An Unholy Alliance

4

When Bartholomew awoke from a dream-filled sleep early the next morning, he was not surprised to find he was stiff and sore. As he was shaving and noting with annoyance a rip in a second shirt, Michael burst in.

"I was in the kitchen for something to eat before Lauds, and Cynric told me what happened last night!' he said excitedly. 'Why did you not come to wake me up? How will you explain what you were doing to the Master? How is your hand?'

Bartholomew went to the light of the window and inspected his hand where the man in the orchard had bitten him. "There were clear teeth-marks but, oddly, while one row of teeth had scarcely made an impression, the others had made deep puncture marks surrounded by dark bruises.

'Do you think the man in the orchard was the murderer of Frances?' Michael asked. 'What about the man who bit you — Cynric's devil? Do you think he was the killer?'

'Why else would anyone be at the scene of a murder at that time of night with a candle?' Bartholomew asked with a shrug. 'Perhaps two people, rather than one, are responsible for the murders. It seemed to me that the smaller one was looking for something while the larger one kept watch outside. I saw and heard someone in the lane before I climbed over the wall. He came to his accomplice's rescue when I was on the very brink of pulling his mask away and revealing his face.'

'But what could they have been looking for?' asked Michael, frowning thoughtfully.

Bartholomew leaned back against the window-frame.

'Perhaps Frances struggled and tore something from his clothing that he only missed later.'

'"That must be so,' said Michael, chewing on his lip.

'Why else would someone risk visiting the scene of a murder when, if he were caught, he would have much explaining to do? Do you think he found what they were looking for?'

Bartholomew thought carefully, tapping on the window-sill with his fingers. 'No. But I also think that what he was looking for was not there. Cynric and I did not frighten him into leaving: he had finished his search and was leaving anyway. I think he knew he would not find what he was looking for.'

Michael sat on Bartholomew's bed, his weight making the wood creak ominously. 'What was he like?' he asked.

'Was there anything familiar about him?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'Nothing. He was swathed in a hooded gown. I think he was smaller than me, and he gave quite a yell when I seized him.'

'Could it have been a woman?' asked Michael.

'It sounded like a man's voice,' said Bartholomew.

'"The large man was really enormous, but I could not see his face because of a red mask.'

'Well, someone of those dimensions should be easy to pick out in a crowd,' said Michael. 'What was the mask like?'

'Nothing more than a red hood, like an executioner's mask. Cynric thought he may have been what Frances saw when she said her killer was not a man.'

'He could well be right,' said Michael. "I wish you had caught them, Matt. Now we have more information, but nothing tangible to lead us to the killer.'

Bartholomew looked around for his bag and remembered it had gone. 'Damn!'

'Father Aidan has a bag he never uses,' said Michael, guessing the cause of Bartholomew's annoyance. He glanced out of the window as he rose from the bed.' Plenty of time before church,' he muttered. 'Come on.'

Bartholomew followed him across the yard, towards the orchard. "The servants were already busy hauling water from the well, and starting fires in the kitchen.

Bartholomew and Michael walked over the dew-laden grass to the back gate, and Michael whistled.

'Lord above,' he said. 'What a mess!'

Bartholomew pulled the door open so he could inspect it out of the shadows. He tugged at something and it gave way in his hand. He held it up to show Michael, who eyed it uncomprehendingly.

'"The remains of a fire arrow,' Bartholomew explained.

He rubbed his hand over the door and examined it closely. '"The Devil must be failing if he needs alchemy for his pyrotechnics.' "I do not understand,' said Michael, taking the arrow from Bartholomew and examining it carefully. 'What alchemy?'

'"The door was smeared with animal fat, soot, and something sticky. Some fats, when fermented, become volatile. I imagine it would not be safe to stand too close to ignite it, but an arrow dipped in pitch would burn. When the fire arrow hit the gate…' He raised his hands. 'Alchemy.'

'But why bother with all this?' asked Michael, scratching at the charred door with his fingernail.

'What was the point? They could have come and gone without us ever knowing they were there if they had not had the misfortune to run into you.'

'Perhaps it was intended for use at a later date, or perhaps it was meant as a warning to someone,' said Bartholomew. He sighed, exasperated. 'You are right, Michael. "The more information we gain, the less it all makes sense.'

He wandered out into the lane, where one of the Proctor's beadles lounged against the wall, picking his teeth with a knife. He stood up straight when he saw Bartholomew and Michael, and pulled his greasy jerkin down over his shirt. Bartholomew heard him telling Michael that he had been at the door since instructed to be so by the Proctor the night before.

Opposite the gate, Bartholomew kicked around in the weeds at the side of the lane where he had seen the shadow, and stooped to pick up another arrow that had apparently been lit, but not used. He rolled it between his fingers and looked thoughtfully at Michael.

'Do you realise what this means?' he asked. Michael looked blankly at him. '"The gate burst into flames at almost the precise moment that the large man came through it, while I still had the smaller man in my grasp. "There must have been three of them, Brother, not two: the large man, the smaller one, and the one who fired the arrow.'

Michael shook his head slowly. 'There men to kill a woman? Lord save us, Matt! What is going on?'

As they emerged from the church after Prime, one of Stanmore's apprentices was waiting with a message for Bartholomew to meet his master at Milne Street.

Michael, uninvited, went too, knowing that breakfast at Stanmore's house was likely to be far better than breakfast at Michaelhouse.

"The streets were beginning to come to life, with apprentices hurrying to prepare for the day's trading at the Fair. "The great gates of Stanmore's business premises were still locked, and Bartholomew hammered until someone came to let him in. Inside, the yard was a hive of activity. Huge vats of oatmeal were being carried steaming from the kitchens to the hall, and apprentices darted around trying to complete their chores before breakfast. Two horses were being harnessed in carts ready to carry bales of cloth to the Fair, and a cook was busy chasing a squawking chicken around the yard for Stanmore's dinner.

Stanmore was waiting for them, and escorted them from the frenetic activity in the yard to the pleasant solar on the upper floor. Bartholomew had always liked this room. Its walls were hung with thick tapestries, and the floor was strewn with an assortment of rugs of varying quality, age, and colours. Several comfortable chairs were ranged around the stone fireplace, and bales of cloth were stacked along one wall. Although the house on Milne Street was luxurious, especially compared to Michaelhouse, Stanmore preferred to live with his wife, Bartholomew's sister, at his manor in Trumpington, a village two miles distant.

Stanmore had arranged for breakfast to be brought to them, and several pans were being kept warm by the fire. Before Bartholomew could stop him, Michael had grabbed a loaf of freshly baked bread and a pan of sizzling bacon, and had settled himself comfortably in Stanmore's favourite chair to enjoy his booty. Stanmore looked askance at the greedy monk and sat opposite him, while Bartholomew sipped at a cup of watered ale.

"I went to work on those questions you asked about witchcraft,' said Stanmore.

Bartholomew understood that his brother-in-law had contacts in the most unusual places, but knew better than to ask questions.

'Your old monk was right,' continued the merchant, reaching across to take a slice of bacon before Michael could eat it all. '"The churches of All Saints' and St John Zachary are used for purposes not altogether religious.

"There are two active, but separate, covens in Cambridge, each illicitly based at one of the churches. I am told that although both covens worship fallen angels, there is rivalry between them and they do not like each other.

I am also told that at least one of the groups is known to be connected to a guild, although I do not know which one. It is not mine,' he added hastily.

"There were many guilds in Cambridge. Some, like Stanmore's Guild of Drapers, were formed to ensure a solidarity between traders and to establish good standards and training for apprentices. Other guilds were formed for charitable or religious purposes.

Bartholomew remembered the complaints when Sir Richard Tulyet, the Sheriffs father, was elected Mayor of Cambridge. He had been a member of the Guild of the Annunciation and he had seen that members of his Guild were elected as bailiffs, burgesses, and to other prestigious positions. "The current Mayor, Robert Brigham, was a clerk, and members of his Guild of St Peter and St Paul seemed to be doing well, although not as flagrantly as had Tulyet's friends.

"The three men talked for a while, discussing which guilds might be a front for a coven, but were unable to come up with any convincing proof. Michael thought a group of pardoners might be responsible, but Bartholomew knew that Michael loathed pardoners and their trade, which took advantage of the gullible and the desperate. Stanmore thought the Guild of Dyers might be a coven in disguise, but Stanmore had always hated the dyers, at whose mercy he was if he wanted to sell coloured cloths. Bartholomew considered suggesting the Franciscans, for he thought there was something diabolical in their refusal to accept some of his teaching for reasons that were founded in ignorance.

Seeing they had merely reached a stage where they were fuelling each other's personal bigotries, Bartholomew stood, stretched, and suggested they should be about their business.

As Stanmore stood with them at the gate, a breathless messenger staggered towards him, mud-splattered, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness.

'It has all gone!' he wailed.

'What has gone?' said Stanmore, nonplussed. 'Pull yourself together, man!' "The messenger took a gulping breath. '"The yellow silk from London. We were ambushed 'What?' snapped Stanmore. 'That cannot be. that cart was part of a huge convoy.'

'"The silk has gone!' insisted the messenger. 'It happened as we were making a camp for the night. We chose a spot near the middle of the convoy, as you said we should, and we were cooking our supper. Men armed with great long bows sprung from nowhere. Will Potter was shot as he reached for his sword, and so were two men who were guarding Master Morice's wines. The wolvesheads smashed the wine bottles, set fire to the silk, stole cheeses and dried meats, and escaped. Some of us gave chase, but the forests are dense, and what could we have done if we had caught them?'

'Damn!' said Stanmore, his lips pursed tightly together.

He reached out and took the man by the shoulder. 'What of Will? Is he badly hurt?'

'He is dead,' said the messenger, shuffling his feet in the dust.

Stanmore paled. 'And the others? Where are they now? Are they injured?' "The messenger jerked his head back along Milne Street to where a dishevelled group of men shuffled towards them.

'Had you seen these outlaws before? Would you recognise them again?' Stanmore asked, taking a more secure hold on the man's arm as he reeled.

"The messenger shook his head wearily, and Stanmore relented. 'Tell the others to get something to eat from the kitchens, and then come to my office,' he said. When the messenger had gone, Stanmore ordered an apprentice to take a message to the Castle, and sent for his steward to see to Will's body. He leaned against the door, and Bartholomew saw his hands were shaking. Bartholomew knew it was not only the loss of the valuable silk that distressed his brother-in-law; Stanmore was fond of the people who worked for him, and Will had been in his service for many years.

Michael looked grave. '"The roads are unsafe for decent people,' he said. 'We were even afraid to walk along Barnwell Causeway from the Fair the night before last, and you can virtually see the town from there.'

'But why bother to attack if not to steal?' asked Bartholomew.

'They stole,' said Stanmore tightly. 'They took cheese and meat, and food is a valuable commodity when there is so little of it about'

'But attacking is dangerous,' persisted Bartholomew.

'Why take the time to burn your cart and to smash the wine bottles, when it would be better to seize the food, and flee as quickly as possible?'

Stanmore sighed impatiently. 'Only a scholar would reason like that,' he said dismissively. 'These are louts, Matt, who gain pleasure from the crimes they commit.

They probably enjoyed the damage they caused.

You credit them with more thought than they are capable of.'

'Well, I am sorry for your loss,' said Bartholomew.

'For Will, too.'

'Oh, damn all this!' Stanmore exclaimed. "I had already promised that silk to a merchant in Norwich. De Belem's prices for dyeing silk have become ridiculous, and I would pay more to him for dyeing than I would be able to charge for it. His wife's death during the plague must have damaged his mind. His prices will have to come down, or he will ruin us all. And if we fall, so will he.'

He turned as his men came through the gates, limping and travel-stained. Stanmore ran towards them, counting them like a mother hen. Bartholomew went to help, and spent the next hour bandaging and dispensing salves for grazes and bruises. He and Michael took their leave as Stanmore's steward arrived bearing the body of Will Potter.

'"The friar is to be buried today,' said Bartholomew as they walked away. 'We do not even know his name. De Wetherset will want to know what we have done, and we have done nothing. Tomorrow we had better exhume the body of his clerk. We should invite him to be present to make sure we have the right corpse.'

Michael gave a snort of derision. 'De Wetherset will have nothing to do with that! What shall we do about this guild business?' "I am not sure,' said Bartholomew. 'We should hand the information to the Sheriff, since he is supposed to be looking for the murderer of these women.' He turned to Michael. 'Do you think the two are connected? The murder of the women and the murder of the friar?'

'On what grounds?' asked Michael, surprised. 'Four victims with slit throats and one poisoned by a lock on the University chest; four ladies of ill-repute and one mendicant friar? No, Matt, I cannot see that they are connected.'

'Frances de Belem was not a lady of ill-repute,' said Bartholomew. 'She was the daughter of a respectable merchant' He stopped suddenly. "I wonder if de Belem belongs to a guild.'

Michael waved a dismissive hand. 'Now you are grasping at straws. Of course he is a member of a guild. "The Honourable Guild of Dyers, probably.'

'But he might also be a member of another guild unrelated to his trade. Oswald is and so is Roger Alcote.'

'Are they?' said Michael, surprised. 'Your brotherin-law did not mention that when we were talking just now. And Alcote? Scholars are forbidden to join guilds.'

'Oswald is a member of the Guild of the Annunciation.

Why do you think he became a burgess when Tulyet was Mayor? And Oswald once told me Alcote is also a member. Membership of these organisations is supposed to be secret, but if I wanted to know who is involved, all I would need to do would be to watch who went into the church on the day of their services. It would not be difficult to ascertain who was a member and who was not'

'Good lord!' said Michael, his eyes gleaming. 'All this intrigue going on that I knew nothing about. This makes it all far more interesting.'

'Perhaps, but it does not help with the dead friar. The only way forward I can see is to find that lay-brother and see if we can make him tell us what he knows,' said Bartholomew. "I do not feel inclined to go back to that alley again, so I suggest we ask de W'etherset to tell his clerks to trace him.'

' Do you think the lay-brother knows something?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew nodded slowly. 'Oh yes. I am certain of it. And we do not have the faintest idea what happened to Evrard Buckley,' he continued. 'Why did he disappear?

And why did he take all his furniture with him?'

Michael raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. 'It could not have been easy moving all those belongings in the middle of the night from King's Hall,' he said.

'Maybe,' said Bartholomew. 'Buckley has roomed alone since the plague carried off his colleagues, and his window opens directly onto the garden that runs down to the river. "The window is large, and, unless he had some really enormous pieces of furniture, I think there would have been no problem in lowering them down to the ground by rope.'

'He must have had help,' said Michael. 'Or it would have taken an age to do.'

'We should have something to report to de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, 'and doubtless your Bishop will be wanting some news. We should walk round the back of King's Hall to see if we can see anything.'

Michael was not impressed with the idea, but went anyway. Bartholomew was right in saying that the Bishop would want answers, and it would be Michael's responsibility to give him some. They walked down to the river and along the towpath. A barge was being docked at the wharves, three exhausted horses having dragged it through the night to be ready to trade its wares at the Fair. "The smell by the river was powerful.

Stale eels that had not been sold the previous day lay in grey-black heaps on the bank, being squabbled over by gulls. All along the river people were dumping night waste into the water, while further downstream a group of children splashed and played in the shallows.

Bartholomew saw one of Stanmore's apprentices bartering for threads, and a small group of women were admiring a collection of coloured ribbons. Walking past them, and heading in his direction, was Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew saw the sun glint on her blue-black hair, and memories of his experience in the alleyway came flooding back to him. For a reason he could not immediately identify, he decided he did not want to speak to her.

Bartholomew pulled at Michael's sleeve. 'Come on,' he said, 'we do not have all day.'

'What is the matter with you?' grumbled Michael, objecting to this increase in his pace when the air was already beginning to grow thick and humid with the promise of heat to come.

It was too late. Janetta had seen him and came forward with the enigmatic smile he remembered from the day before, showing under her cascade of black hair. Michael stopped dead in his tracks and eyed her suspiciously.

'So, Matthew Bartholomew. Good morning to you.'

Bartholomew nodded to her, hiding his bitten hand under his scholar's robe. He instinctively knew that she would ask him about it, and he did not want to tell her about the incident in the orchard. In fact, he did not want to tell her anything at all. * Janetta laughed at his cautious response. "I trust I find you well?' she said, looking him up and down and appraising him coolly.

Did she know about his skirmish last night? Was she surprised to see him intact? Or was she merely thinking about her rescue of him from the alleyway? 'Very well. And you?' he asked guardedly.

'In fine health,' she said. 'And now, Doctor, I have a great many things to do, and I cannot stand around gossiping all day like a scholar!'

She sauntered away, walking slowly, as if she were in no particular hurry to get back to her 'great many things'.

'And we cannot stroll around idly like harlots,' retorted Michael, nettled by her comment She evidently heard his remark, for she turned around and wagged a finger at him, smiling, although Bartholomew thought he detected a flash of anger in her eyes.

'Who was that?' Michael asked, staring after her.

'Janetta of Lincoln,' Bartholomew answered, embarrassed by Michael's retort.

'Ah, yes,' said Michael. 'You did not tell me she was a convicted felon.'

'What?' said Bartholomew, startled. 'How do you know that?'

'Did you not notice those scars on her face? There was a judge at Lincoln who liked to sentence prostitutes to that punishment. He reasoned that it would force them to turn from prostitution because they would be unable to secure clients. He was only in office a short time, but he made a name for himself locally because of the sentences he gave to petty offenders.'

'Petty offenders?' said Bartholomew. 'Then perhaps she was convicted of a crime other than prostitution.'

Michael shook his head. 'He only scarred women like that for the crime of harlotry. She was a whore, Matt, and was convicted and punished for it. You mark my words.'

'What happened to the judge?' asked Bartholomew.

'Killed in a brothel,' said Michael, laughing. 'Full of women with scarred faces, I expect! I would say your Janetta of Lincoln was almost certainly one of his victims.'

'That might explain why she left Lincoln. If this judge's punishments are not common knowledge, perhaps she thought she might be able to live here without her past being known,' mused Bartholomew.

'"The only reason I know is because I saw similar scars on the face of a woman in a group of travelling singers,' said Michael. "I asked her how she came by them, and she told me about the judge.'

Bartholomew looked doubtfully at him, wondering how the fat monk had managed to embark upon such an intimate conversation with a female travelling entertainer. Michael caught his glance and waggled his eyebrows before changing the subject. 'Let's go and look at this grass.'

As Bartholomew had predicted, the walls bore marks that Buckley's furniture had been passed out of the window. They also found the grass below it was trampled, and there were ruts made by a cart. But there was also something else.

'Michael, look,' said Bartholomew, bending to examine a small smear on the creamy stone. 'What is it?' asked Michael, looking, and not finding the brown mark especially enlightening.

'Blood,' said Bartholomew. He pointed to where the grass was less trampled to one side, and several blades of grass were stained. He straightened up and he and Michael exchanged a look of puzzlement.

'Well, at least we have something to report to the Chancellor,' said Michael.