Mystery in the Minster (38 page)

‘It feels as if the whole thing is about to wash away,’ he said, wincing when there was a groan from one of the arches. ‘The guards should stop people from using it.’

‘It has survived worse than this,’ declared Langelee, although the confidence in his voice was at odds with the unease in his eyes. ‘Now run!’

He began to sprint, shunting people out of his way. No one challenged him, because there was a dangerous light in his eyes, and he had drawn his sword.

They reached the other side, but their relief to feel solid ground under their feet was short-lived. Either the river had burst its banks, or the volume of rain had finally defeated the drains, for the street immediately adjacent to the bridge was calf-deep in water. It stank, and Bartholomew saw sewage and other rubbish bobbing among the people who paddled through it.

There were three religious foundations in the western portion of the city. Alice’s nuns were busily dispensing hot food from their convent, while the Dominicans’ domain was open to anyone needing sanctuary. By contrast, Holy Trinity’s gates were closed, and there was not a monk in sight. Langelee hammered on its gate.

‘You will not get an answer,’ said a passing butcher. Bartholomew recognised him as one of those who had been involved in the riot a few days before. ‘They are French spies,
and will be delighted to see us on the brink of disaster. Bastards!’

Langelee pounded a second time, then indicated that Bartholomew was to make a stirrup of his hands. It was not easy to heave a man the Master’s size over walls that had been constructed to prevent that sort of thing, but they managed eventually. A few people shot them curious glances, but no one asked what they were doing, and no one told them to stop.

Once Langelee was over, it did not take him long to remove the bar from the gate and open it. Bartholomew’s heart thumped with anxiety as he stepped across the threshold, but the priory was deserted. Nothing stirred, not so much as a cat or a chicken, and the only movement was the sheeting rain that slanted across the yard.

‘Where are they?’ Langelee whispered. ‘Or do you think they already have wind of what is happening, and have left the city?’

‘I do not see how,’ said Michael. He began to walk purposefully towards the chapel. ‘They will be praying for the rain to stop.’

But the church was deserted, too, and its altar was stripped – the cloth with the golden doves Bartholomew had seen on his previous visit was gone, and all that was left was a bare wooden table.

‘Bestiary Hall!’ hissed Langelee, turning abruptly. ‘They must be afraid that they will be blamed for the flood, so they have fled to the one place they own that is safe from attack – the building from which they dispense alms.’

‘Leave the security offered by these thick walls?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to slow him down. ‘To venture out on to streets that most of them have never trodden? I do not think so!’

‘Well, they must be somewhere,’ Langelee snapped. ‘Because they are not here. Or do you have a better idea?’

Bartholomew did not, and followed the Master back down the hill, aware of Michael panting and wheezing behind them. They turned left, waded through the flooded section of the street, then paddled to the drier ground opposite All Saints’ Church. Glancing at the houses he passed, Bartholomew saw the residents were expecting the worst: every window was shuttered, and each door was barricaded by layers of sacks filled with sand.

No such protection had been afforded to Bestiary Hall, though, and Bartholomew began to suspect that Langelee’s impulse to race there had been misguided. The Master stared at it for a moment, then stalked to the yard at its side. He stopped suddenly, and a savage grin split his face.

‘Voices!’ he whispered, drawing his sword. ‘I hear voices inside.’

‘Wait!’ Bartholomew grabbed his shoulder. ‘We should eavesdrop first, to see what—’

Langelee shoved him away, wrenched open the door and strode inside. Bartholomew and Michael, hot on his heels, gaped in horror at what they saw.

Anketil lay on the floor in a pool of blood, and the remaining monks were armed, their weapons incongruous against their monastic cloaks. A number of bulging saddlebags were piled by the door, and through the far window, horses could be seen in the yard at the rear, saddled and waiting.

‘Damn!’ breathed Chozaico. He nodded to one of his monks, and all three scholars spun around in alarm when the door was slammed behind them. ‘You should not have come here today.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael unsteadily. ‘What is going on?’

‘What everyone has always suspected,’ replied Chozaico softly. ‘But could never prove.’

With a howl of fury, Langelee launched himself at the Prior, but the monks hurled off their cloaks and raced to intercept him, blades meeting with deafening clangs. They were dressed like soldiers underneath, and carried themselves like them, too, so Langelee was soon forced to give ground. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew drew his own sword and ran towards the affray, but it took no more than two or three swipes to know he was seriously outmatched.

‘Do not harm them,’ shouted Chozaico urgently. ‘There will be no more bloodshed today.’

‘We shall see about that!’ roared Langelee, taking his weapon in both hands and laying about him like a demon. The monks fell back, defending themselves but making no effort to attack. Bartholomew also retreated, but kept his sword ready while he waited to see what would happen. The two men who had been sparring with him immediately stepped away.

‘Langelee, stop!’ ordered Michael. The Master ignored him, so Michael hurried forward and gripped his wrist. ‘We cannot win, not against so many.’

Breathing hard, Langelee lowered his weapon. He raised it again when the monks started to relieve him of it, but then capitulated when Michael’s hand tightened on his arm. He scowled as he was subjected to a search that removed three knives and a nasty implement made from lead that no scholar should have owned. Bartholomew lost his sword, and his medical bag was pulled off his shoulder and tossed into a corner.

‘Now sit,’ ordered Chozaico, when the monks nodded to say that the visitors no longer posed a threat. ‘While I consider what to do.’

‘You should not need to consider,’ grated Langelee, shoving away the man who tried to direct him to a bench, then grimacing when three others came to force him there. Bartholomew and Michael were ordered to sit next to him. ‘You should give yourselves up. We have uncovered evidence that proves you have been sending intelligence to the French for years.’

‘For more than a decade,’ acknowledged Chozaico. He regarded his captives with a pained expression. ‘Why did you have to come here now? Another hour and we would have been gone.’

‘These monks,’ began Langelee, gazing at them with open hatred. ‘Why did—’

‘Anketil and I are monks,’ interrupted Chozaico. ‘The others are warriors.’

Langelee glowered. ‘Is Prioress Alice one of you? Is that why she has so suddenly taken to wearing the habit she has shunned for so many years? To disguise herself as she flees with you?’

‘Alice?’ asked Chozaico, startled. ‘No, of course not! Spies try to blend into the background, and she has always been rather visible, with her brazenly licentious behaviour.’

‘It must have been so easy,’ said Michael in disgust, as he reflected on what Holy Trinity had done. ‘We are a contemplative Order, which gives you licence to keep your gates locked – along with the fact that you can claim it is for self-preservation, given the popular dislike of your foundation. No one knows what you do within your walls.’

‘And your “warriors” can don civilian clothes and wander the town as they please,’ added Langelee contemptuously. ‘As no one ever sees them as monastics, they are unlikely to be recognised.’

Chozaico nodded. ‘As long as the bells chime for our
offices, no one thinks to question us. And Anketil and I have always been careful to ensure that was done.’

‘Let me see to him,’ said Bartholomew softly, seeing the Prior’s gaze drawn to his fallen friend. ‘I may be able to help.’

‘He is dead,’ said Chozaico in a low voice, although he nodded to his men that Bartholomew should be allowed to do as he offered.

‘Killed by Wy,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the wound in Anketil’s stomach.

‘What?’ exclaimed Chozaico, shocked. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. ‘No! Some vengeful townsman came in and did it! Wy would never harm one of us.’

‘Harold has an identical wound,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And fibres from a Carmelite habit in his fingernails prove he was killed by a fellow White Friar.’

‘But Harold and Wy are friends,’ objected Chozaico. ‘Wy would never hurt him.’

‘Then who else among the Carmelites would come here and kill Anketil?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘Identical wounds suggest Harold and Wy were stabbed by the same culprit, and Wy is the only one with connections to both foundations. I suspect he murdered them because he considered them a threat to his own safety.’

‘Impossible!’ declared Chozaico. ‘We are not leaving today because we are on the verge of being exposed – by Harold or anyone else – but because of the floods. People already blame us for the looming disaster, and I cannot justify risking the lives of these soldiers by remaining.’

‘You made a mistake last night,’ said Bartholomew, covering Anketil’s face with one of the cloaks thrown off by the warriors. ‘You asked Oustwyk to deliver a message to the Carmelite Priory – to Wy. Perhaps the flood made you nervous, and you wrote more than you should have done.
Regardless, I suspect Harold read the message and guessed what—’

‘No!’ whispered Chozaico, the blood draining from his face. His hand went to his mouth, and he gazed at the physician in horror. ‘I explained why I felt obliged to leave, and invited Wy to join us, lest life here became uncomfortable for him. I did not imagine for a moment that anyone else would see it, because I sent it late, when I knew only Wy would be awake.’

‘Prior Penterel has kept Wy and Harold close to him of late,’ said one of the warriors. ‘Perhaps this led to Harold noticing Wy’s clandestine activities. And if he then read your letter …’

‘Then
I
killed Harold, Odo,’ said Chozaico to the soldier. He closed his eyes, stricken. ‘I managed a decade of intelligencing without a single casualty, and on our last day here, there are two!’

‘Three, if you count Wy,’ muttered Odo. ‘We cannot let him—’

‘Cannot let me what?’ asked Wy, appearing suddenly in the doorway with a loaded crossbow. There were scratches on his face that had clearly been made by clawing fingers: Harold had not gone meekly to his death.

The Carmelite smirked when he saw Chozaico’s men start in alarm. ‘I thought I might find you here. You always were embarrassingly predictable. But we should not stand here chatting. Kill these impudent scholars and let us be on our way before it is too late.’

‘Too late?’ echoed Chozaico weakly.

‘Prior Penterel found blood on my habit, and suspects me of murder. And lest you think to say he is my problem, not yours, let me remind you of what I know. You do not want me captured and forced to talk.’

Chozaico regarded him in horror. ‘You admit it? But Harold was your friend!’

‘He was a colleague,’ corrected Wy. ‘Not a friend. And he was going to tell Penterel that I am a French spy. What else could I do but dispatch him? Besides, I am ready to begin a new existence. It has not been easy, living the life of a mendicant all these years.’

‘You are not a Carmelite,’ said Michael flatly.

‘He is a pedlar with a talent for gathering information,’ explained Chozaico. ‘He learned about us from some clerk who had died – a man who had taken a dictation from Zouche on his deathbed.’

‘You killed Zouche’s clerk!’ exclaimed Langelee in understanding. ‘Myton assumed nothing had happened with that list because of the confusion that followed the Archbishop’s death, but—’

‘But the clerk had decoded it himself, and was on his way to tell Mayor Longton,’ said Wy, grinning smugly. ‘He stopped in a tavern for a drink to calm his ragged nerves, and was relieved to confide his terrible secret to a sympathetic listener. Then I ensured that he would inform no one else, and visited Prior Chozaico with a proposal. We have worked profitably together ever since.’

‘But why hurt Anketil?’ asked Chozaico weakly. He looked as if he might be sick; obviously, he had not known about the clerk’s murder. ‘He was no threat to you.’

‘On the contrary: he was going to abandon me.’ Wy glared at the soldiers, toting the crossbow in a way that told them there would be more casualties if they made a hostile move. They gazed back sullenly. ‘I caught him with Odo, arranging matters so I would be left behind.’

‘He was wary of you,’ acknowledged Odo coldly. ‘We all are. But he understood that it would be unwise to leave
you here. You would not have been deserted. You killed him for nothing!’

‘How many more?’ whispered Chozaico, slumping on to a sack of flour as if his legs would no longer hold him. ‘The clerk, Harold, Anketil … Your immortal soul, Wy!’

‘I have earned plenty of money for obits,’ shrugged Wy, unrepentant. ‘And I am sure you will help me set them up when we are all safely in France.’

‘How could you use such a man, Chozaico?’ Michael’s voice dripped with disgust.

Wy replied when the Prior did not to answer: he seemed wholly unmoved by Michael’s distaste. ‘Because they needed me. The attacks on their priory were growing rather too hot, so I devised a way that would see them ease.’