The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Make me well again, Meryfeld,’ she breathed. ‘Or I will cast a spell on you, and God will turn His face from you for ever. It will not be the first time I have done it.’

  ‘Perhaps she has already put one on you, boy,’ Cynric whispered. ‘It would explain a lot.’

  Bartholomew did not want to think about it. He tried to inspect Emma’s mouth, but the light was poor and his vision swam. He blinked several times, but it made no difference, and he knew it was wrong to try to treat her.

  ‘I cannot do this,’ he said, backing away, hand to his head. ‘Send for Gyseburne—’

  ‘You will do it,’ Odelina hissed. ‘Or your book-bearer will die.’

  Bartholomew looked at Cynric, who was shaking his head, urging him to refuse. He blinked again, and the blurriness eased. He took the lamp, and peered inside Emma’s mouth, then tapped very softly on the infected tooth with a metal probe. Emma released a howl that made his ears ring. It also had Odelina wincing and Heslarton surging forward.

  ‘Hurt her again, and you are dead,’ he snarled furiously.

  ‘But it will hurt,’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘That is why she has always refused to let me do it before. And it will be worse now, because of the delay.’

  Heslarton scowled, but indicated that he should continue. Servants brought hot water and bandages, then were dismissed, although one archer was ordered to stay, bow at the ready. Father and daughter held long daggers, and it was clear they would use them if an attempt was made to escape.

  Bartholomew turned his attention to medicine, and began cleaning the implements he would need. He took his time, hoping the delay would ease the throbbing in his head. Heslarton soon became impatient.

  ‘Why are you wasting time?’ he snapped. ‘She is becoming worse while you dither, and you have polished those pliers at least twice. Get on with it.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew bathed Emma’s gums with a numbing potion, and asked Cynric to hold open her jaws. The book-bearer was not very happy about it, but Bartholomew had a plan of sorts. He laid a number of little knives on the cloth at the side of the bed. Cynric saw what he was expected to do, and palmed a couple when Bartholomew ‘accidentally’ upset a basin of water.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked, speaking so low the physician struggled to hear him. ‘What happens if Emma dies during the …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.

  ‘She might, so be ready to act: lob the blade at the archer, then run for help. I will deal with Heslarton and Odelina.’ Bartholomew turned to their captors before Cynric could point out that help for him would probably come far too late. ‘You two will have to hold her down.’

  ‘Us?’ asked Heslarton uncomfortably. ‘I do not want to see what you are doing, thank you. And you have your servant to assist.’

  ‘He is not enough. This is going to be painful, and you must keep Emma still.’

  With a muttered oath, Heslarton positioned himself across his mother-in-law’s chest, pinioning her arms to her sides, while Odelina took her legs. Bartholomew blinked hard, then gripped the offending tooth with a pair of pliers. As hauling would leave the rotten root in the gum, it had to be twisted out gently with his left hand, while the right held back the inflamed tissue. It would not be easy, and he hoped the thing would not drop to pieces on him.

  Immediately, Emma began to buck and writhe. Cynric looked away as blood welled, and Bartholomew heard him swallow, audible even over the wails of agony emanating from the patient. He wondered whether the effort of making such a racket alone would kill Emma, and then what would happen to him and Cynric? He blinked again as Emma’s bleeding maw swam in and out of focus, then took a deep breath and continued, ignoring both the screams and the thrashing. Cynric was doing a good job of keeping the head still, for which he was grateful.

  Unfortunately, the tooth was malformed, and refused to come out, so he took a knife and began to cut away the bone that held it. Emma’s shrieks intensified, and Bartholomew experienced a great wave of dizziness as the din seared through his pounding head. But then there was a click, and the tooth was free. He watched pus well out of the resulting cavity – a lot of it – and was not surprised she had been in agony.

  ‘Two stitches,’ he said, more to himself than his reluctant assistants. ‘To hold the flap over the exposed bone. Then it is done.’

  Straining to see in the unsteady gleam of the lamp, he inserted first one suture, and then a second, careful to leave a gap for the wound to drain. Then he packed it with pieces of boiled cloth. Emma was silent at last, her face white and bathed in sweat.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Heslarton. His voice shook: the procedure had upset him. Odelina was made of sterner stuff, and went to sit by the window, while Cynric edged towards the door. Bartholomew could tell by the way the book-bearer stood that a knife was concealed in each hand.

  ‘We wait,’ he replied, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘She needs to be monitored, to ensure the wound stops bleeding.’

  ‘A physician,’ said Cynric immediately. ‘A servant cannot be entrusted with such a delicate task. You cannot send Doctor Bartholomew off to France in a barge until—’

  ‘Can she hear us?’ interrupted Odelina, touching her grandmother’s face, very gently.

  Bartholomew shook his head.

  ‘Good,’ said Odelina. ‘Because I do not want her to know what is going to happen next.’ She turned to the bowman. ‘Kill them.’

  The archer and Heslarton regarded Odelina askance. Cynric nodded grimly to himself, to say he had been right to distrust her, while Bartholomew sagged against the wall.

  ‘But we made a bargain—’ began Heslarton, raising his hand to stop the bowman.

  ‘And I am breaking it,’ Odelina retorted. ‘If we put them on the barge and they escape, we will hang. I am not prepared to take that risk.’

  ‘Christ, Odelina!’ muttered Heslarton. ‘You have grown ruthless. It must be his influence.’

  ‘His influence?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep his words from slurring. ‘Do you mean Odelina’s accomplice? I thought that was Celia.’

  ‘Celia knows nothing of this,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘Leave her out of it.’

  ‘He will not thank me for leaving them alive,’ said Odelina, ignoring Bartholomew and addressing her father. ‘Not now he is so close to achieving all he wants.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Heslarton doubtfully.

  On the other side of the room, Cynric was wound as tightly as a spring, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. Bartholomew tried to brace himself, knowing he had to be ready to help, no matter what the cost to himself.

  ‘At the camp-ball game today, there will be trouble,’ Odelina was explaining. ‘The hostels will be blamed, and afterwards, the likes of Chestre will be ousted from Cambridge for ever.’

  ‘Your accomplice wants the hostels discredited?’ Numbly, Bartholomew struggled to make sense of what she was saying. ‘But why?’

  ‘And we shall be free to enjoy the proceeds of our hard work,’ Odelina continued, ignoring him again. ‘We shall all go to France. But we will never rest easy if this pair are alive.’

  Heslarton shook his head, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, but drew his sword just the same. He nodded to the archer, who brought his bow to bear on Cynric, while he advanced on Bartholomew. Odelina watched with eyes that glittered more savagely than her grandmother’s had ever done.

  Cynric sprang into action. He hurled one blade at the archer, catching him in the throat, then jammed the other in Heslarton’s side. Heslarton howled in agony and fell to his knees. Cynric was a blur of motion as he raced towards Odelina and gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. Heslarton’s screams alerted the servants, who immediately poured into the room, but Cynric felled two with punches, and the others, unnerved by the fierce, warlike expression on his face, turned and fled. He snatched up Heslarton’s sword, and made for the door.

&
nbsp; ‘Are you coming?’ he demanded, when Bartholomew made no move to follow, shocked into immobility by the speed and efficiency of the assault.

  In the hallway, the surviving bowman ran towards them, sword at the ready. Cynric fended him off with a series of ferocious swipes. Bartholomew lobbed a pot, although it was more by luck than design when it struck the fellow and knocked him senseless.

  Then Odelina recovered, and launched herself at the physician, nails clawing wildly at his face. Her weight was more than he could handle, and he fell to the floor with her on top of him. Cynric turned to pull her off, but Bartholomew could hear more feet clattering in the yard below – the servants had summoned reinforcements, probably in the guise of the rough, soldierly men who had helped Heslarton to scour the marshes for the yellow-headed thief.

  ‘Run, Cynric!’ he urged. ‘Warn Michael.’

  ‘Not without you,’ muttered Cynric grimly.

  Bartholomew wanted to argue, but there was no time. He shoved Odelina away, and when she came at him again, he chopped her in the neck with the side of his hand. She fell back, stunned.

  ‘She hit me first,’ he protested, aware of Cynric’s startled look. Even so, it was not in his nature to strike women, and he did not feel easy in his mind as he scrambled to his feet. Then he saw Heslarton groaning on the floor with the blade protruding from his ribs.

  ‘Leave him,’ hissed Cynric. ‘I did not kill him – which is more mercy than he was going to show us.’

  He grabbed a sword from the fallen bowman and shoved it into Bartholomew’s hand. Then he raced towards the stairs with one of his blood-curdling battle cries. Heslarton’s men had massed there, and he plunged among them like a madman, driving them back with the sheer ferocity of his charge. Bartholomew jabbed here and there, mostly ineffectually.

  Step by step, they fought their way downwards, and eventually reached the door. Bartholomew hauled it open while Cynric, howling all manner of curses and incantations in Welsh, whirled the sword around as though he were demented. Bartholomew was vaguely aware of people in the street stopping to stare as he staggered outside Emma’s domain, and then he was stumbling into the arms of someone who hurried towards him. It was Michael.

  Bartholomew watched Michael’s beadles do battle with those members of Emma’s household who had charged into the street after him. When he was sure the beadles would win, he turned to the monk, speaking quickly and urgently, acutely aware that time was of the essence.

  ‘I have been busy, too,’ said Michael, when he had finished, indicating he was to sit on the edge of a horse trough while they talked. Bartholomew sank down gratefully. His legs were like jelly, and he could not recall when he had felt more wretched. ‘Although only with rioting hostels.’

  ‘Has there been fighting?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘A little. There might have been more, but Welfry saved the day. Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels were about to set fire to King’s Hall, when he jumped on a wall and screeched a riddle at the top of his voice.’

  ‘A riddle?’ echoed Bartholomew blankly.

  ‘One he claimed the hostels could never solve. Needless to say they rose to the challenge, and by the time they had calculated the answer, tempers had cooled. It was a clever ploy, and one that saved lives. I am glad he is our Seneschal. But even so, it took all my diplomatic tact and skills to encourage them to go home afterwards.’

  ‘Will your arrest of the killer-thief be enough to quell trouble at the camp-ball game now?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially as it is not a scholar?’

  ‘It is impossible to say. Are you sure we have the right culprits this time? There is no doubt?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes.’

  Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Well, which is it? We cannot afford more mistakes.’

  ‘Heslarton and Odelina are definitely involved, but they did not work alone. She is not clever enough, despite her claims to the contrary – it was not her idea to shove a wig on Gib and use him to confound your investigation. Likewise, I doubt she or her father would have thought of leaving Yffi in Chestre’s cellar, or of taking Drax to Michaelhouse.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael.

  ‘Moreover, Heslarton says he is innocent of the thefts, and I believe him. Someone else is responsible for those. I thought it was Celia, but Odelina and Heslarton referred to a man – some fellow who plans to take them to France when his plans reach fruition.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Fen? I said he was a villain, and you should have listened.’

  ‘There are other possibilities, too,’ said Bartholomew. He looked away, unwilling to list them, because they included people he liked.

  Michael had no such qualms. ‘Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Blaston …’

  ‘Not Blaston – he is not sufficiently cunning. Thelnetham is, though …’

  ‘Yes, he is, but I cannot see what he would gain from having Chestre blamed for his crimes – or from having his University plunged into turmoil by stoking up anger between Colleges and hostels.’

  They were interrupted by a sudden violent skirmish among the prisoners. Cynric had been right when he said he had not hurt Heslarton badly, and the man was engaged in a furious scuffle. When they saw their master’s determined resistance, his henchmen renewed their own efforts to escape, and it took all the beadles, Michael and Cynric to subdue them. Bartholomew tried to help, but was too unsteady and disoriented to be of much use.

  ‘Where is Odelina?’ he asked urgently, when it was over.

  ‘Damn!’ cried Michael, looking around wildly. ‘Heslarton’s antics were a diversion! They were to give his wretched daughter a chance to flee.’

  ‘I imagine she has run straight to her accomplice,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘The one who has some terrible plan in mind for the camp-ball game.’

  Michael regarded him in horror. ‘The camp-ball game! I forgot to tell you – it has been brought forward, because rain is predicted later. Vast crowds are gathering, for it is due to start within the hour.’

  ‘Arrest all our suspects,’ urged Bartholomew, feeling desperate situations called for desperate measures. ‘If they are innocent, they will forgive you when you explain yourself. And if they are guilty, you will prevent them from—’

  ‘Brother Michael! Brother Michael!’ They turned to see Meryfeld racing towards them. For the first time since Bartholomew had met him, he was not rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank God I have found you! Horneby the Carmelite has just attacked me.’

  ‘Attacked you?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He burst into my house and locked me in my cellar without so much as a word of explanation,’ shouted Meryfeld, furious and indignant. ‘How dare he! I order you to apprehend him.’

  ‘Horneby,’ said Bartholomew, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last. ‘He is Odelina’s accomplice.’

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘Horneby is Odelina’s accomplice?’ echoed Michael, gaping at Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Impossible! He is a theologian.’

  ‘And theologians are incapable of murder?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity, because I admire him. However, he is certainly clever enough to have masterminded all this mayhem – he has one of the best minds in the University.’

  ‘I barely recognised him when he attacked me,’ said Meryfeld, looking from one to the other as he tried to understand what they were talking about. ‘His face was twisted, and I am surprised he did not kill me. In fact, I think he might have done, had he not been in such a hurry.’

  Michael’s expression hardened, and he quickly organised his beadles into two groups: those who would march Heslarton and his henchmen to the gaol, and those who would police the camp-ball. Bartholomew used the brief respite to rest. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the agitated churning in his stomach.

  The day was bitterly cold, with grey clouds scudding overhead and a brisk northerly breeze that cut straight through his clo
thes. Would it cut through the spectators’ clothes, too, he wondered, and encourage them to leave the game and head for the warmth of home? He jumped when he became aware that someone was behind him. It was Gyseburne, and Thelnetham was with him.

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Gyseburne, peering into his face. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was not going to demand a urine sample. ‘What ails you?’

  ‘Yet another sleepless night, I expect,’ said Thelnetham, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘They seem to be an occupational hazard at Michaelhouse – none of us have had proper rest in days.’

  ‘There is no reason for you to have been disturbed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Thelnetham was not a physician or a senior proctor, so should have been sleeping like a baby.

  Thelnetham regarded him oddly. ‘It is hard to relax when half the College has no roof and our protective gates have been missing. And I am—’

  He broke off when Welfry approached at a run. The Dominican’s face was pale.

  ‘Have you seen Horneby?’ he asked urgently. ‘He raced out of his friary as though the Devil was on his tail earlier. Moreover, he has burned his notes for the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. It is inexplicable behaviour, and I fear he may not be completely recovered from his recent illness.’

  Meryfeld explained briefly what had been done to him, but before Welfry could respond, Michael shouted that he was ready and that he needed volunteers to help him at the camp-ball game. Welfry, Thelnetham and Gyseburne were among those who rallied to his call, but Meryfeld muttered something about visiting a patient and slunk off in the opposite direction.

  ‘What are we hoping to prevent, exactly?’ asked Thelnetham, after Michael had given a short account of all that had happened, and they were marching along the High Street towards the Gilbertine Priory.

  ‘Trouble,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We do not know what form it might take, so you must all be vigilant for the unusual. All I know is that it must be stopped.’

  ‘Had I known Cambridge was going to be this turbulent, I would never have left York,’ muttered Gyseburne to himself.