Mystery in the Minster (43 page)

It was not easy for Bartholomew to remain limp and keep his eyes closed while he was grabbed by the wrists and hauled unceremoniously down the steps, but he knew he would not live long if he failed – and neither would Michael. Once in the crypt, he was dragged across the floor and deposited in a corner. Moments later, Ellis joined him, although when Bartholomew opened his eyes a fraction, he knew the sub-chanter was not faking
his
demise: an arrow had taken him in his chest, causing a wound that had, fortunately for Bartholomew, provided enough blood for both of them.

‘Here is your quarrel,’ someone was saying. His tone was far from friendly. ‘The physician must have knocked it out of himself when he fell. You should not leave it lying around.’

‘I planned to collect it on our way out,’ said Marmaduke coolly. ‘I would not have forgotten.’

‘You might. There is much to do today, and it may have slipped your mind.’

‘And what if it did?’ demanded Marmaduke petulantly.

His companion sounded as though he was struggling for patience. ‘Because the last time that happened, it brought Langelee to my door. If the barb had not been damaged as it was extracted from Sir William, it would have identified
me
as the man who had supplied you with it.’

Bartholomew recalled who had commissioned the hen-feather arrows: Ellis, Dalfeld, Fournays and Gisbyrn.
He struggled to recognise the speaker’s voice. Ellis was dead, and it was not sufficiently refined to be Dalfeld or Gisbyrn. Surely he could not have been wrong about the surgeon?

He opened his eyes a little more, then was not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed when he saw Frost – relieved because it exonerated Fournays, and alarmed because Frost was a professional warrior who would not be easy to best. He supposed the arrow had come from Gisbyrn’s supply. Did it mean Gisbyrn was involved in whatever was happening, too? It seemed likely, and Bartholomew could only suppose it was related to trade and the war with Longton.

‘I got my target this time, though,’ said Marmaduke in satisfaction. ‘You were wrong: I am not losing my touch. That was a difficult shot, yet I managed it with ease. Where did I hit him?’

Bartholomew tensed, hoping he would not come to find out.

‘Head,’ replied Frost tersely. ‘Although body shots are better options in these sorts of situations. You might want to remember that in future.’

‘There will be no more killing once this is over,’ said Marmaduke. ‘My soul is too steeped in blood already, although I am not sorry to have added Bartholomew to my tally. He refused to pray over Sampson’s toe.’

There was no reply, and Bartholomew wondered whether he was not the only one who thought the ex-priest had lost his reason. He raised his head slightly, and when he saw no one was looking in his direction, he lifted it a little more and surveyed his surroundings.

The lanterns held by Marmaduke and Frost revealed a low-ceilinged vault, and he could tell from the muted sound of their voices that the walls were thick. The floor was beaten
earth, and puddles suggested it was in no better state than the church above – water was oozing through any number of cracks, and piles of masonry showed that there had been collapses in the recent past. Parts of the ceiling were being held up by crude scaffolding that did not look strong enough.

The crypt ran the length of the nave, and coffins or the gauzy forms of shrouded skeletons filled every available scrap of space. It was eerie, and Bartholomew glanced quickly at the door, relieved to see it had been left partly open. He was not usually sensitive to atmospheres, but he did not like the notion of being sealed inside a tomb by a heavy stone portal.

The lamplight also revealed that Frost and Marmaduke had brought help in the form of two soldiers. Bartholomew’s heart sank. He might have managed Frost and Marmaduke with planning and luck, but he could not best soldiers, too. He would be cut down in an instant, and then Michael would also die.

He glanced at the monk, who had been bound, gagged and forced to sit at the base of a pillar. He sighed his relief when he saw who was next to him, similarly secured. Cynric was sobbing, which surprised him: the Welshman did not weep easily. It was only when the book-bearer shot an agonised glance in his direction that he realised the tears were for him.

‘This is a sorry turn of events,’ snapped Frost, pacing in agitation. He scowled at his men. ‘You were supposed to be guarding him, so how did he come to kick that coffin over?’

Next to Cynric were the shattered remains of a casket, which he had used to tell his friends where he was, although his stricken expression said the rescue had not gone quite as he had anticipated.

‘It is a pity,’ sighed Marmaduke. ‘Because now we have no choice but to kill Brother Michael, and I had hoped he could be spared. But we shall ensure that Langelee goes home with Huntington, so I doubt Michaelhouse will grieve for long.’

‘So what happens now?’ Frost was tense and unhappy, and when there was a hiss of crumbling mortar, he whipped around with a knife in his hand.

‘We wait,’ replied Marmaduke calmly. ‘They will be here soon. Do not allow yourself to become anxious – it is almost over.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. Who was Gisbyrn going to bring with him? More of his merchant cronies? Talerand? Multone or Oustwyk, whose interest in the scholars’ investigations had seemed suspect from the start? Dalfeld, with his reputation for ruthless cunning?

‘It will be over sooner than you think if we stay down here,’ growled Frost, glancing uneasily at the ceiling. ‘The place is unsafe, and we should wait upstairs.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the soldiers, and Marmaduke scowled. ‘We cannot risk being seen. We had a close call with Cynric, and we are lucky I was able to catch him when he ran, or our plans would have been foiled there and then.’

The soldiers exchanged glances, and one fingered the purse at his waist with a shrug. The meaning was clear: they were being well paid, and it was not for them to question their employers. For a moment, the only sounds were trickling water, Cynric’s sobs and Frost’s pacing, but then there was an echoing crack, followed by a rumble from the far end of the crypt. Moments later, a billow of dust wafted towards them.

‘It has started,’ said Frost, his voice tight with tension. ‘I told you yesterday that this vile place would not survive all this rain. We should leave before—’

‘Before what?’ came a voice from the stairs. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as he recognised Helen’s curvaceous form. She smiled at Frost. ‘Surely you were not thinking of abandoning me before we have finished our work? Are you?’

As Helen glided down the steps, Marmaduke scuttled towards her, furnishing her with a somewhat garbled account of why Michael and Cynric were prisoners, and Bartholomew and Ellis were dead. Bartholomew’s heart pounded when she took a lamp and came to inspect him, so hard that he thought she must surely be able to hear it.

‘Pity,’ she said softly. ‘I liked him best. Was it really necessary to shoot him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Frost shortly, and Bartholomew was under the impression that if Marmaduke had not done it, the henchman would have obliged. ‘And if you want your plan to work, Michael and Cynric must die, too.’

Her
plan, thought Bartholomew, relieved when she moved away, taking the lantern with her. Then it occurred to him that Frost was much more likely to follow the woman he loved down a dubious path than Gisbyrn. But what plan? And why must it necessitate their deaths?

‘I suppose so,’ said Helen with a rueful sigh, and Bartholomew saw her shoot an apologetic glance at Michael. The monk gazed back stonily.

‘Marmaduke thinks we should stay down here,’ said Frost, to reclaim her attention. ‘But it is unsafe. We should wait upstairs.’

‘Right is on our side,’ said Helen simply. ‘No harm will come to us, because we have the saints’ protection. But I need to know exactly what the scholars have learned, so we can take steps to mitigate the damage.’

‘I eavesdropped on their discussion.’ Frost was delighted to curry favour, and provided a concise account of all that had been reasoned about Cotyngham’s murder and the attempt on Dalfeld’s life. When Helen nodded approvingly, he flushed with pleasure.

‘Clearly, Ellis and the scholars were ignorant when they arrived, so the only question that remains is why
he
came,’ said Helen, looking hard at Cynric. With a nod, she indicated that Frost was to remove the gag from the book-bearer’s mouth.

Bartholomew looked around desperately for something he might use as a weapon, but he had dropped his medical bag and neglected to take his sword from Holy Trinity. He had nothing. Moving with infinite care, he reached towards Ellis, hoping the sub-chanter would have a knife in his belt. Most men did, even vicars, for cutting meat and paring fruit.

‘Well?’ demanded Helen. When Cynric only regarded her defiantly, she turned to the soldiers. ‘Cut off Brother Michael’s ears.’

‘No!’ shouted Cynric, when one warrior grabbed Michael’s head and the other drew a dagger. Bartholomew could only watch in horror. ‘Wait! I came because people kept telling me this place is cursed. But it is not.’

‘No?’ asked Helen coldly. ‘What makes you think so, when I have been to considerable trouble to make people believe it is?’

Bartholomew recalled that she had been the one who had first mentioned the tale to them, and that she had repeated it several times since.

‘Because I would have
felt
it,’ replied Cynric simply. ‘St Mary ad Valvas is sad, not haunted. So I came to see why someone should have invented such a story, and I noticed that the rubble on the top of the plague pile
was different to that below – there was less moss and different weeds. The only explanation is that it was added later.’

‘So you decided to dig,’ surmised Helen. ‘Poking, where you should not have done.’

Now Bartholomew understood exactly why she had started the rumours: derelict buildings were a free source of raw materials, but she had not wanted anyone to raid St Mary ad Valvas, lest they discovered what was buried in the chancel. Of course, he still did not know
why
she should have hidden Cotyngham there, given that it had almost certainly been Cave who had murdered him.

Michael had been struggling with his gag while the conversation was taking place, and had managed to spit it out. Bartholomew was relieved. Perhaps the monk would talk sense into her.

‘Let Cynric go,’ Michael said quietly. ‘He has done nothing wrong.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Helen. She sounded sincere. ‘But I am afraid it is impossible.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael.

‘Because I am righting a terrible wrong,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘I am sorry blood must be spilled in the process, especially yours, but we are not the ones who started it. My conscience is clear.’

‘Longton?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it something to do with the feud between him and Gisbyrn?’

‘You would not understand.’ Helen turned to Frost. ‘Is all ready?’

The henchman nodded. ‘A few judiciously aimed strokes with a mallet will make the scaffolding collapse, and the crypt will go with it. You were right to choose today to act: not only is everyone preoccupied with the floods, but rain will be blamed for destabilising the church,
too. No one will suspect sabotage, and none of our victims will ever be found.’

There was a brief silence, during which Frost and the soldiers gazed uneasily at the ceiling, Helen smiled with a serenity that was unnerving, and Marmaduke’s face was lit with a grin that made him look deranged. Eventually, Helen turned her beatific expression on the ex-priest.

‘Where are Anketil and Dalfeld? There is no point demolishing the place if they are not in it.’

‘You intend to kill them, too?’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘But why?’

‘They are a risk we do not need to take, Helen,’ said Frost, ignoring him. ‘Let me bring down the church now, and we can deal with Dalfeld and Anketil later. This is not a good—’

‘It will happen as I say,’ said Helen curtly. Stung by the rebuke, Frost fell silent.

Michael was staring at Marmaduke. ‘Why do you want Dalfeld dead? We know you have already tried to kill him once – and Sir William paid the price – but what has he done to make you hate him? Surely it is not because he is interested to know why you were defrocked?’

Marmaduke did not deign to reply, and addressed Helen instead. ‘I sent him a message, urging him to come. I told him I wanted to make a confession – he is still a friar, after all – and that he was the only one who would understand. He will take the bait, because his curiosity will be piqued.’

‘And
I
invited Anketil,’ added Frost ingratiatingly. ‘I promised him a handsome benefaction for Holy Trinity if he hurries here at once, so he will not be long, either.’

‘Anketil will not be coming,’ interjected Michael, to reclaim their attention. ‘He is dead.’

Helen gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! How can he be dead?’

‘It is a complex story.’ Michael indicated his bound hands. ‘So untie me, and let us repair to more conducive surroundings for—’

Helen darted towards him with such venom that he flinched. ‘You will tell me now.’

‘He was a French spy,’ explained Michael quickly. ‘So was Wy, who stabbed him.’