CHAPTER 7

Bartholomew was growing exasperated, while Michael and Cynric listened to him with a sympathetic patience that only served to make him feel worse. He rubbed his head and flopped down into the large chair next to the kitchen hearth from which Agatha oversaw the domestic side of the College.

‘So, you say you saw Lydgate at Joanna’s grave,’ said Michael. ‘And that Lydgate is her father.’

‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I think Joanna must be Dominica and it is she who lies in the grave.’

‘But Joanna is a prostitute,’ said Michael. ‘How can she be Dominica?’

Was Michael trying to force him to give up his theory by being deliberately obtuse? Bartholomew wondered.

Michael was not usually so slow to grasp the essence of his ideas. He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to ease the nagging ache there, and tried again.

‘Joanna is not a prostitute known to Matilde,’ he said. ‘Ergo, I believe Joanna was not a prostitute at all. I think someone deliberately misled Tulyet with a false name, and that Joanna’s real identity is Dominica, whom no one has seen since she was sent to these mysterious relatives in Chesterton.’

‘But she was sent to them before the riots, to keep her away from her lover – before you think she was killed,’ said Michael. ‘She is probably still there with them. In Chesterton.’

‘Then check. I will wager you anything you like she will not be there,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her death the night of the riot explains the curious actions of her parents. Cecily went to Maud’s, and stayed briefly talking to Master Bigod. Perhaps she was asking him if he had seen Dominica. Why else would a respectable lady, who seldom leaves her house anyway, be out on the night of massive civil unrest?

Meanwhile, Thomas Lydgate was missing all night, and gave a false alibi to Tulyet. He was probably also searching for her. The next day he and Edred went to the Castle to identify the friar who died, whom I thought was you.’ he faltered. That memory at least was burned indelibly into his mind.

‘And you think that while Lydgate and Edred were at the Castle, they also had a look at this Joanna and satisfied themselves it was Dominica?’ finished Michael.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why else would Lydgate be at her grave?’

He saw Michael and Cynric exchange glances, but was too tired to be angry with them. Cynric had not seen Lydgate, but that did not mean he had not been there.

Because Michael doubted Bartholomew’s memory over the events of two nights ago, the monk was prepared to doubt him now. How long would he continue to doubt?

A few days? Weeks? For ever? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision.

He wondered how Cynric had happened to be so close to hand all of a sudden, appearing at the church so fortuitously? It occurred to him that Cynric must have been following him. Probably not from Michaelhouse, but from Milne Street, where he had been alerted by Stanmore. Gray’s insouciant diagnosis – made when the student did not have the most basic information necessary to allow an accurate prediction – was impinging on every aspect of Bartholomew’s life. If only he had been teaching something else that week! He wondered whether he could bribe his fellow physician Father Philius to provide a more favourable astrological reading. But Philius and Bartholomew opposed each other on virtually all aspects of medicine, and Philius would probably seize on the notion that his colleague was unbalanced with the greatest of pleasure.

Michael was speaking, and Bartholomew realised he had not heard anything the monk had said. When he asked him to repeat it, Michael stood abruptly.

‘I was saying that there might be all manner of reasons why Lydgate might visit Joanna’s grave. Perhaps she was his personal prostitute, which might be why Matilde did not know her – it would mean she remained exclusive to him and did not tout for business on the streets. Perhaps he thought he was at the grave of his friar and not Joanna’s at all. And if you persist in your theory that Dominica was Joanna, who do you think raped and killed her? It would hardly be the French students of Godwinsson!’

Bartholomew was too weary to try to reason it all out.

‘Did you speak to Tulyet about asking Lydgate to identify the ring?’ he asked, partly for information, but mostly so that he would not have to answer Michael.

The monk nodded. ‘He advises – and on reflection, I believe he is right – that we should ease up on our inquiries into Kenzie’s death until the town is more peaceful. Inflaming a man like Lydgate by suggesting his daughter’s ring is on Valence Marie’s relic will serve no purpose other than to risk more violence.’

‘So the next time I wish to murder someone, all I need to do to make sure I get away with it is to start a riot,’ said Bartholomew hitterly. ‘It is a good thing to know.’

Michael sighed theatrically. ‘We are simply being practical, Matt. I would rather one murderer went free than another nine innocents – including someone like your Joanna – die in civil unrest. But we should not be discussing this while you are incapable of drawing rational conclusions. You should rest and perhaps the planets will be kinder to you tomorrow.’

Cynric agreed. ‘You look tired, boy. Would you like me to see you to your room?’

‘I am not one of Oswald Stanmore’s seamstresses,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound irritable when Cynric was attempting to be kind. ‘I do not think I am likely to be accosted by ruffians while walking from the kitchens to my room.’

‘You never know,’ said Michael, smiling. ‘You might be if Father William has caught wind of all your dalliances with these women!’

Bartholomew trailed across the courtyard to his room as the last orange rays of sun faded and died, still feeling helpless and angry. He took a deep breath, scrubbed at his face, and went over to the chest for the pitcher of water that usually stood there. It was on the floor. He frowned. He never kept it on the floor because he was likely to kick it over when he sat at the table. He looked around more carefully. The candle he had replaced on the shelf that morning now lay on its side, and one of his quills was on the floor. He picked it up thoughtfully, and looked in the chest. He was tidy in his habits and kept what few clothes he owned neatly folded, but the shirts in the chest had been moved awry.

He took the key from his belt to the tiny chamber where he kept his medicines, and tried to unlock the door. It was open already. He entered the room cautiously and peered around in the gloom. Several pots and bottles had been moved, attested by the stain marks on the benches.

When he crouched to inspect the lock, there were small scratches on it that he was certain had not been there before, suggesting that someone might have picked it.

Locking the door carefully, he went back to his room.

Only he had the key to the medicines room, on the grounds that he necessarily kept some potions that, if administered wrongly, might kill. Gray and Bulbeck were allowed in, Deynman was not, for his own safety. Could Gray or Bulbeck have entered the medical store while he was ill? It was possible, although neither of them was likely to rummage through his chest of clothes: they had no earthly reason to do so since Bartholomew probably owned fewer clothes than either of them, and those he did own were darned and patched and could scarcely be coveted items, even to impecunious students.

So, the only logical conclusion was that someone else had been in his room and the medicines store. Could this person have been looking for the object Bigod was so keen to have? Bartholomew thought again. He knew that either Gray, Bulbeck or Deynman had been with him the whole time he had been ill, so the first opportunity for anyone else to search his room would have been that day, either while he was teaching, or when he had gone out later. He frowned and rubbed the back of his head. He had been unable to find the candle stub the night of the thunderstorm; the notion crossed his mind that his room must have been searched before he was attacked, too.

He saw a shadow on the stair outside and saw Michael pause to glance in at him, before going upstairs to his own room. ‘What is the matter?’ asked the monk. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I think my room has been searched,’ Bartholomew replied. ‘Several bottles have been moved in the storeroom, and the water pitcher…’ He stopped when he saw the expression on Michael’s face.

‘Good night, Matt,’ Michael said and climbed the stairs to his room.


A light rain was falling when Bartholomew awoke the next morning, the clouds after the previous clear days making dawn seem later than it was. Bartholomew had slept well, feeling better than he had done for days as he washed, shaved, dressed and walked briskly across the courtyard towards the gates. Walter eyed him speculatively.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded rudely.

Bartholomew was nonplussed. Where did Walter think he was going? Where did scholars usually go at this hour in the morning? Then it struck him. It was Sunday and the morning service was later on Sundays. Something in Walter’s gloating look made him reluctant to admit his mistake and give the porter proof that he was mentally deficient as well as astrologicaHy lacking.

‘I am going visiting,’ he replied briskly, lifting the bar from the gate himself since Walter apparently was not going to do it for him. ‘As I often do on Sundays.’

‘In the rain?’ queried Walter. ‘Without a cloak?’ Suspicion virtually dripped from his words.

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, opening the gate and stepping out into the lane. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.’ He closed the gate, and then opened it again moments later, catching Walter halfway across the yard. ‘And I do not need Cynric to follow me,’ he shouted.

He walked quickly towards the river, following a sudden desire to be as far away from Michaelhouse as possible.

There was a thick mist swirling on the dull waters, rolling in from the Fens. He began to walk upstream, thinking that he would visit Trumpington and have breakfast with Stanmore and Edith. Abruptly, he stopped. They would be as bad as the scholars of Michaelhouse: they would see him arriving early, having walked to them in the rain, and would doubt his sanity.

So, downstream then, he thought, and struck out enthusiastically along the towpath that led behind the Hospital of St John. Once he saw a spider’s web encrusted with more tiny drops of water than he thought it would have the strength to hold and stopped to admire it.

Further on, past the Castle and St Radegund’s Convent, he came face to face with a small deer, which stared at him curiously before bolting away into the undergrowth.

After a while he came to the village of Chesterton, where Dominica Lydgate, the unfortunate daughter of the Master of Godwinsson, was supposed to be staying with her mysterious relatives.

The bell in the church was beginning to toll for the early morning sendee. Bartholomew waded across the river, still shallow from weeks of dry weather, and made his way through a boggy meadow towards it. He opened a clanking door and slipped inside as the priest began to say mass. One or two children regarded him with open interest and Bartholomew wondered how he must appear to the congregation: cloakless, tabard dripping wet, shoes squelching from fording the river. One child reached up and patted his bag, giggling afterwards with her sister at her audacity. Bartholomew smiled at them, increasing their mirth, until a nervous mother moved them away.

The Chesterton priest apparently had better things to do with his morning than preaching, for he raced through the mass at a speed that would have impressed Father William. The quality of his Latin, however, was appalling, and once or twice he said things that Bartholomew was certain he could not mean. As he intoned his unintelligible phrases, he eyed his few parishioners with what was so obviously disdain that Bartholomew was embarrassed.

After the brief ceremony, the priest stood at the door to offer a limp hand and a cold nod to any who paused long enough to acknowledge him. Bartholomew loitered, taking his time to finish his prayers, and then pretending to admire the painted wooden ceiling. When he was certain everyone else had left, he headed for the door.

The priest nodded distantly at him, and almost jostled him out of the building so that he could lock the door.

‘Nice church,’ said Bartholomew as an opening gambit.

The priest ignored him and began to stride away.

Bartholomew followed, walking with him up the path that led to the village – a poor collection of flimsy cottages clustered around a square, squat tower-house.

‘Have you been here long?’ he asked politely. ‘It seems a pleasant village.’

The priest stopped. ‘I do not like scholars in my church,’ he growled, eyeing Bartholomew with open hostility.

‘I am not surprised, given your atrocious Latin,’ Bartholomew retorted. Since the polite approach had failed, Bartholomew considered he had little to lose by being rude in return.

‘What do you want here?’ said the priest. ‘You are not welcome – not in my church and not in the village.’

He made as if to move on but Bartholomew stood in front of him and blocked his path. ‘And why would that be?’ he asked. ‘On whose orders do you repel travellers?’

‘Travellers!’ the priest mocked, looking hard at the tabard that marked Bartholomew not only as a scholar of the University of Cambridge but as one of its teachers.

‘I know who you are, Doctor Bartholomew.’

Bartholomew was startled when the priest gave his name. The man looked smug when he saw Bartholomew’s astonishment.

‘They said you would come,’ he said. ‘You or Brother Michael. You will find nothing to interest you here.’

‘I wish the answers to two questions,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and then I will go. First, where is the house where Dominica Lydgate is supposed to be staying? And second, who told you to expect us?’

The priest sneered and started to walk away. ‘You will learn nothing from me, Bartholomew. And do not try to cow me with threats because I know you have been ill and your stars are unfavourable. I was a fighting man once, and could take you on with one hand behind my back.’

Could you indeed? thought Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you might like to repeat that to the Bishop when I bring him here to celebrate mass with you next week. The Bishop is also a fighting man, especially after hearing bastard Latin in his churches.’

The man turned back, and Bartholomew saw him blanch. ‘The Bishop would not come here,’ he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Although he could not be sure that a scholar like Bartholomew would have sufficient influence with the Bishop of Ely to induce him to visit Chesterton, he was certainly aware that the Bishop could have him removed from his parish in the twinkling of an eye. It was clear the priest was not popular with his parishioners and it seemed unlikely that any of them would speak in his favour.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘You will know next week,’ he said, and began to walk back the way he had come. He heard the priest following him and turned, uneasy with the man so close behind.

The priest sighed and looked out towards the meadows.

‘First, Dominica was in the tower-house, but she is no longer here. Second, this manor is owned by Maud’s Hostel, so I need not tell you on whose instructions we are bound to silence.’

The man’s arrogance had evaporated like mist; Bartholomew suddenly felt sorry for him in his shabby robes and dirty alb.

‘Who lives in the tower-house?’ he asked.

‘That is your third question,’ said the priest, some of the belligerence bubbling back. ‘It belongs to Maud’s, and Mistress Bigod lives there. Now, please leave.’

‘What relation is she to Thomas Bigod, the Master of Maud’s?’ asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself. He looked apologetically at the priest, who grimaced.

‘Since I have already told you what I was expressly forbidden to reveal, what can other questions matter?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Mistress Bigod is Thomas Bigod’s grandmother.’

‘His grandmother? Thomas Bigod is no green youth, so she must be as old as the hills. Does she live there alone?’

‘She has a household of servants and retainers,’ said the priest. ‘And she is probably eighty-five or eighty-six now. I have given her last rites at least four times over the past two years.’

Bartholomew reflected. So much for the Lydgates’ claim that Dominica had been staying with relatives.

She had been left in the care of a kinswoman of none other than the surly Master of Maud’s Hostel – a man whose name seemed to crop up with suspicious regularity whenever Bartholomew and Michael discovered something odd. The last time Bartholomew had encountered Master Bigod had been when the man had tried to rob him on the dark street during the thunderstorm.

The priest was growing restless. He was keen to be away from the person to whom he had been forbidden to speak, but was still afraid that Bartholomew might have the influence to persuade the Bishop to visit Chesterton’s church. The physician promised not to reveal the source of his information, although it would not be difficult for anyone to guess, given that several villagers had watched him speak with the priest, and gave his word never to mention Chesterton and miserable Latin in the same breath to another living soul. The priest remained uneasy but there was little Bartholomew could do to convince him further that he had far better things to do than to hang around in Ely waiting for an audience with a busy bishop, who would not be interested in a remote and unimportant parish anyway.

Finally tearing himself away, Bartholomew walked towards the untidy collection of shacks that comprised the village, but left quickly, unnerved by the hostility that brooded in the eyes of the people he met. A short distance away, certain he was not observed, he found a suitable vantage point, and settled in the long grass to watch the tower-house for any indication that Dominica might still be there. There was little to see, however, and he soon grew chilled from sitting still.

Perhaps around ten o’clock, the church bell rang for mass again. The occupants of the tower-house evidently preferred the later sitting, for a large number of people trudged through the drizzle to the dismal church. In the midst of them, carried in a canopied litter, was the old lady. Bartholomew’s professional eye could detect no signs of senility, no drooling or muttering. If anything, she seemed to exercise a rigid control over her household, and her sharp, strong voice wafted insistently to where Bartholomew listened.

When the church doors had been closed to block the draughts, probably on the old lady’s orders, Bartholomew left his hiding place and made for the tower-house. He skulked around the outbuildings, attentive for signs that someone had remained behind, but heard nothing. It seemed Mistress Bigod’s entire household was obliged to attend the ten o’clock service: the tower-house and its stables and sheds were deserted. He walked quickly into the yard and looked up at the keep. It was a simple structure, based on the Norman way of building: a flight of steps outside led up to the main entrance on the middle floor; the upper floor had glazed windows and was probably the old lady’s private apartments; the lower floor was virtually windowless and was doubtless used for storage.

Climbing the stairs, Bartholomew found that the heavy, metal-studded door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and walked lightly into the large room that served as a hall. He glanced around quickly but there was nothing much to see: trestle-tables had been set up ready for the midday meal and trenchers laid at regular intervals along them.

Quelling his nervousness, Bartholomew tiptoed across to the narrow spiral staircase in the far corner and ascended to the upper floor. This was divided into two smaller rooms, each with a garderobe passage and a fireplace. One room was unmistakeably masculine, and a scholar’s tabard thrown carelessly over a chest indicated that Thomas Bigod probably used it when he visited his grandmother. Bartholomew’s heart began to thump, as his fear of being caught grew with each door he opened.

But there was nothing in the hall, or the chambers above, of remote interest to him, and no sign that Dominica had been kept there.

He crept back down the staircase to the hall. At the far end, opposite the hearth, was a screen, behind which stood a long table for the servants to use when preparing meals – like many houses, the kitchens were in an outbuilding to reduce the ever-present risk of fire.

Under the table was a trapdoor with a ladder that led to the lower floor. The basement was lit by narrow slits, and smelled musty and damp. The dankness suggested that it was not used for storage and was usually empty. A quick glance round told Bartholomew there was nothing to see whatsoever, that he should give up his wild notion of locating where Dominica had been and leave the tower-house before he was apprehended.

Suddenly he became aware of voices and froze in horror. Surely the mass could not be over yet, bad and fast Latin notwithstanding! He felt his stomach churn in anticipation of being discovered, realising that he had been foolish to enter the tower-house alone. What if Bigod found him? His henchmen could easily knock him on the head, dump him in the river and no one would ever know what had become of him. And even if Bigod did baulk at cold-blooded murder, Bartholomew would be hard-pressed to explain to the Sheriff what he was doing prowling around the house of someone he had never met while she was at church.

He fought down his panic. The voices were not coming closer. In fact, they seemed to be emanating from underneath him. Cautiously, he peered around in the gloom until he saw a second trapdoor leading to another chamber – like a bottle-dungeon below ground level that he had once seen in a castle in France. He eased the trapdoor up a fraction, noting that the hinges were well oiled, and that the wood was new. The voices came clearly through the gap now. A woman’s voice, remonstrating with a man. Dominica?

He eased the trapdoor up a little more, so that he could see down into the lower storey. What he saw was not a bottle-dungeon, deep and dark and rank-smelling with offal, but a well-lit, pleasantly decorated room. A wooden ladder led up to the trapdoor and there were no locks to seal it from without. This arrangement was obviously not to keep someone prisoner but to allow its occupant to come and go at will. He glanced around the chamber in which he knelt. Piles of rushes were heaped around the walls and a heavy-looking chest stood nearby. Doubtless the rushes could be spread and the chest dragged across the trapdoor to hide it, should the underground chamber need to be kept from prying eyes.

The speakers were out of sight; Bartholomew looked down at the tapestries on the walls and the rich woollen rugs on the floor with astonishment. Delicate silver drinking vessels stood in a neat line across a table draped with a lace cloth; the remains of what had probably been a fine breakfast sat in a tray nearby. By changing position, Bartholomew saw that the underground chamber housed two compartments. The second was probably a bedroom.

The voices suddenly grew louder as the speakers moved into the room immediately below Bartholomew. Thomas Bigod’s distinct accent wafted up first, accompanied by the unpleasant nasal wheedling of Cecily Lydgate. So that was where she had been hiding from her husband, thought Bartholomew, mystified.

Bigod put his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to climb up it, as, in the same instant, voices came from the hall above. Lowering the trapdoor in panic, Bartholomew looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. There was only one possible place and he was relieved beyond measure to find the chest was empty.

He had just managed to close the hefty lid with unsteady hands when, simultaneously, he heard footsteps on the ladder from the hall and Bigod pushing open the lower trapdoor.

Inside, the chest was airless and pitch black. Bartholomew dared not try to lift the lid a fraction, lest it make a noise and give him away. His heart was thumping so much that he wondered if it were shaking the chest.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was being said in the basement outside.

Bartholomew deduced, from her characteristic whine, that Cecily Lydgate had followed Bigod up the ladder.

Did that mean that she was with Dominica in the hideous underground boudoir? Bartholomew strained his ears but with the chest sturdily made, it was difficult to hear much at all.

‘Edred did,’ he heard Cecily say, ‘with Thomas.’ Which Thomas? Bartholomew wondered: her husband Thomas Lydgate or Thomas Bigod? ‘… relic is in Valence Marie.’ Bigod again, talking about the skeletal discovery that would make Valence Marie rich.

Bartholomew tried to ease the lid open to hear better, but felt the hinges judder and knew it would squeak if he tried to raise it further.

‘Thomas does not know yet… Werbergh has been told not to tell him…’ Cecily’s whine. She must be referring to her husband now, since she was referring to a Godwinsson student. Bartholomew determined to talk to the untruthful Brother Werbergh again as soon as possible – if he ever escaped from his predicament.

There was a long pause, during which Bartholomew thought he heard the trapdoor being lowered into place, and Cecily, in childishly giggling tones, bid Bigod farewell as she went back down to her underground hideaway.

Bartholomew was so tense that his palms were slippery with sweat and stung where his nails had dug into them; his shoulders and neck ached. If Bigod were to pull the chest across the trapdoor to hide it now, Bartholomew’s weight would surely betray him! Or perhaps Bigod would just snap shut the sturdy lock that hung on the side of the chest, and leave him there. That thought made the saliva dry up inside Bartholomew’s mouth and he felt as if he could not breathe. He bit his lower lip hard and tried to control his rising hysteria.

‘Dominica dead…’ came Bigod’s Norfolk-accented voice, a few moments later. So Dominica was dead after all, and he had been right. He wondered if the identity of her killers was what Werbergh was not to tell Thomas Lydgate. Unless it was Thomas Lydgate who had killed her, with Edred. But that seemed unlikely, for if so, why would Lydgate then risk going to his daughter’s grave? ‘And the next riot will be on Thursday night,’ came a new voice, loud and clear, with a note of finality. The voice was familiar but Bartholomew could not place it.

He heard footsteps climbing the ladder to the hall, then the chamber was silent. Cautiously, he pushed up the lid of the chest, his stomach flipping over for an unpleasant moment when it stuck. There was a low, but very audible, groan from the protesting hinges as it rose and Bartholomew was glad he had not tried to raise it when Bigod and his co-conspirators were in the room. He listened carefully. Cecily was now safely ensconced within her underground chamber with the trapdoor closed. Some of the rushes had been scattered, so that, unless someone knew where to look, the lower trapdoor was concealed from casual observers. The upper trapdoor remained open.

It had been closed when Bartholomew had entered the basement. Was someone planning to come back? Were the servants and the old lady back from mass yet? He listened, but could hear nothing. Just as he was about to climb out, the trapdoor darkened and someone began to descend the ladder, whistling as he came. Bartholomew swore softly to himself, ducked inside the chest, and eased the lid back down. This time, to give himself some air and to allow him to see and hear what was happening, he groped around for something to wedge between the rim of the chest and the lid. His fingers closed on the handle of an old pottery jug that had been lying in the bottom of the chest with sundry other bits of rubbish: some rags screwed up into balls, a rusty knife, and some flowers withered to a crisp brown.

Legs paused in front of the chest, and Bartholomew reached silently for the rusty knife, bracing himself for the lid to be thrown open. What would he do if it were? His legs were numb from crouching and he doubted whether he would be able to react fast enough to prevent the man from raising the alarm. Bartholomew held his breath, feeling sweat begin to form on his face and back.

With a small thump, something landed on the chest.

The man had tossed something on to it. Bartholomew released pent-up breath slowly: someone would hardly put something on the lid if he intended to open it. He forced himself to relax and watched as the man began to walk around the chamber. The man began to whistle again. Bartholomew saw him wrench an old sconce from the wall with a creak of ancient metal and try a new one for size. It evidently did not fit, for there was an irritable pause in the whistling and one or two grunts could be heard as force was applied.

The man came back to the chest and Bartholomew heard the clink of metal. It had been his tools he had put there. A few moments later, there came the sound of metallic rasping as something was filed into shape. The sconce was tried again, but to no avail. The man advanced on the chest once more, then sat on it heavily.

A loud snap exploded in Bartholomew’s ears as the pottery handle broke under the man’s weight. Bartholomew heard him curse and stand to inspect the chest. By now, Bartholomew almost wished he would be discovered, just to end the unbearable tension. The lid had been forced down over the broken handle, which was now wedged firmly between the lid and the side of the chest. With horror, Bartholomew saw the man’s fingers curl under the lid as he attempted to prise it open.

Fortunately for Bartholomew, the attempt was a halfhearted one; with a grunt, the man gave up and sat down again, forcing the lid to jam further shut with his weight. The whistling was resumed, accompanied by filing in time with the rhythm of the tune. It seemed to go on for ever. Bartholomew eased himself into a slightly more comfortable position and waited.

Alter an age, a voice drifted down into the chamber.

The workman called back, and Bartholomew heard them share a joke about the eccentricity of a mistress who wanted new sconces fitted in rooms that nobody used.

At last, the man seemed happy with the sconce’s fitting, and his whistle receded as he climbed the ladder. There was a deep thump as the upper trapdoor was dropped into place and then there was silence.

Taking a deep breath, Bartholomew pressed his back to the lid of the chest and pushed. Nothing happened.

He tried again but the lid was stuck fast. Bartholomew felt his heart begin to pound and his mouth go dry.

What could he do? He could hardly call for help! He took several deep breaths and concentrated on using even ounce of his strength in forcing the lid to open, lust when it seemed the task was impossible, and he was on the verge of giving up in despair, it flew up with a tremendous crash that reverberated all around the small chamber. Bartholomew winced at the noise and stood shakily, his legs wobbling and burning with cramp and tension. And came face to face with Cecily Lydgate.

As Cecily opened her mouth to scream, Bartholomew raised his hands in a desperate gesture to beg her silence, and saw that he still clutched the rusty knife that had been at the bottom of the chest. In the light from the lamp in the new sconce – that Cecily had evidently been in the process of lighting – he saw that it was not rusty at all, but thickly coated in dried blood.

Cecily saw the knife, too, and the scream died before it reached her throat. She looked at Bartholomew with a rank fear that sickened him. Unsteadily, he climbed out of the chest and walked towards her. His blood began to circulate again, sending unpleasant buzzing sensations down his arms and legs. He longed to be away from this dank cellar and its vile secrets.

‘What will you do with me?’ Cecily asked, her bulging eves flicking from Bartholomew’s face to the knife in his hand.

‘Nothing, if you do not shout,’ Bartholomew replied, wondering how he could extricate himself from the situation without harm to either of them.

They were both silent while Bartholomew moved his weight from foot to foot to try to speed up the process of easing his cramp.

‘Master Bigod’s retainers are looking for you outside,’ she said finally.

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Because the villagers told them I had come?’

Cecily nodded, her eyes fixed on the knife. ‘But they will not think to look here. My husband said you were clever.’

Not a great compliment from one whose intellect Bartholomew did not rate highly. He said nothing, but closed the chest so he could sit on it. Cecily stayed where she was.

‘Why are you here, Mistress?’ he asked, gesturing around the gloomy basement. ‘It can scarcely compare with your handsome house in the town.’

Her pale grey eyes suddenly filled with tears that dropped down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘I am safe here.’

‘Safe from whom?’ asked Bartholomew, although he had already guessed at the answer.

‘Safe from him. From Thomas.’

‘Do you think your husband would harm you?’ Bartholomew asked. He was not surprised she was afraid: Lydgate seemed to be a man who might resort to violence if it suited him.

‘He killed Dominica!’ she said in a sudden wail, muffling her face in one of her wide sleeves. Bartholomew cast a nervous glance up at the trapdoor. If she carried on so, someone would come to investigate. He thought about her accusation. Could it be true? Lydgate had no alibi for the night that Dominica had died. Indeed, he had worse than no alibi: he had given one that had proven to be false. Could Lydgate have killed his daughter? Was his appearance at her grave remorse, rather than grief? He glanced at the knife in his hand, some of the dried blood staining his palm, and wondered whether it had been used on Dominica. He almost cast it away from him in disgust, but if he were unarmed, Cecily would certainly raise the alarm.

Once the matter was out in the open, Cecily began to talk with evident relief. ‘As soon as the riots started most of the students left, spoiling for mischief. I was grateful Dominica was safe, away from the town. Then Edred came back, breathless and limping and said he had seen her in the company of a man near the Market Square. Thomas was furious. He knew she had been seeing a student but she would not tell us which one. Thomas set out into the night, and I followed, hoping to find her first so that I could warn her.’

She paused, wiping first her eyes, then her nose, on the ample material of her sleeves. ‘I went to all the places where I thought she might be – her friends, a cousin, the church. And then I saw Thomas, standing with his dagger dripping, and Dominica lying there with her clothes all drenched in blood. There was a man there, too, also dead – her lover, I presume. Thomas did not see me. I ran to Maud’s, and Thomas Bigod ordered one of his servants to bring me here.’

‘Is this where you kept Dominica before she died?’ Bartholomew asked, gesturing to the underground chamber and trying to force his bewildered mind to make sense of the details.

‘Yes, with the chest across the trapdoor. But she got out when a servant brought her food. The servant claimed she stabbed him but I do not believe Dominica could do such a thing.’

Bartholomew and Cecily simultaneously looked at the bloodstained knife. Cecily’s hands flew to her throat. But the poor girl had been kept a prisoner in the painted dungeon, so who could blame her for using violent means to escape? Bartholomew thought Dominica must have disposed of the knife in the chest before she left.

Bartholomew did not doubt that Cecily believed the story she had related to him, but was what she saw really what had happened? He had seen no stab wounds on Dominica – assuming she was Joanna, of course – and so if Lydgate had killed her, it had not been with his blood-dripping knife. But two students had died from knife wounds that night, although, whatever Cecily might believe, neither of them could have been Dominica’s lover because James Kenzie had been murdered the night before. And who had raped Dominica? Surely not Lydgate!

Bartholomew was certain that Lydgate might kill given the right circumstances – for a short while he had given serious consideration to the possibility that Lydgate might have killed Cecily, and was only claiming she had left him to explain her sudden absence. And he definitely had something to hide, or why would he be so hostile to Michael and his inquiries, and give Tulyet a false alibi?

Bartholomew recalled Tulyet saying that Cecily’s room had appeared to have been ransacked. When he asked her about it, thinking she would confirm his suspicion that she had done it herself in her haste to pack up a few belongings, she denied that she had returned to the hostel after seeing the dead Dominica. In fact, she was horrified.

‘Did you see it?’ she cried. ‘Did they take anything?’

‘What do you mean? Who?’

‘Those thieving students, of course! They all know I have one or two paltry jewels in my room, and they must have been looking for them! Did they get them?’

‘I have no idea; I did not see your room. But your husband would have noticed whether anything was missing, surely?’

She calmed down somewhat. ‘That is true. He would not let a stone lie unturned if he thought we had been relieved of any of our meagre inheritance.’

Her reactions seemed a little more fervent than a “meagre inheritance” should warrant, and Bartholomew wondered what riches the Lydgates had secreted away in their house. If Dominica had silver rings with blue-green stones to give away to casual lovers, then their fortune was probably substantial. But there seemed no point in pursuing that line of thought any further, so he let it drop.

‘Has Bigod lost something, or want something he does not have?’ he asked instead, thinking about the attack on him in the High Street and hoping Cecily might be able to shed some light on it. He fiddled with the knife in his hands. ‘Something important?’

‘Such as what?’ she asked, her voice unsteady as she fixed her eyes on the blood-stained weapon.

‘Such as a ring?’ Bartholomew suggested.

She looked confused. ‘Dominica lost a ring. Well, it was my ring, really, but she took it without asking and then lost it.’

‘With a blue-green stone?’ Bartholomew asked.

Cecily’s eyes narrowed and Bartholomew saw her fear mingle with suspicion. ‘How do you know that? Did Thomas tell you?’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly, but decided there was nothing to be gained by telling this embittered woman that her daughter had given the ring to her lover, whose identity Cecily still did not know. He thought for a while, information and clues tumbling around in his mind in a hopeless muddle, while Cecily watched him like a cornered rat.

‘When Brother Michael asked Edred where he had been the night James Kenzie – the Scot from David’s Hostel – was murdered, you did not contradict him when you knew he was lying,’ he said after a few moments. ‘You knew Edred did not return to Godwinsson with Werbergh because Werbergh accompanied you. Why did you not expose him?’

Cecily wiped her nose again. ‘When Huw, our steward, said you wanted to see us, Thomas told me to say nothing, even if I heard things I knew were not true. He said you and the Benedictine wanted to destroy our hostel and that unguarded words might help you to do it.’

Bartholomew supposed her answer made sense. ‘Who knows you are here, besides Master Bigod?’ he asked.

‘No one,’ said Cecily, surprised by the question. ‘It would be too risky to trust anyone else.’

‘Then who was Bigod speaking with just now? He mentioned that there would be a riot on Thursday.’

‘There was no one here except Thomas Bigod and me,’ she said, genuinely bewildered. ‘You must have imagined it, or perhaps he was speaking to a servant. None of them know I am hiding here.’

Bartholomew knew he had imagined nothing of the sort, but then recalled that the voice he had half-recognised had joined the conversation after he had heard Cecily return to her bottle-dungeon. He looked down at the knife in his hand.

‘So, what do we do now?’ he wondered aloud. ‘If I leave you here alive, you will raise the alarm and Bigod will come after me. If I bind and gag you. you will tell them I was here when they release you, and they will have little problem in hunting me down in the town.’

Her eyes flew open, wide with terror. ‘No! I will help you escape! I will create a diversion that will allow you to slip away, and I will tell them nothing!’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows at this unlikely proposition. ‘Did you love your daughter, Mistress?’ he asked.

She blinked, confused by the sudden change in direction.

‘More than she believed,’ she answered simply.

‘Would you like to see her killer brought to justice?’

Her eyes glittered. ‘More than you can possibly imagine.’

‘Then you must trust me, and I must trust you. I do not think your husband killed Dominica.’ He quelled her stream of objections with a steady gaze. ‘I do not doubt what you saw but I examined what I believe was Dominica’s body and there was no knife wound on it. She was killed by a blow to the head. Whoever’s blood was dripping from your husband’s knife, it was not Dominica’s. I suspect Dominica was already dead when Lydgate found her. Perhaps the blood came from the body of the man you said was next to her. Last night, I saw Lydgate at what I think is Dominica’s grave’

‘She is buried then? Where?’

‘St Botolph’s Church. I will show you where when this is over. Officially, she is recorded as a woman called Joanna and no one wants to investigate why she died lest it spark another riot. But I will try to find her killer, Mistress.’

Her face was chalky white as she tried to come to terms with the new information. ‘Why?’ she asked eventually. ‘What makes you want to avenge my Dominica?’

Bartholomew was unable to find an answer. He could hardly say her hair reminded him of Philippa’s. In truth, he did not know why finding her killer had become important to him. Perhaps it was merely because he had been told not to. He shrugged.

Oddly, this unpleasant, vindictive woman seemed to accept that his motives were genuine without further explanation. She nodded, and came to perch next to him on the chest. Bartholomew let the knife clatter to the floor. An understanding had been reached. They sat silently for a while, until Cecily spoke.

‘Since I have been here, I have asked myself again and again why Thomas should have killed Dominica. She was the only person he has ever truly loved – we both did. If it had not been for her, I suspect Thomas and I would have embarked upon separate lives many years ago. Although I saw him standing over her with the knife, a part of me has always been reluctant to accept that Thomas would destroy the most important thing in his life, and this is why I am prepared to accept your reasoning. Perhaps it was not Dominica’s blood I saw on the weapon, but that of her lover laying next to her. I am sure Thomas would have no compunction in slaying him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew carefully.

‘But even if Thomas is innocent of Dominica’s death, I fear him still,’ said Cecily, her expression a curious mixture of defiance and unease. ‘How can I be sure that you will not tell Thomas where I am?’

‘Why would I? I do not like him.’

‘You do not like me either.’

That was certainly true. ‘But if I informed your husband of your whereabouts, you could have your own revenge by telling Bigod that I overheard part of his conversation.’

She nodded, appreciating his point. ‘So, we have a bargain,’ she said. ‘I allow you to leave unmolested and keep from Master Bigod that you were hiding here, while you do not tell anyone where I am, and will investigate the death of my daughter. It seems evenly balanced, would you not saw?’

Bartholomew agreed cautiously. ‘Evenly enough. But when I return to Michaelhouse, I will write a letter to Thomas Lydgate telling him of our conversation and of your whereabouts. I will seal it, and leave it with a trusted friend with orders that in the event of my unexplained death or disappearance, it is to be given to him.’

Anger glittered in her eyes for a moment and then was gone. She nodded, begrudgingly accepting his wariness.

‘Then be careful, Doctor Bartholomew. Do not disappear or die in your investigations. Although I am well hidden here, there is only one way out, and I do not relish the idea of being trapped in this dungeon if Thomas were to discover my whereabouts.’

‘Nor would I,’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘What an unpleasant place. Could Bigod not have found you somewhere more conducive?’

Cecily looked away, and Bartholomew detected an unsteadiness in her voice when she spoke. ‘I wondered whether he might allow me to share the chamber he has on the upper floor but he insists this one is safer for me.

I am grateful for his help but I sense I am more of a hindrance to him than a welcome guest. I am not sure I would have fled to him had I known he would recommend I stay here. It reminds me too much of Dominica.’

Personally, Bartholomew would have asked Bigod to lend him some money and left the area for good had he been in Cecily’s position, but he imagined she was probably afraid to stray too far from the place where she had lived all her life. Bartholomew was unusual in that he had travelled quite extensively: most people did not if they could help it, considering it an unnecessary risk.

Cecily looked at the open trapdoor in the floor and gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘This place was never intended to be a prison, you know. Before this house came into the possession of the Bigod family, it was owned by Jewish merchants. They built this secret chamber during the events that led to their expulsion in 1290, intending it to be a refuge if they were ever attacked. But it has become a prison now. First for Dominica and now for me. And both, ultimately, because of Thomas.’

One part of Bartholomew’s mind had been listening for sounds from the hall above. It had been silent for some time now. Cecily saw him glance up at the trapdoor, and nodded.

‘On Sundays, the old lady likes a tour of her manor. The entire household is obliged to be in attendance and the whole affair might take several hours. Go now, Bartholomew. To the north of the house, behind the stable, you will find a path that leads to the river without passing through the village. Wait! Take this!’

She held out her hand. A silver ring lay there, with a blue-green stone. He looked at her bewildered. How many of these things were there? ‘There were two,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.

‘Lover’s rings and identical, except for the size.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I am not a fool, Bartholomew. I know why Dominica claimed she lost one ring and clung so dearly to the other. And you mentioned that Master Bigod may have been looking for a ring – perhaps Thomas asked him to look for the one Dominica says she lost.’ She dropped the ring in Bartholomew’s palm. ‘I took that from her the night I sent her here. I have worn it since her murder. Take it. It might help you find the foul beast who killed her – perhaps this lover of hers that she went to such extremes to conceal from us. Who knows? Perhaps he may be foolish enough to wear her ring still, and now you will be able to recognise it from its fellow.’

Bartholomew put the ring into one of the pouches in his medicine bag. he climbed the ladder, and opened the trapdoor a crack. Cecily waited below. She was right: the hall was abandoned. He clambered out, and helped her to follow. In the gloom, he glimpsed her face, white and shiny with tears. She looked away, embarrassed. He left her behind the service screen and slipped stealthily across the hall towards the door.

‘Hey!’

Bartholomew froze in horror as a group of men entered the hall. He ducked under one of the trestle-tables, but it was an inadequate hiding place at best, and his heart pounded against his ribs in anticipation of being dragged out. The men were not servants, but mercenaries, probably the ones who, according to Cecily, had been looking for him earlier.

‘Just stop that!’ came the voice again, loud in indignation as a conical helmet bounced on the floor. The speaker stooped to retrieve it, so close that Bartholomew was treated to a strong waft of his bad breath. It was all over now! It had to be!

A piercing scream tore through the air, and all eyes were drawn to the screen at the end of the hall. Bartholomew rubbed ran a hand through his hair wearily.

It had not taken Mistress Lydgate long to renege on their agreement. But what else could he have done? He could not have killed her in cold blood, and locking her in the underground chamber would only have given him a few hours at most until Bigod came to seek him out. Perhaps he should have done just that and fled Cambridge for London or York. Now he was about to be dispatched by Cecily instead – not by her own hand it was true, but the outcome would be the same.

The screamed petered out. ‘A rat! A rat!’ came a wavery voice.

The soldiers looked at each other and grinned or grimaced, depending on their tolerance.

‘A rat!’ muttered the one whose helmet had been knocked from his head. ‘Blasted woman.’

‘There it goes! After it!’ Cecily screeched. ‘Oafs! Catch it!’

With rebellious mutterings, the men shuffled in the direction she was pointing up the spiral stair, until the hall was empty. Bartholomew emerged, still shaking, from his hiding place and slipped out of the door. As he left, he raised his hand in a silent salute of thanks to Cecily, who gave him a weak smile, and followed the men up the stairs.

Outside, the yard was empty; Bartholomew easily found the path Cecily had told him to take. He forced his stiff legs into a trot, continuing to run until he reached the river. He splashed across it, his haste making him careless, so that he missed his footing on one of the slippery rocks in the river bed and fell. Coughing and choking, he regained his feet and continued across, grateful he did not have the copy of Galen in his bag as he had done for the past few days. The water was very cold and the path had led him to a deeper part of the river than where he had crossed that morning.

He scrambled up the opposite bank, and crashed through the undergrowth until he reached the path that led to Cambridge. He began to race along it, hoping that the vigorous movement would restore some warmth to his body, but then slowed. He should be more careful.

Bigod was also likely to use this path if he intended to return to town. Perhaps he was already on it, and Bartholomew had no wish to run into him. He stopped and listened intently, but heard nothing except for the dripping of leaves from the morning’s rain, and the sott gurgle of the river. Cautiously, he began to move forward again, stopping every few steps to listen. Voices carried on the still air forced him to hide in the dripping undergrowth twice, but the only travellers on the path on a wet Sunday afternoon were three boys returning from a fishing trip, and a small party of friars bound for a retreat in the woods.

The light was beginning to fade when the high walls of Michaelhouse came into view. He tried the small back door that led into the orchard, but it was firmly barred.

The Master, wisely, was taking no chances of unwanted visitors in his grounds while the town was in such a ferment of unrest. Bartholomew knocked on the front gates to be allowed in, ignoring the interested attention of the day porters as he squelched across the yard to his room.

‘Matt! Where have you been?’ demanded Michael, standing up from where he had been reading at Bartholomew’s table. ‘What a state you are in! What have you been doing?’

‘What are you doing here?’ Bartholomew responded with a question of his own, slinging down his bag and beginning to remove his wet clothes.

‘Waiting for you! What does it look like? Where were you?’

‘Out walking,’ said Bartholomew non-committally. He had not yet considered how he would tell Michael what he had discovered without breaking his promise to Cecily to keep her whereabouts a secret.

‘Out swimming more like!’ retorted Michael, looking at Bartholomew’s sopping clothes and dripping hair. ‘What have you been doing?’

Bartholomew swung round to face him, irritated by the monk’s persistent prying. ‘Do you think the Proctor should know the comings and goings of all?’

Michael looked taken aback by his outburst, but then became angry himself. ‘Walter said you left before dawn to go walking in the rain with no cloak. What do you expect me to think? We know about your badly aligned stars. I was worried.’

Bartholomew relented. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to cause trouble. But there is no need for all this concern, from you or anyone else. You are constantly demanding my expertise as the University’s senior physician, so listen to me now – there is nothing wrong with me. Gray has never yet made the correct calculations for an astrological consultation – quite aside from the fact that he does not have the necessary information about me even to begin such a task. And you know I doubt the validity of astrological consultations, anyway. I cannot imagine why you are so ready to believe Gray over me.’ He went to the water jug, but it had not been refilled that day. ‘Where is Cynric?’

‘Looking for you,’ Michael said waspishly. ‘And keep your voice down if you must hold such unorthodox views, or Father William will hear you, and then you will be in trouble.’ He sat down again. ‘Have you been looking into the death of that prostitute? I thought you may have gone to see Lady Matilde, but she said she has not seen you since yesterday, while the Tyler women complain bitterly that they have not set eyes on you since the night you were attacked. What have you been doing? You have certainly been up to more than a walk. Will you tell me?’

Bartholomew shook his head impatiently. He was tired and needed to think first, to work some sense into the jumble of information he had gathered before passing it to Michael. Such as the identity of the man whose voice was familiar, who had decreed that there will be a riot on Thursday.

‘Then go to bed, Matt!’ said Michael, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘We will talk again in the morning.’

He left, and Bartholomew slipped his hand into his medicine bag, withdrawing the ring that Cecily Lydgate had given him. He looked at it for a moment, before feeling in the sleeve of his gown for the broken ring he had found at Godwinsson. He put them together. They were almost identical, except for the missing stone and the size. What did that tell him? That the light-fingered friar Edred had stolen Kenzie’s ring and ground it under his heel in anger when he realised it belonged to his Principal’s wife? That Kenzie had lost it while he waited in Godwinsson’s shed like a moonstruck calf, hoping for a glimpse of his lover through the windows of her house?

That Kenzie had somehow found his ring, only to have it stolen again after his death, and placed on the skeletal hand at Valence Marie? But Werbergh had said that Kenzie had come to him and Edred to ask if they had it. Werbergh believed Edred had taken it, and the fact that Kenzie was prepared to risk a confrontation with the friars to ask for it led Bartholomew to deduce that he could not have been wearing it when he died.

Bartholomew rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, and the time spent crouching in the chest had taken a greater toll on him than he realised. He washed away the smell of the river as best he could in the drop of water left from the morning, and lay down on the bed, huddling under the blankets. He was on the edge of sleep when he remembered he had left the rings on the table.

Reluctantly, he climbed out of bed, and dropped them both back into the sleeve of his gown. It was not an original hiding place but one that would have to do until he found a better one.

He was asleep within moments. Michael waited until his breathing became regular then stole back into the room. He smiled when he saw Bartholomew’s gown had been moved slightly, and slipped his hand down inside the sleeve. It would not be the first time that his friend had used the wide sleeves of his scholar’s gown to hide things. He froze as Bartholomew muttered something and stirred in his sleep, although Michael was not seriously worried about waking him. There were few who slept as heavily as the physician, even when he was not exhausted from a day’s mysterious labours.

The rings glinted dimly silver in Michael’s palm. He stopped himself from whistling. The broken one he had seen already and had dismissed as something of little importance. But it was important now, with a second, virtually identical, ring beside it. He looked to where Bartholomew slept and wondered how he had come to have it. He shrugged mentally letting the rings fall back inside Bartholomew’s sleeve. He would ask him tomorrow, when he told him that there had been more trouble at Godwinsson Hostel that day, and that Brother Werbergh lay dead in St Andrew’s Church.

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