straw like a contented cat. It was quite clear what they had been doing and, even though it was in my interests to be glad he was Cecily's lover, I was moved to anger by his gloating. He told me how he had escaped, and I knew he would not allow me to leave the barn alive. We fought, but a lamp was knocked over and the barn began to burn. Then he hit his head against a post and I could not rouse him. I panicked and fled.'
Raised voices from outside distracted him momentarily, but they died away, and the house was silent once more.
Lydgate continued with his tale, sweat beading on his face. Bartholomew wiped it away.
'I told my father everything. He said the marriage contract would stand anyway, and that I should conceal Cecily's indiscretions unless I wanted to be branded a cuckold. He suggested we accuse Norbert of starting the fire, since using him as a scapegoat, rather than someone else, would precipitate no feuds or ill-feelings among the villagers.'
'Most noble,' retorted Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. 'So Norbert was blamed so that you would not be seen to have an unfaithful wife, and Cecily would not be labelled a whore?' He stood abruptly and paced. 'He was a child, Lydgate! They were going to hang him!'
Lydgate shrugged painfully. 'You saved him.'
'What a dire tale,' said Michael unsympathetically.
'No wonder Norbert has returned to wreak havoc on the town.'
'But no body was found in the barn,' said Bartholomew, trying to rationalise Lydgate's story. The whole event, now he knew the truth of it, had an unsavoury feel, and he did not like the notion that he had protected the identity of a murderer for the last twenty-five years.
'The fire caused such an inferno that metal nails and bolts melted in the heat,' breathed Lydgate, swallowing hard. 'A body would never have been identified from that mess.'
'So, you were responsible for the death of Simon d'Ambrey?' asked Michael. 'Is that the essence of this lengthy tale? I take it you confessed to burning the tithe barn yesterday because you knew that was the crime of which Matt believed you were guilty?'
Lydgate nodded, and then shook his head. 'I became confused. The blackmail notes mentioned the burning of the tithe barn, and hinted at the murder of d'Ambrey while he was trapped in it. I was going to confess to both of them to you last night. Then I realised that you did not know about the murder, only about the fire. I did not see why I should have to confess to that sort of thing when I did not have to, so I just allowed myself to be guided by you, and told you only about the fire.'
'What a mess!' said Michael. 'These notes must have been very carefully worded if you were not certain whether they threatened to expose you for murder or arson.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew saw something move. It was a shadow in the interconnecting passage between the two Godwinsson houses. Bartholomew, who had been taken unawares by it once before, was not fooled a second time, and darted forward to seize the person who hid there. Cecily gave a cry as she was unceremoniously hauled into the solar. She stared down at her prostrate husband, several blackened pieces of jewellery dangling from her fingers.
Lydgate saw her and gave a ghastly smile. 'My loving wife! It is not my impending death that brings you home, but your treasure.'
'I thought I should see what I could salvage,' she said coldly. 'Fortunately, I hid most of my belongings well.'
So much for her 'meagre inheritance', her 'paltry jewels', thought Bartholomew, eyeing the fistfuls of treasure in some disgust. No wonder she had been so concerned in Chesterton when she heard her room had been ransacked.
'Do you have everything?' asked Lydgate with heavy irony. 'Or shall I help you look?'
'You might tell me where you kept that silver chain,' said Cecily, before she realised he was not sincere. 'Have you seen that little gold crucifix of my father's? I cannot find it.'
'The last time I saw that, it was being fingered by Brother Edred,' said Lydgate maliciously. 'I imagine he stole it after you ran away. He was always covetous of that cross.'
'Why did you not demand it back?' cried Cecily, appalled.
Lydgate shifted weakly in what might have been a shrug, 'These things are no longer important to me, Cecily. I let him keep it, hoping it might throttle him in his sleep.' His words were becoming indistinct, and speaking was clearly an effort now.
'Your husband has only a short time left,' said Bartholomew, thinking it said very little for the sacred institution of marriage that the Lydgates so hated each other that they were prepared to squander his final moments on Earth arguing about jewellery. 'You might wish to be alone with him.'
'I have been alone with him for twenty-five miserable years. Why should I wish for more? I have things to do, and I have no time to wait around here.' She stuffed her jewels down the front of her dress for safekeeping.
'Then a few moments longer cannot make a difference,' said Bartholomew, gesturing for her to kneel next to him.
'Why should I?' she demanded with sudden anger. 'I have just heard him confess that he murdered the man I loved. All these years, and I knew nothing of this! I lived with a killer! I am glad Dominica poisoned him.'
'I thought you believed Dominica was dead,' said Bartholomew. 'You gave me that ring to help me find her killer.'
'I was mistaken. Poor Dominica was forced to feign her death in order to escape from her brute of a father.
I discovered she was alive when she came to see me yesterday morning. My husband discovered she was alive when she and I came to see him together last night-when she gave him wine to help him recover from the shock.'
'And this medicinal wine contained henbane?' asked Bartholomew.
Cecily nodded. 'Justice has been done. She has killed the monster who murdered the man I love.'
'You still love Simon d'Ambrey, even though you believed he died all those years ago?' asked Michael, clearly unconvinced. Lydgate made a sound, that had he been strong enough, would probably have been a snort of derision.
Cecily smiled, caught in an untruth. 'Perhaps not, but I grieved deeply for him for several weeks. And I always knew this pathetic creature was not the father of my Dominica.'
'So, Dominica is the daughter of Simon d'Ambrey,' said Bartholomew in sudden realisation. On the floor, Lydgate gave an agonised gurgle. Although he could still hear, the poison had deprived him of coherent speech.
'That cannot be so,' objected Michael. 'Dominica is too young. Kenzie, her lover, was only eighteen or twenty.'
'Dominica was born the same year that Lydgate married Cecily — about six months after d'Ambrey died,' said Bartholomew, his mind working fast. 'Her early birth was the subject of speculation among the villagers for weeks. Dominica is about twenty-four.'
'But she cannot be that old,' said Michael. 'She would have been married off by now.'
'Master Lydgate is wealthy, and so it is unlikely that there will be a shortage of suitors for her hand — regardless of her age,' said Bartholomew. 'John of Stirling said Norbert was sixteen or seventeen. I imagine a young woman covered in dirt to disguise the lack of whiskers, might pass for a lad.'
'How could this oaf ever imagine he was the father of my Dominica?' asked Cecily spitefully. 'Dominica is clever — she fooled us over the matter of her death, and she helped Ivo and Saul Potter plan this riot so that we could be avenged on the man who destroyed our lives.'
'Destroyed your lives?' asked Michael. 'But you have just admitted that you grieved for d'Ambrey for a few weeks only and Dominica, with her secret lovers, has scarcely led a hard life.'
'It was a shame about poor Master Radbeche, though,' said Cecily, ignoring him. 'He was a kindly man.'
'What do you mean?' asked Michael suspiciously. 'You did not kill him, surely? What wo
uld you have been doing in David's Hostel in the middle of the riot?'
'Not Cecily,' said Bartholomew wearily. 'Dominica.
Poor Radbeche must have caught her without her disguise at David's and so she killed him to ensure his silence.'
'That was my husband's fault, too,' said Cecily, her eyes narrowed spitefully. 'If he had not forced Dominica to take refuge at David's in order to escape from him, then Dominica would not have been forced to kill Radbeche to make certain he did not tell anyone who she really was.'
'I see,' said Michael. 'John told us that poor Radbeche was supposed to have taken a trip last night, but I suppose he heard rumours that there might be rioting and he, like a responsible Principal, returned to take care of his hostel. Of course, by this time, Father Andrew had gone for bread, the students had sneaked out and the hostel was bare — except, unfortunately for Radbeche, for Dominica.'
'And then,' said Bartholomew, easing Lydgate's head to one side as his breathing became more laboured.
'Dominica attacked John of Stirling because he almost caught her in the act of killing Radbeche.'
He saw that Lydgate's last reservoirs of strength were failing fast. Two tears slid from under the dying man's evelids, and coursed down his cheeks. Michael pressed his hands together and began the words of the final absolution. Outside in the street, there were howls of merriment and smashing sounds, as children realised that throwing the shards of glass against the wall could be fun. The sergeant's voice cut over their laughter, but his tone was friendly, and he obviously thought they were doing no harm. While Michael prayed and Bartholomew bent to tend Lydgate, Cecily slipped away down the stairs and was gone. Michael looked up briefly, but let her go. Bartholomew was grateful, revolted by the malice and bitterness that seemed to taint all members of the Lydgate household.
When Michael had finished his prayers and Lydgate lay dead, Bartholomew followed the monk down the stairs.
A Bone of Contention Page 39