An Unholy Alliance (32 page)

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?’

‘Or are they both lying?’ asked Michael. ‘Janetta saw the murder, but Tulyet never asked her. What about Froissart? You say you gave her no reason to assume that Froissart was dead? She has no idea he lies cold and stinking in St Mary’s crypt?’

‘Tulyet does not know of Froissart’s death either.

Janetta says the townspeople believe that Froissart is the killer and that Tulyet lost him. Tulyet says that Froissart does not have the intelligence to carry out the murders.

Janetta says Froissart was violent.’

‘They do not sound like the same man to me,’ said Michael. ‘Either Froissart was a clever and vicious killer or he did not have the intelligence to plan such things.

Which Froissart was the real one?’

“I suppose it does not matter much,’ said Bartholomew, leaning back with a yawn, ‘since we know he is not in a position to do much about anything.’

Michael yawned too. “I cannot make any sense out of this tonight. The Chancellor is burying Froissart and the woman tomorrow. Let us see what their funerals might bring to light.’

They both started suddenly, aware that someone else had entered the room and was standing silently in the shadows.

‘Boniface!’ said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wall again. ‘You made me jump!’

“I am leaving, Master Bartholomew,’ he said.

Bartholomew twisted around to look at him. ‘Leaving?

But your disputation is in two days. I have already told you that if you can put heresy to the back of your mind for a couple of hours, you should pass.’

“I do not want to become a physician,’ said Boniface.

He stood stiffly in the doorway. ‘And I do not want to be a friar.’

‘Boniface!’ said Michael kindly. Think about what you are saying. You have taken vows. At least talk to Father William first/

“I have,’ said Boniface. ‘He told me I should take some time to consider before I act.’

That is good advice,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But do not consider tonight. It is late. Come to see me tomorrow and we will talk when our minds are fresh.’

Boniface was silent.

‘Frances de Belem!’ he blurted out suddenly. ‘She was coming to see me the day she died. We usually met before dawn under the willows by the fish-ponds.

I unbarred the gate and waited, but she did not come.

All the time she was dying in the orchard.’

Bartholomew remembered Alban claiming that Frances had a lover, and even her father had known she was meeting someone at dawn. Poor Boniface! A murdered lover was hardly something for which a young friar could claim sympathy from his fellows.

“I thought you might have killed her,’ he said,

swallowing and looking at Bartholomew.

“Me?’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘What on earth could have given you that idea?’

‘Well, you are often out of the College at night, and I thought you must have seen her and killed her to keep your comings and goings secret,’ said Boniface, ‘especially if you were involved in all this business with witchcraft that Brother Alban was telling us about.’

‘Brother Alban is a dangerous old gossip,’ said Michael firmly. ‘And Matt is not the only one to slip in and out of College at night. I do, I have seen Hesselwell and Aidan do so, and now you say you did.’

“I know,’ said Boniface, ‘but I was distraught, and I had no one to tell. I did not know what to do. She told me she had something important to tell me, and I waited but she never came.’

Bartholomew could not meet his eyes. If Boniface was Frances’s lover, then he must have been the father of her child. No wonder Frances had said that the father could not marry her. He decided nothing would be gained by telling Boniface that Frances was carrying his child when she died. The student was in enough turmoil already.

‘She was almost hysterical,’ Boniface reflected. “I asked her to tell me then, but she said she needed to tell me privately. Against my better judgement, I agreed to meet her in the orchard.’

‘Did you not wait at the gate for her?’ asked

Michael.

Boniface shot him a bitter look. “I waited for her by the fish-ponds. I was afraid of being seen, and there are reeds and willows in which to hide around the ponds.’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He tried to remember the times he had broken the rules to meet a woman in the night while a student in Oxford, but the memories were dim, and he could not recall his feelings.

Boniface hurried on.

‘When I heard she had been dying while I hid among the reeds, I felt wretched. I took the arsenic from your bag, and put the sugar in its place because I was going to swallow it. Then you gave your lecture on dosages and I realised there was not enough to kill me. Here.’

He pushed a packet at Bartholomew.

“I never carry enough to kill in case anyone steals it, or it falls from my bag by accident,’ said Bartholomew, staring at the small packet in his hands.

“I am glad you are cautious,’ said Boniface with a faint smile. ‘At least now I have not compounded one sin with another by committing suicide/ He stood to leave.

Bartholomew rummaged in his bag and handed him

a twist of cloth. This is camomile,’ he said. ‘Mix it with some wine, and it will help you sleep. Tomorrow we can talk again.’

Boniface looked as if he would refuse, but then leaned forward and snatched it from him. He gave a sudden smile that lightened his sullen features and made him almost handsome. Michael sketched a benediction at him, and the friar disappeared. Bartholomew looked out of the window to make sure he returned to his own room. When he saw Boniface pour himself a drink and lie down on his bed through the open window opposite, he sat again.