A Bone of Contention

CHAPTER 11

Few Michaelhouse scholars felt like sleeping as the last of the mob disappeared up St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew worked hard to buttress the main gates further and ordered the stones and sticks that the scholars had hurled from the walls to be collected to use again if necessary. Once he was satisfied that as many precautions as possible had been taken against further attack, the scholars relaxed, sitting or standing in small groups to talk in low voices.

Saul Potter’s body was brought from the orchard and laid out in the conclave, where Kenyngham insisted a vigil should be kept over it.

‘At least he did not die unshriven,’ said Alcote maliciously. ‘Father William yelled an absolution from the window in the servants’ quarters before he was killed.’

Kenyngham crossed himself, his eyes fixed on the body and the arrow that still protruded from its chest. ‘I asked that there be no violence,’ he admonished, tearing his gaze from the corpse to Bartholomew. ‘And now a man lies dead.’

‘And you, Master Kenyngham, might have been lying here instead of this lout had Cynric not acted promptly,’ said Agatha hotly. ‘You owe your life to Cynric, Father William and Matthew.’

‘But surely it could have been managed without bloodshed?’ insisted Kenyngham. ‘Now we have this man’s death on our hands.’

‘Nonsense, Master,’ said William irritably. ‘He brought about his own demise by his rabble-rousing. That mob intended serious mischief and Matthew’s organisation of our defences and Cynric’s marksmanship saved all our lives – to say nothing of the survival of the College.’

Aidan agreed. ‘The College would have been in flames by now and all of us slaughtered, had the rioters gained access,’ he lisped, his pale blue eyes flicking restlessly between his colleagues’ faces.

‘But to shoot an unarmed man in our orchard…’ began Alcote, enjoying the dissension between the Fellows and seeking to prolong it until he could turn it to his own advantage.

‘He was not unarmed!’ said William loudly. ‘He had a sword and a large dagger that should, by rights, be slitting your scrawny throat at this very moment. After all, you are the only one among us to own anything worth stealing. You would have been their first victim.’

‘Hear, hear. And good riddance, too,’ put in Agatha, eyeing Alcote with dislike.

Alcote swallowed nervously, disconcerted by the frontal attack from a combination of the forceful personalities of William and Agatha. ‘But…’

‘No buts,’ said William firmly. ‘And the man was probably a heretic anyway. At least the last thing he heard were the sacred words uttered by me. Perhaps I was his salvation.’

He glared round at the others, daring them to contradict him and then strode away to organise the students to patrol the College grounds until morning. Alcote slunk back to his room and, through the open window shutters, Bartholomew saw him unlock a chest to begin checking that none of his valuables had gone missing during the affray. Aidan knelt next to Saul Potter’s body and began the vigil, while Bartholomew prepared to follow Kenyngham through the hall and down the spiral stairs to the yard. Agatha stopped him.

She poked him in the chest with a thick forefinger. ‘Do not allow the Master and that loathsome Alcote to bother you, Matthew, for I am telling you what you did was right,’ she said grandly. ‘You, Father William and Cynric saved the College tonight. Now, I have business to attend – the kitchens do not run themselves, you know.’

She marched away, large hips swaying importantly as scholars scattered in her path. Bartholomew smiled.

Agatha was of the firm belief that she was one of God’s chosen because she had not been struck by the plague, and had used that belief to add credence to all manner of wild claims ever since. He supposed he should be grateful that Agatha thought his actions defensible, no Michaelhouse scholar enjoyed being in opposition to the formidable laundress, unless he did not mind clothes damaged in the wash and the worst of the food.

Outside in the yard Kenyngham took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars. ‘Tonight saw some foul deeds, Matthew,’ he said. ‘No matter how Father William and Agatha might seek to justify them, a member of Michaelhouse murdered a townsman. How do you think the citizens of Cambridge will react to that? I, and Master Babington before me, have worked hard to establish good relations between Michaelhouse and the town, and now all is lost.’

‘All might have been lost anyway had the rioters gained access to the College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I agree that the death of a man in such circumstances is a terrible thing, but better Saul Potter than some of our students, or even one of the rioters. They are probably as much victims of Saul Potter’s rabble-rousing as we might have been.’

Kenyngham remained unconvinced. ‘This will have repercussions for months to come,’ he sighed. ‘How can I allow you to continue your good work in the town now? You might be slain in retaliation. Any of us might.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew, stretching limbs that ached from tension and tiredness. ‘The riot tonight was no random act of violence but a carefully planned event with Saul Potter at its centre. I do not think the townspeople will mourn – or seek to avenge – him once his role in all this becomes clear.’

Kenyngham eyed him doubtfully. ‘I hope you are right, Matthew,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I must now ensure that none of our students slips away to take their revenge for the attack. And you should determine that Cynric has suffered no harm from all this.’

Bartholomew walked briskly to the servants’ quarters to where Cynric slept peacefully. The physician smiled when he saw the book-bearer still held his bow; he imagined that Cynric might expect considerable acclaim as a hero by the students who had witnessed his shot, regardless of Kenyngham’s misgivings. Bartholomew sat for the rest of the night listening to the Welshman’s easy breathing as he slept, thinking over the events of the past two weeks.

Dawn came, and Bartholomew slipped out of Cynric’s room to assess the damage to the gates. With Walter, he ran his hands over the splintered wood, impressed at the quality of workmanship that had withstood the assaults of the battering ram. He walked to the wharves and saw that the mob had demolished the first of the rickety structures that served as homes to the river folk in their hunt for a sturdy post. He knew that the old lady that lived there was away, and was relieved that the rioters had limited their violence to the destruction of a house and not turned it towards the people who lived nearby.

Dunstan and Aethelbald were already up and greeted him with enthusiastic descriptions of the events of the night before. Bartholomew was so grateful to see that they had been left unmolested, he did not even notice Dunstan stooping to fill his drinking cup from the river shallows.

He fetched warmed ale and oat mash for Cynric, then began to pace the yard as he waited for Michael to return.

When the scholars, led by Kenyngham, went to a mass of thanksgiving for their deliverance the night before, Bartholomew asked to be excused.

After an hour, the scholars began to trickle back from St Michael’s Church and made their way to the hall for breakfast. Bartholomew followed, but had no appetite, and looked up expectantly for Michael each time the door opened. Traditionally, meals were taken in silence at Michaelhouse, or eaten while the Bible scholar read tracts from religious and philosophical texts. But Master Kenyngham was lenient and often allowed intellectual debate at mealtimes, although the language was restricted to Latin. That morning, however, Bartholomew heard English, French, and even Flemish but no Latin, and the subject chosen was far from academic. Kenyngham chose to ignore it, although the Franciscans complained bitterly about the breach in discipline.

Bartholomew picked at the watery oatmeal without enthusiasm, and relinquished his portion of sour, cloudy ale to Father Aidan, who was eyeing it with undisguised interest. Bartholomew had a sudden longing for some of Mistress Tyler’s fine white bread and wondered where she was and whether her daughters were safe.

The bell rang for lectures to begin, and Bartholomew tried to concentrate on his teaching. Bulbeck offered to read aloud from Isaac Judaeus’s Liber urinarum for the rest of the morning, and with a grateful smile, Bartholomew escaped his duties. The master mason came to report on the progress on Wilson’s tomb, and Bartholomew listened patiently but without full attention to the mason’s litany of complaints about the stone: it was too hard; it contained crystals that made cutting difficult; and black was a wearisome colour with which to work and really should only be carved in high summer when the light was good.

Bartholomew asked whether the marble slab should be abandoned and a cheaper, but more easily workable, material purchased instead. The mason gazed at him indignantly and claimed loftily that no stone had ever bested a craftsman of his calibre. Perplexed, Bartholomew watched him strut across the yard and then tried to apply himself to his treatise on fevers. So far, he had written five words and crossed each one out, unable to concentrate without knowing the whereabouts of his portly friend.

He had just decided to go in search of Michael himself, when the monk stepped through the wicket gate, commenting cheerily on the damage to the door and humming his way across the yard.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Bartholomew, looking him over to assess any possible damages. ‘Are you harmed? What of the riot? Why are you so late? I have been worried!’

‘Aha! ‘ said Michael triumphantly, pulling his arm away. ‘Now you know how I feel when you disappear without telling anyone where you are going. Well, like our friend Guy Heppel, I am not a man for foolhardy bravery. I took one look at those mobs last night and took refuge with my beadles in the first University building I came across. If there were scholars insane enough to be abroad last night, then it would have taken more than me and my men to persuade them back to safety. I spent the night at Peterhouse, safe in a fine feather bed with a bottle of excellent wine to help me sleep. The Master was most hospitable and insisted I stay for breakfast.’

He rubbed at his ample girth with a grin. Bartholomew groaned, feeling exhausted. While he had fretted all night, worrying that Michael might be in the thick of violent fighting, the Benedictine had secured himself some of the most comfortable lodgings in Cambridge.

‘Do you have news of what happened?’ he asked, thinking that a Peterhouse breakfast must be fine indeed if it could last until so late in the morning. He was sure it had not been watery oatmeal and sour beer.

‘I saw the Chancellor on my way here. He and Heppel spent the night cowering in St Mary’s Church,’ Michael said with a chuckle. ‘Courage is not a quality with which us University men are richly endowed, it seems. There was damage, but mostly not major. Only two University buildings came under serious attack: Michaelhouse and Godwinsson, and only Godwinsson sustained any real harm. The students fled to Maud’s, so there were no casualties. David’s Hostel were out and most of those fiery Scots are currently languishing in Tulyet’s prison cells they were rash enough to attempt a skirmish with his soldiers. Master Radbeche was away and Father Andrew was unable to keep them in when the excitement started, although two of them – John of Stirling and Ruthven are still at large.’

He paused in his narrative to assure Father William, who was passing them on his way to terce, that he had survived the night intact.

‘Several smaller hostels were set alight,’ he continued when William had gone, ‘but the fires were doused before they did any real harm. The rioters gained access to about five of them, but you know how poor most of these places are. The would-be looters looked around thinking to find riches galore and were lucky to leave with a couple of pewter plates. If hostels own anything of value at all, it is likely to be a book and the mob had no use for any of those.’

‘Is the rioting over, then?’

‘Oh yes. A rumour spread that Michaelhouse had shot one of the leaders and it fizzled out like a wet candle.’

‘I have been thinking most of the night about the evidence we have gathered so far,’ said Bartholomew, tugging at Michael’s sleeve to make him walk towards the orchard. ‘It is beginning to make sense but there is still much I do not understand.’

‘Well, I have given it no thought at all,’ said Michael airily, grabbing a handful of oatcakes from a platter in the kitchen as they walked through it. As Agatha turned and saw him, he gave her a leering wink that made her screech with laughter. On their way out, Michael looked at the neat lines of containers filled with water, sand and stones, and spare trestle tables stacked against one wall to be pushed against the back door if necessary.

‘If you have been thinking as hard as you say, let us hope these precautions will no longer be necessary,’ he said. He became sombre. ‘We must put an end to this business, Matt.’

Bartholomew led the way to the fallen tree in the orchard and, as Michael sat on the trunk eating his oatcakes, Bartholomew paced in front of him telling him what he had reasoned.

‘We need to consider two things,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘First, we need to establish the significance of these blue-green rings. And second, we must discover the identity of Norbert.’

‘What do you mean, discover his identity?’ asked Michael through a mouthful of crumbs. He brushed some off his habit, where they had been sprayed as he spoke.

‘He has assumed another identity,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Father William told me he became suspicious of Father Andrew’s credentials after he had attended one of his masses. He investigated him as only an ex-member of the Inquisition knows how, and discovered that the only Father Andrew from Stirling in Franciscan records died two months ago. William believes Andrew is an impostor.’

‘That gentle old man?’ choked Michael. ‘Never! Well, perhaps he might not be Father Andrew from Stirling but I find it hard to believe he is your Norbert.’

‘There are, however, four things that suggest Andrew is not all he seems,’ Bartholomew continued, ignoring Michael’s reaction. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and I tried to put his thoughts into a logical order. ‘First, he said he comes from Stirling. Now, his students, Robert and John, are also from Stirling, claiming to be the sons of a local landlord. I do not want to go into details, but they are nothing of the kind. The towns and villages in Scotland are small and people know each other. I find it hard to believe that Andrew, if he really is from Stirling, would not know that John and Robert’s family are not who they claim.’

‘Perhaps he does, but is maintaining silence for the sake of these lads,’ said Michael. ‘It would be in keeping with his character.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, disconcerted that the first of his carefully reasoned arguments had been so easily confounded. He tried again. ‘Second, when I last visited, Andrew had been writing in his room. His hands and face were covered in ink, like a child who first learns to write. No real scholar would ever make such a mess.’

‘And so, because he does not know how to control his quill, you think he is not a scholar. That is weak, Matt,’ warned Michael.

Bartholomew pressed on. ‘Third, while all the students have alibis for Kenzie’s death and Werbergh’s, we did not think to ask the masters. Either Radbeche or Andrew are with the students almost every moment of the day, but where are Radbeche and Andrew when they are not acting nursemaid? We did not think to ask that.’

‘That was because we had no cause to ask such a thing,’ said Michael with a shrug.

‘And fourth.’ Bartholomew took a deep breath. ‘He was the man at Chesterton tower-house who said there would be a riot last night.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Michael, leaping to his feet. ‘You have not fully recovered your wits, my friend! That is one of the most outrageous claims I have ever heard you make! And believe me, you have made a fair few!’

‘I told you the voice was familiar, but that there was something about it I could not quite place,’ said Bartholomew defensively.

‘And why is it that you have suddenly remembered this fact now?’ asked Michael, not even trying to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

‘It is not a case of remembering,’ said Bartholomew, controlling his own sudden flare of anger at Michael’s casual dismissal of his revelation. ‘It is a case of recognition. Andrew speaks with a Scottish accent. Well, when I overheard him in Chesterton making his proclamation about the riot, he did not. He spoke in the accent of an Englishman. It was his voice, I am certain, but I did not recognise it immediately because he usually disguises it.’

‘Oh really, Matt!’ said Michael, sitting back down again and stretching out his large legs in front of him. ‘The late Master Wilson would be spinning in his grave to hear such wild leaps of logic!’

‘Logic be damned!’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘It fits, Michael! If you put all we know together, it fits!’

He sat next to the monk and gave the tree trunk a thump in exasperation. ‘We know David’s is involved in this business somehow. Ivo, who pre-empted yesterday’s riot with his broken cart in the High Street, works at David’s. Kenzie was killed, and he was at David’s. And the Galen, containing the letters from Norbert to me, was from David’s.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I accept your point that Andrew is not who he claims, but I cannot accept that he is Norbert. He is too old for a start.’

‘Grey hair and whiskers always add years to a man,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a disguise to conceal his true age.’

‘Maybe, maybe.’ Michael picked up another oatcake and crammed it into his mouth so that his next words were muffled. ‘But tell me about the rings. What have you reasoned there?’

‘I have deduced nothing new,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But we should reconsider what we do know. There are three rings. Dominica took two of them – the lovers’ rings – from Cecily, kept one for herself and gave the other to Kenzie. One of his friends is certain that the ring Kenzie had originally was of great value. But the ring that was stolen from him by Edred was the third ring and a cheap imitation of the others. At some point someone, perhaps Kenzie himself, exchanged them. Kenzie’s original ring then appeared three days after his death on the relic at Valence Marie. Cecily took the other half of the pair back from Dominica when she was sent to Chesterton, and gave it to me.’ He removed the ring from his sleeve and looked at it, glinting blue-green in the morning light.

Michael took it from him and twisted it around in his fingers. ‘So, what you conclude from all this,’ he said, ‘is that the Principal of Godwinsson’s ring has ended up on Valence Marie’s relic via a student from David’s. And that Father Andrew is at the heart of it all, on the basis of William’s records and the fact that Andrew is at the same hostel that owns the Galen. Am I correct?’

Bartholomew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. Now he had repeated his arguments to Michael, they sounded weak and unconvincing, whereas during the night they had seemed infallible.

‘Dominica,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, snapping upright. ‘Where is she? If she is not dead, then where is she?’

‘She was ruled by a rod of iron by two extremely unpleasant people,’ said Michael. ‘She saw her opportunity to escape and took it.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is still here. In fact, I am willing to wager you anything you please that we will find her at David’s.’

‘In a hostel?’ cried Michael in disbelief. ‘You are insane, my friend! Adam Radbeche would never stand for such a flouting of the University rules! ‘

‘Well, in that case, you will have no objection to coming with me to see,’ said Bartholomew, rising abruptly and striding off through the orchard. Michael followed, grumbling.

‘But where is your evidence?’ he panted, struggling to keep up with Bartholomew’s healthy pace. ‘Where is your proof?’

Bartholomew grinned mischievously. ‘I suppose I have none at all, just a feeling, a hunch if you will.’

Michael made as if to demur, but could see the determination in his friend’s face and knew there was little he could do to dissuade Bartholomew from visiting David’s.

All he could hope to do was to minimise any damage Bartholomew might cause by wild accusations.

The signs of the previous night’s rioting were obvious as they hurried along the High Street to Shoemaker Lane, but the damage was mostly superficial and already much had been cleared away. None of the townspeople’s houses or shops had been attacked. The rioters had concentrated on University property. Bartholomew was puzzled. If he were to attack the University he would not choose Michaelhouse, one of the largest and strongest of the University’s properties or some small and impoverished institution like St Paul’s Hostel. He would pick those places that were known to be wealthy and not particularly well fortified – like Maud’s. He would also attack St Mary’s Church, since it was perhaps the most prominent of the University’s buildings, and look for the University chest where all the valuables were kept. But Michael said that St Mary’s had not been touched.

He frowned. The only explanation he could find was that the leaders of the riot did not want to inflict serious damage on the University. In which case, what was their motive? Now the curfew on the townspeople would be imposed more harshly than ever, entry into the town would become more rigidly controlled, and legal trading times would be curtailed. Also, the Sheriff would have to hang some of the rioters he caught as a deterrent to others, and there would be taxes to pay for the damage. After the previous night’s riot, the townspeople would suffer more than the University.

He tried to clear his thoughts as they approached David’s. Its strong door had been torn from its hinges and there were scratches along the wall where something had been forced along it. There was no reply to Michael’s knock, so they entered uninvited. Bartholomew called Radbeche’s name, but his voice bounced back at him through the empty corridor.

He hammered on the door at the end of the passageway that led to the large chamber where lessons took place, and shouted again. There was no reply, so he opened it, stepped inside and looked around.

The cosy room at David’s, with its ancient, patterned window-shutters and warm smell of cooking food, was deserted. Bartholomew walked slowly to look over the other side of the table. Master Radbeche lay there, his throat cut so deeply that Bartholomew thought he could see bone beneath the glistening blood.

‘Is Dominica there?’ came Michael’s voice from behind him.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Michael elbowed him out of the way impatiently, but let out a gasp of shock when he saw Radbeche’s body.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he exclaimed in a whisper. ‘What happened to him?’

‘It seems as though someone cut his throat,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘With considerable vigour, by the look of it.’

‘My question was rhetorical, Matt,’ said the monk testily. ‘As well you know.’ He gazed down at the redheaded philosopher. ‘Poor Radbeche! What could he ever have done to warrant such violence? The University will be a poorer place without his sharp intelligence.’

He shuddered as Bartholomew began to examine Radbeche’s body. The Principal of David’s had been dead for several hours – perhaps even before the riot had started, when Bartholomew had been talking with Lydgate and Michael in the church. Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked around the room. He saw that the small door that led to the kitchen and storerooms was ajar, and picked his way across the floor towards it. The door knob was sticky and Bartholomew’s hand came away stained red with blood. He gritted his teeth against his rising revulsion took a hold of it again, turning it slowly and pushing open the door. In the kitchen, pans had been knocked from their hooks on the wall and someone had kicked charred logs from the fire across the room. Bartholomew walked to the small storeroom beyond, shoving aside a strip of hanging leather that served as a door.

Alistair Ruthven sat on the floor cradling John of Stirling in his arms. At first, Bartholomew thought they were both dead, since their faces were so white and their clothes so bloodstained. But, slowly, Ruthven turned an stricken face towards Bartholomew and tried to stand.

Bartholomew lifted John off Ruthven and set him gently on the floor.

‘Are you injured?’ asked Bartholomew, looking to where Ruthven hovered nervously.

Ruthven shook his head. ‘I was not here when this happened. John is dead,’ he added, looking at his friend on the floor. He suddenly looked about him wildly. ‘Why could have done this?’ he wailed. ‘Master Radbeche and John are dead and I only escaped because I pretended to be dead, too.’ His eyes glazed, he stumbled into the halls.

‘Stop him!’ said Bartholomew urgently to Michael.

With a blood-curdling howl, Ruthven dropped to his knees and brought clenched fists up to his head. ‘He will become hysterical,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘Take him outside, quickly. And send word for the Austin Canons to come for John.’

With Michael’s large arms wrapped around him, Ruthven staggered along the corridor to the street. Bartholomew bent back to John who, despite Ruthven’s claim, was certainly not dead. He suspected that a good deal of the blood had probably come from Radbeche, for when he pulled away the lad’s shirt to inspect the wound, it was superficial.

John’s eyes flickered open as Bartholomew slid a rug under his head, rummaged in his bag for clean linen and set about binding the gash.

‘Am I going to die?’ he whispered. ‘Or am I dead already?’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew, smiling reassuringly. ‘This is little more than a scratch. You will be perfectly all right in a day or two.’

‘But all that blood!’ He swallowed hard and looked at the physician with a desperate expression.

‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I think you must have fainted.’

John smiled wanly, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew’s face. ‘The sight of blood makes me dizzy. It was bad enough seeing Master Radbeche’s, but someone came at me in the dark, and then I saw some of my own.’

‘So, what happened?’ asked Bartholomew, cradling the student’s head so that he could sip some water. ‘Did you see who attacked you?’

John shook his head, his face suddenly fearful. ‘But I think it was Father Andrew. I think he killed Master Radbeche!’

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his jumble of facts to become more confused by John’s wild speculations. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

‘I went out at sunset with Father Andrew to buy bread, although Master Radbeche had gone away for the night, and I was surprised that Father Andrew would leave the others unsupervised. Anyway, Father Andrew met Father William from Michaelhouse, and they started to argue, so he told me to buy the bread on my own.’

If Radbeche was supposed to be away, thought Bartholomew, what was he doing lying dead in the kitchen? John sipped some more water before resuming. ‘It was the first time I had been allowed out alone for so long and so I determined to make the most of it. I met some friends and it was dark by the time I returned. There was a crowd of people outside the hostel, throwing stones and insults up at the windows and two people were stealing the door. I knew the others must have gone out, because they would never have allowed the hostel to come under attack like that without retaliating had they been in. I hid in the shadows of the runnel opposite, and watched.’

He paused again. ‘After a while, Father Andrew, approached. He addressed the people confidently as though he had done so many times before. The leaders of the mob just led them away, like children. I was about to run into the hostel after Father Andrew, when I thought about what he had done: he had given the rioters orders and they had obeyed without question. His voice was different. I am not sure…’

‘He no longer sounded Scottish?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes!’ exclaimed John. ‘That was what was different! His voice was his own, but he sounded like a someone from here. I always thought his accent was not from Stirling.’

‘Then what?’ asked Bartholomew gently, helping the student to sit up.

John took a shuddering breath. ‘After talking to the mob, Father Andrew went inside David’s, but left again moments later. I came in and found… Master Radbeche dead with… As I stood looking at him I felt a pain in my chest and I looked down and saw…’ He shuddered and Bartholomew was afraid he might faint again. He eased the student back against the wall and gave him more water.

After a few moments, John began to speak again. ‘I fainted and when I came round Alistair Ruthven was with me. He had been with me all night – he could not get out because of the rioters, although I tried to persuade him to leave in case Father Andrew came back. He had escaped by hiding upstairs.’

‘But you did not see Father Andrew kill Radbeche,’ said Bartholomew, ‘or who attacked you.’

‘No, but Father Andrew went into the hostel and then came out again. It must have been him!’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘That cannot be possible. You said Father Andrew came from elsewhere when he addressed the mob, and you had noticed that the hostel seemed abandoned. Radbeche must already have been dead when Father Andrew entered.’

‘Then why did he not cry for help when he found Master Radbeche dead?’ asked John, regarding Bartholomew with his dark, solemn eyes.

‘I did not say that he is not involved, only that he probably did not kill Radbeche while you watched from outside,’ said Bartholomew. He sat back and thought.

Andrew had met Father William at sunset. William could well have confronted him about the fact that he knew Andrew was not whom he claimed to be, and so Andrew must have realised that he had to complete whatever business he was involved in quickly. Meanwhile, the Scottish students had probably escaped the hostels as soon as Andrew had left them unchaperoned, taking quick advantage of their sudden chance of freedom, and Radbeche had arrived back to find the hostel deserted.

So, either Andrew had killed Radbeche, left and come back again to be seen by John, or another person had done the slaying.

‘Perhaps it was Norbert.’ Bartholomew spoke aloud without intending to.

‘Norbert?’ said John, looking at him in confusion. ‘You think Norbert might have killed him?’

‘Do you know Norbert?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment.

‘Well, yes,’ said John. ‘Not well, of course, him being a servant and newly arrived. But I know him. I cannot say I like him, though – he is surly and rude. And he smells.’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he would be able to recognise Norbert from a description twenty-five years after their last meeting.

‘He is always dirty,’ said John, ‘and he wears a piece of cloth swathed around his head. We always say he looks like a Saracen, especially because his face is nearly always black with dirt. He usually wears lots of clothes, even in the heat, bundled round him in the way that beggars do in winter. Father Andrew brought him here about a week ago to work in the kitchens. He told us he was a mute and that we should leave him be.’

‘How old?’ said Bartholomew, feeling excitement rising.

‘Perhaps sixteen or seventeen,’ came the disappointing answer. ‘It was hard to tell with all that dirt. Master Radbeche said if he were to stay, he had to wash, but Father Andrew begged for him to be left alone.’

‘I bet he did,’ said Bartholomew, a sudden flash of inspiration coming to him. ‘Tell me, John, did you ever see James Kenzie’s lover, Dominica?’

‘No,’ said John, his face clouding. ‘But he talked about her: fair hair, blue-green eyes.’

‘And what were Norbert’s eyes like?’ asked Bartholomew.

John looked at him with a slack mouth. ‘Blue-green,’ he said. ‘Startling – the only nice thing about him. But surely you cannot believe…’ He was silent for a moment, plucking at the edges of his bandage. ‘There is probably something you should know.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew warily, sensing he was about to be told something of which he would not approve.

John shot him a guilty glance. ‘I did not consider it important before, and anyway, Father Andrew ordered me not to tell.’

‘Tell what?’ said Bartholomew, spirits sinking.

‘A couple of weeks ago, Father Andrew told me that if I were to borrow Jamie’s ring, which he said was one of a pair of lovers’ rings, he would pray over it that the relationship between Jamie and Dominica would finish. I liked Jamie, and agreed with Father Andrew that he would be better not seeing Dominica any more.’

‘And he said that praying over the ring would cause this relationship to end?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘How peculiar! It is almost as bad as consulting the stars!’

John looked at him oddly before continuing. ‘I borrowed Jamie’s ring when he took it off to clean out some drains. Father Andrew kept it for several days and poor Jamie nearly went mad searching for it. When he eventually returned it, I lied and told Jamie I had found it between the floorboards because Father Andrew had made me promise not to tell him what we had done. He said it was for Jamie’s own good that he should not know.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘I wish you had told us this a week ago, John,’ he said. ‘It would have helped us more than you can possibly imagine.’

John’s face crumpled with remorse. ‘I am sorry! I did not see how it could be important, and I had promised Father Andrew that I would not tell. It is only now, when Father Andrew seems to have been pretending to be something he is not, that I feel free to break my promise.’

‘When I last visited David’s, Father Andrew said that he did not know Jamie had a lover, and that he certainly did not know it was Dominica.’

‘Then he was not telling you the truth. He knew all about Dominica, although I do not know who told him – it was not me.’

‘Why did you not tell me that Father Andrew was lying at the time?’

‘I did not hear him make any such claim to you. I was cleaning the yard on Monday and only heard the last part of your conversation, while the first time you came I was with my sick brother upstairs. Believe me, I would have exposed him as a liar had I heard him say he knew nothing about Jamie’s romance!’

‘Did you tell anyone else about this peculiar plan to pray over the ring?’

‘No. Father Andrew ordered me not to. I did not even tell Robert, my brother. He would not have approved of my stealing from Jamie anyway, even if it was for his own good.’

As Bartholomew helped him to sit, the colour drained from his face as he glimpsed the blood on the front of his shirt. Bartholomew had encountered people who were overly sensitive before, but none of them had been as feeble as poor John of Stirling. No wonder the lad had been insensible half the night! He made the Scot lie down again, his mind whirling with questions and fragmented pieces of information. What confused Bartholomew most was the relationship between Norbert and the disguised Dominica. It was too much of a coincidence that Bartholomew should have found copies of letters written years before, and Dominica just happened to be in the hostel where they had been concealed using the alias of Norbert. He racked his brain for answers, but every solution he could produce seemed flawed in some way.

He thought about Radbeche, who was supposed to have been away, but had returned only to die. Was he involved in the riot somehow? And perhaps most importantly of all, where was Father Andrew now that his hostel was abandoned and his Principal murdered?

It was not long before the Austin Canons from St John’s Hospital came to help John away. Michael was waiting for Bartholomew outside and told him that Ruthven had been dispatched to inform the Chancellor that Radbeche had been murdered. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Was it wise to let the lad go on his own? He was deeply shocked by what had happened.’

‘I released him into the care of one of Tulyet’s sergeants,’ said Michael. ‘The one whose son you cured of an arrow wound last year. He will look after him, and I thought it best to get him as far away from David’s as possible.’

‘So, what did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew, still doubtful as to the wisdom of Michael’s decision.

‘Nothing much,’ said Michael. ‘As soon as Father Andrew took John off to buy bread, thus leaving the students without a nursemaid for the first time in days, they took advantage of it. All were out of the hostel before Father Andrew had scarce turned the corner, although Ruthven remained behind to study.’

‘Ruthven and Davy Grahame are the two who seem most interested in learning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The others would rather be away cattle-rustling.’

‘You have been reading too much of the rantings of this English astrologer who casts national horoscopes,’ said Michael admonishingly. ‘Such a bigoted comment is unworthy of you. As I was saying, Father Andrew was barely out of Shoemaker Row when the David’s lads were away, looking to enjoy themselves for a night on the town. Shortly afterwards, the riot broke out. Ruthven heard a mob gathering and objects were hurled at the windows. Terrified, he fled upstairs and hid under the pile of mattresses. He is not sure how long he remained there, but he only emerged when all was quiet. He found Radbeche dead and John mortally wounded. He sat with John until he died, and was too frightened to move until we arrived.’

‘We should tell him John is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He just fainted at the sight of his own blood. Many people are affected in that way, although John’s aversion is unusually powerful.’

‘Did John tell you anything we did not already know?’

Bartholomew summarised what John had said as they waited for Guy Heppel to arrive and take charge of Radbeche’s body. Heppel was, as usual, white-faced and wheezing.

‘This is a dreadful business,’ he gasped. ‘Murders and mayhem. No wonder God sent the plague to punish us if the rest of England is like Cambridge!’

‘Are you ill?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned by the man’s pallor.

‘I feel quite dreadful,’ replied Heppel, raising a hand to his head. ‘I must have that consultation with you as soon as possible. I should not have gone to that Founder’s Feast of yours without it, because I have not been myself ever since.’

‘Did you eat any fish giblets at Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

Heppel gripped his stomach and flashed him a guilty glance. ‘I have always been rather partial to fish livers and you did not tell me why I should avoid them, specifically. You said Saturn was ascendant and that I should take more of the medicine you gave me, but that had nothing to do with fish livers.’

‘I told you to avoid them because I knew they were bad.’

‘Not because of Saturn?’ asked Heppel. ‘And not because Jupiter will be dominant later in the week?’

‘Jupiter will not be dominant this week,’ said Bartholomew, thinking to comfort him. ‘Mars will.’

‘Mars! ‘ breathed Heppel, sagging against a wall weakly. ‘Worse still! Once I see this corpse to the church, I shall return to my room and lie down before I take a serious sickness.’

‘See?’ demanded Bartholomew of Michael as they set off back towards the High Street, leaving Heppel and two beadles to take Radbeche’s corpse to nearby Holy Trinity Church. ‘Astrology is nothing but hocus pocus! Heppel imagined himself to be far worse when he thought Mars was dominant. And the truth of the matter is that Mars will be nothing of the sort. I made it up thinking it would make him feel better.’

‘You should know better than to mess with Heppel’s stars,’ said Michael. ‘And you don’t lie! What has got into you? Have you been taking lessons from Gray?’

‘Heppel is an odd fellow,’ said Bartholomew, glancing back to where the Junior Proctor had his mouth covered with his pomander as he supervised the removal of Radbeche’s body. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether he is all he seems.’

‘Who is in this town? We have old men pretending to be friars, rabble-rousers pretending to be scullions, and Principal’s daughters pretending to be boys – not to mention the extremes to which prostitutes will go to slip into colleges.’ He cast a sidelong glance at Bartholomew.

‘The only people I am sure about are you and me. And even you have been revealing a different aspect of your character over these last few days with your indecent obsessions with all these harlots. You have become like a Mohammedan with his harem.’

Bartholomew sighed heavily. ‘I have decided to have done with all that. One, or possibly two, members of my harem, as you put it, tried to kill me, while the other can only talk to me without causing a scandal if she dresses as an old lady.’

‘Yes, you have shown an appalling lack of judgement in your choices,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘But you should not despair. Perhaps I can arrange one or two ladies…’

‘Here comes Heppel again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now what? I wonder what caused him to leave Radbeche.’

‘He has probably found out you have lied to him about Mars, and is coming to accuse you of heresy.’

Heppel’s pale face was glistening under its habitual sheen of sweat. ‘Master Lydgate is dying,’ he gasped. ‘A soldier has just informed me that he is at Godwinsson and recommends that you go there immediately before it is too late.’

‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ groaned Michael, turning away from the Junior Proctor to hurry towards Godwinsson. ‘It is all beginning to come together. Someone’s master plan has been set in motion, and it is playing itself out.’

‘But we still do not know what this master plan is,’ Bartholomew pointed out, keeping pace with the monk.

‘And, as has been true all along with this wretched affair, the more information we gather, the less clear matters become. How did Lydgate allow himself to be drawn into it after our discussion last night? It was obvious there was some kind of danger.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘As we know, Master Lydgate is not overly endowed with powers of reasoning. Come on. We should not dally if the man is dying.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him to where Heppel was almost bent double, trying to catch his breath, fanning himself with his hand. All Bartholomew’s doubts about him bubbled to the forefront of his mind yet again.

‘That man is far too unhealthy for proctorial duties,’ he commented. ‘I still cannot imagine what possessed the Chancellor to make such a choice.’

‘Since you ask, Matt, I made inquiries about Guy Heppel while I was at Peterhouse last night. He is one of the King’s spies, planted here to see whether anything subversive is underway.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, not surprised to learn that Heppel had another role, but astonished that it was one of such importance.

‘After everyone else had gone to bed, I seized the opportunity to glance at one or two documents in the Peterhouse muniments chest – the Chancellor often stores some of his sensitive papers there in order to keep them from certain members of his staff.’

‘Such as you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course not such as me!’ said Michael, offended. ‘I am one of his most trusted advisers.’

‘Then why did he not tell you about Heppel?’

‘I imagine he knew I would find out anyway,’ said Michael airily. ‘Perhaps he thought it might provide me with an intellectual challenge.’

Bartholomew gave him a sidelong glance, wondering whether he would ever understand the peculiarities of the University administration.

Michael continued. ‘It was all there in black and white. Heppel is here as an agent of the King and his mission is to detect why the town is so uneasy this year.’

‘I would have credited the King with more common sense than to plant a spy who stands out like a diseased limb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Heppel wears his cowardice like a banner – hardly a trait to make him a suitable Junior Proctor.’

‘It is not your place to question the King, Matthew,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Again, I tell you, watch your words or you will be accused of treason as well as heresy. Ah! Here we are.’

Godwinsson’s once-fine building had been reduced to little more than a shell. Its strong timbers were blackened and charred and fire had blown the expensive glass out of the windows. It littered the street below, causing considerable risk to those who walked barefoot. One of Tulyet’s sergeants waited for them and directed them to the solar.

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.

‘But what 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 sealed 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 might yet 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 would 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 eyelids, 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.

Instead of turning right to return to the street, they turned left to the kitchens in an unspoken agreement to take some time to think. All was deserted. Bartholomew opened a shutter and surveyed the yard. Against the wall lay a pile of wood – the remains of the shed that had been made to look as though Werbergh had died under it. And it had been Huw and Saul Potter – proven rioters and attackers of Bartholomew in the High Street – who had insisted that they had seen him enter it.

‘Why did you let Cecily go?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She might have been able to tell us where Dominica is.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘It seems to me that while Dominica is central to this grand plan, Cecily is wholly unimportant. I think she knows nothing that she has not already told us, and I am not inclined to want to speak any further to someone who is so twisted with bitterness and hatred; such people see the truth through warped eyes. Anyway, Matt, the woman is not quick-witted like your Tyler daughters – she will probably head straight back for her bottle-dungeon at Chesterton, imagining that we will not guess where she is hiding.’

He looked around for a place to sit, but every stool and bench that could be carried away had gone. All that remained was a large table littered with broken pots and jars. He settled for elbowing Bartholomew to one side and perching on the window-sill. Bartholomew opened another shutter and followed suit, gazing gloomily at the looted kitchen.

‘You know, we have allowed Lydgate’s suspicions to mislead us, Matt,’ said Michael, after a moment. ‘It is not Norbert we are seeking, but Simon d’Ambrey himself.’

‘And how have you reasoned that out?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘I think he did not die in the barn, as Lydgate said, and that he escaped. He has bided his time, and he has returned to Cambridge to wreak revenge on the town that was so quick to believe ill of him after all his charity. It is he who is behind the riots; it is he who has brought about the death of Lydgate and the destruction of Godwinsson Hostel; and it is he who put the ring – Cecily’s ring – on the hand of the skeleton that the town believes is his! That explains why the attacks against the University resulted in little destruction, except at David’s and Godwinsson. The attacks appear to be aimed at the University, but they will ultimately damage the town far more.’

‘That cannot be right,’ said Bartholomew, wearily. ‘We have one too many corpses belonging to the d’Ambreys as it is. We have the man who was shot with an arrow on the King’s Ditch, the corpse in the burning barn, and the body brought back with the rest of d’Ambrey’s household from Dover that I saw displayed in the Market Square years ago. Three corpses for two d’Ambreys – Simon and his brother.’

‘No one ever saw this corpse reputedly burned in the barn,’ persisted Michael. ‘And regardless of what Lydgate said, I am sure he searched for it in the wreckage. I certainly would have done. And Lydgate’s suspicions and unfounded conclusions are not the only ones to have misled us. Yours have, too.’

‘Mine?’ asked Bartholomew cautiously.

‘Yes, yours!’ said Michael, pursing his lips. ‘Tell me again what you saw the day the tithe barn burned all those years ago.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I saw Lydgate enter the barn while Norbert and I were swimming nearby. A brief while later, I saw smoke issuing from the barn, and Lydgate came tearing out. We followed him through the trees and saw him watch the barn burn for a few moments before he left to raise the alarm.’

‘But that is not what you told me a few days ago,’ said Michael. ‘You said you saw someone run from the barn, you followed him, and then you saw Lydgate. What if the person you saw running from the barn was not Lydgate at all? Just because you came upon Lydgate moments later does not mean that he was the man you saw running. You have made the same assumption that misled Lydgate, Cecily and Edred over Dominica – you saw what you expected to see and not what was actually there.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Lydgate’s clothes were singed and he had been running hard.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘He had just fled a fire. What would you expect? But Lydgate told us he left almost as soon as the lamp was knocked over and the straw caught fire. You saw a man running away after smoke had started seeping from the building. It would have been a couple of minutes at least before the fire had caught hold sufficiently for smoke to start pouring out. And by then, Lydgate was well away. The man you saw was Simon d’Ambrey.’

‘But surely Lydgate would have seen him, too,’ said Bartholomew, bewildered by the sudden turn in Michael’s deductions.

‘Not necessarily, not if he were concentrating on his own escape and was in a state of shock over what he had done. And we know Lydgate has never had good eyesight – he told us that himself in St Andrew’s Church.’

‘And Father Andrew, of course, is about the same age as Simon d’Ambrey would be,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his temples tiredly. ‘There is our killer.’