Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 10

Bartholomew and Michael arrived at the minster to find it more hectic than ever. It stank, too, despite the incense that smouldered at strategic intervals. The reason was the ever-increasing number of refugees – most had waded through filthy water to reach the city, and some had brought animals. Stockades had been built outside, but the goats, pigs, chickens, and even occasional cow, represented all some folk had managed to salvage, so they were understandably reluctant to be parted from them. In the interests of compassion, Thoresby had capitulated, and the great church rang with bleats, lows, grunts and clucks.

‘There is Alice,’ said Michael, pointing. ‘Lord! She looks different!’

Bartholomew stared in surprise: the Prioress was wearing the garb of her Order, and there was not a scrap of jewellery in sight. Her hair was swept decorously under her wimple, and her habit was plain and unadorned. The only sign of her former self was that she had chosen to pray at the Altar of Mary Magdalene, the one favoured by prostitutes.

‘It is time to make amends,’ she explained, heaving herself up from her knees as the scholars passed. ‘York is on the verge of a catastrophe, and we must do all we can to avert it. I realised today, after Isabella postponed The Conversion of the Harlot, that she was right and I was wrong.’

‘Wrong about what?’ asked Michael, looking to where the novice was kneeling, her face a mask of intense concentration as she put every fibre of her being into her petitions.

‘York,’ replied Alice. ‘Its high-ranking clerics are too wealthy, its merchants are shamelessly avaricious, and our Mayor is rarely sober. I have a bad feeling that God is telling us something with all this rain, so I have decided to mend my wicked ways before we are all drowned.’

Bartholomew regarded her closely, looking for some hint that she was enjoying a joke at Isabella’s expense, but could read nothing in the florid, dissipated features. Thus he was not sure how to respond, and was glad he was spared from having to do so by Helen, who arrived shaking rain from her hat. Frost was a brooding, hulking figure at her side. She touched Bartholomew’s hand in a friendly gesture of greeting. His skin tingled, and Frost’s jealous, resentful glare said he knew exactly what effect his fiancée’s greeting had had.

‘Here,’ Helen said, passing a heavy purse to Alice. ‘It is all the money I have, plus some from John Gisbyrn. It should be enough to buy bread for those poor souls who come to you for shelter.’

‘I donated ten shillings,’ interjected Frost. He sounded hurt that she might have forgotten.

Helen smiled briefly at him. ‘Yes, and it was generous.’ She turned back to the Prioress. ‘You must hurry. The Ouse Bridge may close soon, and our money will not help anyone if you are trapped on the wrong side of the river.’

Alice nodded briskly, but took a moment to murmur another prayer before the altar first. Jafford was there, but although a dozen women were clamouring at him to say petitions on their behalf, he found time to rest a hand on her head in blessing. When she had gone, Helen went to kneel next to Isabella. Frost started to follow, but then thought better of it, and contented himself with leaning against a pillar and gazing at her instead.

‘The Conversion of the Harlot,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew moved away. ‘It seems we have a living example in our Prioress.’

‘Only because she is frightened. She will revert to her old ways once the waters recede and she finds herself unharmed. And that includes making pagan charms for the likes of Cynric.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Or perhaps her remorse has another motive – namely that she is a French spy, and she knows they are about to strike. So she is manoeuvring herself into a position where she can deny any involvement by claiming she was busy with a religious epiphany.’

They reached the library to find Langelee there. He was standing on a stool to reach one of the higher shelves, rifling along it with barely concealed exasperation.

‘At last,’ he snapped. ‘I was beginning to think you had deserted me. Where have you been? Have you learned anything to help our investigations? Because when the rivers flood, our cause will be hopeless – no one will have time to answer our questions.’

‘We have learned that Harold was murdered by a fellow Carmelite,’ began Bartholomew. He went to the carrel Talerand had identified earlier and picked up a handful of documents, dismayed at how many were piled there.

‘Not our concern,’ snapped Langelee. ‘I hope you have more to report than that.’

‘Christopher discovered that the chantry fund had evaporated before Talerand did, but denied being in the treasury, weeping over the empty box,’ said Michael, knowing Zouche’s chapel would snag Langelee’s interest. ‘Or perhaps it is Talerand who is lying…’

‘And?’ demanded Langelee eagerly. ‘What is the significance of that?’

Rather than admit that he did not know, Michael moved to other subjects. ‘Cotyngham has escaped, and Matt is suspicious of the circumstances. Meanwhile, Sir William has rallied and is directing the relief effort.’ He saw these snippets had failed to appease, so went on the offensive. ‘Well, what have you learned?’

‘That Helen prefers you to me,’ said Langelee, regarding the physician so coldly that Bartholomew could only suppose this was the real cause of his surly temper. ‘She virtually said as much when I offered her my company last night.’

‘No surprise there,’ declared Michael, automatically assuming the remark was directed at him. ‘I thought from the start that she was a woman of discerning taste.’

‘So I went to visit Alice instead,’ Langelee went on. ‘She always has a place for an old friend, and we watched a rehearsal for that play about the whore, although it was deadly dull. And now it is cancelled, and she seems to have suffered some sort of pious conversion. I hope I am not the cause, because I would not like it said that my company drives women to religion.’

‘Where did that box come from?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to a chest that was the length of his forearm, and about half as wide. It was a beautiful thing, with a lid that was inlaid with rosewoods of different colours. ‘I do not recall seeing it before.’

‘It belonged to Zouche,’ replied Langelee. ‘The Queen gave it to him, and he kept his chantry fund in it. Talerand must have brought it here – there would have been no point leaving it in the treasury once it was empty. I found it underneath that desk a few moments ago.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, when Langelee pointed at the carrel where he was working. ‘It was not here earlier.’

‘It must have been,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘You just overlooked it.’

But Bartholomew knew he would have noticed something the size of Zouche’s box. He turned to Michael in mystification. ‘Did Talerand put it here after we left to tackle Dalfeld, because he wanted us to find it and we said we would be back? Or did someone else–’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Langelee. ‘There is nothing in it that is relevant to us – I looked. It only contains a lot of letters to Myton about his obits.’

‘Have you read them all?’ Bartholomew opened the box to find it full of documents. He selected a bundle at random, and began to sort through it.

Langelee shrugged. ‘No, why would I? They are nothing to do with us.’

He was right: they were deeds confirming gifts of land to the minster, which paid rents that would be used to pay for Myton’s masses. Most pre-dated the plague, when Zouche had still been alive, and many bore his signature. They were repetitious, but Bartholomew ploughed through them anyway, determined that if one contained a clue to their mysteries, then he would not overlook it by being impatient or careless.

‘What is this?’ he asked, pulling an odd scrap of parchment from between two packets. It did not comprise words, but a series of neatly recorded numbers.

Irritably, Langelee took it from him, but then his jaw dropped and he peered at it eagerly. ‘It is our secret code!’ he exclaimed. ‘Zouche, Myton and I used this when we wanted to communicate with each other but did not want anyone else to know what we were saying.’

‘Not the codicil, then,’ said Michael, uninterested. ‘Zouche would not have composed that in a form only his henchmen could read.’

‘It is a “substitution code”,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘Where you exchange letters for numbers. It is very simple once you know how. Zouche’s clerk penned this – I recognise his writing.’

Once Langelee had explained the principle, Bartholomew was able to translate the message in his head. ‘It is a list of names. The first is Jean de Cho … Chozaico.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Langelee, piqued that the physician should have mastered it so quickly. ‘The next is John Vu … no, Wu…’

‘John Wy. Then come Richard de Chicole, Odo Friquet, Oliver Bages–’

‘Those are monks at Holy Trinity,’ said Langelee in confusion. He struggled through the rest of the entries. ‘Yes! Holy Trinity has about twelve Benedictines, and every one of them is here. There is no monk called Wy, though – the only person I know of that name is with the Carmelites.’

‘Currently grieving for his murdered friend,’ put in Michael. ‘But why would Myton keep a list of Benedictines among his personal correspondence?’

On the back of the list was a letter, written in a different hand. It was in English, not code, and had been scrawled with such a lack of care that it was almost impossible to decipher.

‘Myton’s writing,’ said Langelee. ‘Zouche often complained about it, although Myton did not usually sink this low. It looks as though he was hurrying.’

Bartholomew scanned through it, then read it a second time, to be sure. When he had finished, he looked up slowly.

‘It is a letter to Gisbyrn. Myton says the list is one that Zouche compiled shortly before he died, and he has taken the time to decipher it for Gisbyrn, because he says that the men named on it should be arrested without delay. He claims they are French spies.’

There was a brief silence after Bartholomew made his announcement, then Langelee ripped the missive from Bartholomew’s hand with such vigour that he all but tore it in two.

‘French spies?’ he echoed in alarm.

‘At Holy Trinity all along,’ nodded Bartholomew. ‘Myton says that the intelligent, liberal people who argued that Chozaico would never do such a thing were wrong, and the mob was right – he has unequivocal proof. And he gives directions to specific shelves in the library, where he hid the evidence.’

‘No,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Members of my Order do not dabble in espionage. It is a piece of malicious mischief, and we should ignore it.’

But Langelee was not listening. ‘I do not understand! Myton hunted these spies for years, with me and later on his own. If his claim is true, then why did he not act on it?’

Bartholomew tapped the letter. ‘He explains what happened here. It–’

Langelee strained to read it himself. ‘Because the clerk who tore … no, who took Zouche’s dictator … dictation…’ It was painful, and Bartholomew grabbed it back from him.

‘The clerk was probably never informed of the list’s significance, due to the sensitive nature of its contents,’ he précised. ‘So he neglected to see it delivered to Mayor Longton in the upheaval following Zouche’s death. It languished until Zouche’s papers were transferred to the library by Thoresby, where Myton discovered it by accident eight months later.’

‘Eight months?’ mused Michael. ‘That cannot have been long before he died himself.’

Langelee gazed at them, his face a mask of bafflement. ‘So why did Myton not arrest these traitors? Why write to Gisbyrn?’

‘According to the final sentence, because he was about to take his own life,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Gisbyrn had broken him, and he could not live with the shame of his failure – along with the guilt of a “terrible sin”, which he does not specify. Gisbyrn is charged to see the spies arrested, because Myton did not have the will to do it himself.’

Langelee peered at the date scrawled on the bottom. ‘That is certainly when he died. I remember, because it is the day my youngest daughter was born.’

‘You have children?’ blurted Michael.

‘The abrupt phrasing and unsteady script suggest Myton was extremely agitated when he wrote this,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before Langelee could answer. ‘It is consistent with a man on the verge of suicide, and Fournays did say he opened his veins.’

‘I thought he died of a softening of the brain,’ said Langelee, bewildered.

‘Fournays!’ spat Michael, while Bartholomew recalled with a guilty start that the surgeon’s knowledge of Myton’s suicide was a secret he should have kept. ‘We cannot trust him. For all we know, he murdered Myton.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Bartholomew was tired of Michael’s prejudice. ‘His name is not on the list, and he has no reason to protect French spies.’

‘Never mind Fournays,’ snapped Langelee, suddenly all business. ‘Myton’s letter mentions evidence. Where did he say it might be found? On specific shelves in the library?’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder and gave it a vigorous shake to make his point. ‘Which ones? Quickly!’

Bartholomew read them out. Langelee stormed away to tackle the first, Michael approached the second, and Bartholomew took the third, grateful it was not a large one, because he was sure they were wasting their time – the chances of finding anything in the library were remote. But it did not take many moments to discover that he was wrong, and that a letter had been placed exactly where Myton had specified. His stomach lurched in horror at what it revealed.

‘It is from a French master to his agents,’ he said. ‘He wants sailing times for specific ships, and an inventory of their cargoes. It is addressed quite openly to Holy Trinity.’

Langelee took it with a hand that shook. ‘Nearly all these vessels were captured by French pirates. And here is what I have found: promise of an altar cloth sewn with gold doves in return for information about the town’s defences.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘I saw such a cloth in the priory church, when Chozaico invited us inside after the riot the other day.’

‘And here is more of the same,’ said Michael, waving other documents. His face was white. ‘Chozaico’s antics will reflect badly on every Benedictine in the country!’

‘They will not,’ stated Langelee. ‘Everyone knows Holy Trinity is an alien house, and therefore different. But we cannot stand here chatting when there are enemies to rout. We must tackle them at once. Come with me to report to Thoresby.’

‘What about the documents?’ asked Bartholomew, not moving. ‘We cannot take them with us, lest we are obliged to go outside – the ink will run in the rain, and they will be useless. And it is certainly not a good idea to leave them here. They might disappear.’

Langelee snatched them from him and shoved them in the rosewood box, which he tossed on to the highest shelf available.

‘It is hardly inconspicuous,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And–’

‘There is no time to argue,’ snapped Langelee sharply. ‘It will have to suffice until we come back to reclaim them. Now follow me.’

They had not gone far before they met Dean Talerand, who immediately began to bemoan the fact that the volume of human and animal traffic might permanently damage his flagstone floors.

‘Zouche’s rosewood chest,’ said Michael, interrupting the tirade. ‘When did you move it from the treasury to the library?’

Talerand stared at him. ‘It has never been in the library. Once it was empty, I gave the thing to Myton, because he had always expressed a fondness for it.’

‘You did not leave it under the carrel you pointed out as a good place for hiding documents?’

Talerand looked bemused, although whether from genuine confusion, or because he was an extremely able actor, was impossible to say. ‘I have not had time to visit the library since I took you there earlier. How could I, when my minster is akin to Noah’s Ark? Do you think dung stains, Brother?’

Thoresby was in the Lady Chapel, issuing orders to the canons, vicars, chaplains, clerks and servants who thronged around him. His voice was calm and his manner composed, so the only sign that he was under intense pressure came from a slight tic under one eye. Langelee forced his way to the front of the crowd, and started to murmur in his ear, but he had barely begun before the Archbishop waved him away.

‘Tell Mayor Longton,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘I do not have time for this now.’

‘But it is important,’ objected Langelee. ‘We cannot delay, because–’

‘In a few hours, there will be a tidal surge of such magnitude that the entire city might be engulfed,’ interrupted Thoresby sharply. ‘You will forgive me if that takes precedence over some ancient letter of Myton’s. Besides, it sounds more like a secular matter than an episcopal one to me. See Longton.’

He turned away abruptly, giving his attention to Cave who had come to report on the current state of the rivers. The vicar smirked when he saw Langelee summarily dismissed in his favour.

‘Longton, then,’ determined Langelee, grabbing his Fellows’ arms and hauling them along after him. ‘Hurry!’

The Mayor was on Petergate, standing up in his stirrups as he bawled instructions to a pack of bemused soldiers. His directions were muddled and contradictory, although his response to requests for clarification was simply to yell the same commands more loudly. Langelee marched up to him and seized the reins of his horse.

‘We have discovered the identities of the French spies,’ he announced. ‘It is–’

‘Not now, man,’ grated Longton, jerking the bridle away. ‘I am busy.’

‘The French spies!’ bellowed Langelee, lest the Mayor had not heard. ‘We have them at last, and you must come with us to–’

‘I said not now,’ snarled Longton. ‘The Ouse is close to bursting its banks, and if we do not requisition sandbags from the minster immediately, we shall lose the fish-market.’

‘But–’

‘Besides, the spies are hardly relevant now,’ Longton went on bitterly. ‘They have already done their worst, and their masters will be poised to attack even as we speak.’

‘Yes!’ cried Langelee desperately. ‘But laying hold of the intelligencers will provide us with some idea of the information they have passed on, and thus give us a tactical advantage.’

‘They will not talk,’ predicted Longton. ‘And I cannot waste time on them today.’

‘Then where is your brother?’ demanded Langelee. ‘The advocatus ecclesiae will not stand by while England’s enemies use the upheaval created by the floods to escape.’

‘I sent him to open the Foss dam,’ replied Longton. ‘It has not been used in decades, and if he fails, we are doomed for certain. For God’s sake do not distract him with some stupid errand.’

‘Stupid errand?’ echoed Langelee furiously. ‘We are talking about the villains who have been undermining York for years. Surely–’

‘Come and see me when the waters recede.’ Longton kicked his horse into a trot, indicating with an imperious wave that his bewildered men were to follow. His last words were called over his shoulder. ‘There will be plenty of time for catching traitors then.’

‘There will not,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew and Michael, who had watched the exchange without trying to intervene. Neither blamed the Mayor or the Archbishop for thinking the flood a more pressing matter. ‘Clever Chozaico and his devious cronies have successfully eluded us for years. If we do not strike now, while the iron is hot, they will escape.’

‘I do not see how,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They cannot know what we have discovered today.’

‘They will find out,’ averred Langelee. His face was paler than the physician had ever seen it. ‘They always outwitted us in the past, which is why they kept slipping through our fingers. We must tackle them immediately – or be prepared to let them go free.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘We have been refused official help, and if Zouche’s list is right, there are twelve monks, plus Chozaico and Wy. Or are you proposing that we three go to Holy Trinity and challenge fourteen men by ourselves?’

‘Well, why not?’ demanded Langelee. ‘They are clerics, for God’s sake. What do you think they will do? Batter us with their psalters? Bartholomew and I have swords, and we can find you a staff from somewhere. They will be no match for us.’

‘Even if we could manage such a feat, we have no authority to carry it out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are not an archbishop’s henchman now, Langelee. We are just scholars from another town.’

‘Tell Gisbyrn,’ suggested Michael. ‘He is the one Myton charged to act on the matter.’

‘Gisbyrn did not bother five years ago, so why should he stir himself now?’ Langelee was growing exasperated. ‘Besides, perhaps this letter languished because Gisbyrn is in their pay. It would certainly explain why he has grown rich so quickly. When I have Chozaico and his rabble under lock and key, I shall be having a word with him.’

‘But Gisbyrn may never have seen this letter,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Why would he, when it was hidden between bundles of Myton’s obit arrangements?’

‘I suspect what happened was this,’ said Michael, speaking calmly in an attempt to soothe. ‘Myton was so deeply in debt that he knew everything he owned would go to Gisbyrn after his death. So he left this letter among his documents, expecting it to be found.’

‘But he overestimated the interest Gisbyrn had in him.’ Bartholomew took up the tale. ‘Gisbyrn did not paw gloatingly through his personal correspondence – he shoved it into storage somewhere. Thus Myton’s desperate message lay undiscovered until today–’

‘We can discuss this when the spies are in prison,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Now hurry!’

‘Tell us your plan first,’ said Bartholomew, freeing his arm when the Master grabbed it.

Langelee sighed furiously. ‘We approach them politely but firmly, and tell them that their game is up. Then we lock them in their church until soldiers are available to take them into custody. They are not violent men. They will know they are defeated, and will give us no trouble.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If they are as devious as you claim–’

Langelee rounded on him. ‘I cannot order you to come, but I shall be very disappointed if you decline to perform this service for your country. And so will the King when he demands a report on the matter. Indeed, I imagine your refusal might even be construed as treason.’

Bartholomew had no idea whether he was bluffing.

Certain they were about to engage in something recklessly stupid, Bartholomew and Michael trailed unhappily after Langelee as he set a cracking pace towards the Ouse Bridge. The physician tried twice to intercept soldiers to tell them what was happening, but they refused to stand still long enough to listen to his explanations. Then he saw Marmaduke scuttling past.

‘We think we have discovered the identities of the French spies,’ he said, seizing the ex-priest’s shoulder. ‘They are at Holy Trinity. At least, there is evidence that points towards them, although it should be verified before–’

‘No!’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘The Holy Trinity monks are decent men. Do you not recall Prior Chozaico’s kindness to me at Radeford’s burial – how he drew me forward to join the mourners? You have been listening to foolish people. Like that spiteful Oustwyk.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to waste time in debate when Langelee and Michael were already some distance ahead. ‘But will you tell Sir William?’

‘He will not listen, not when he is so frantically busy with the dam,’ predicted Marmaduke. ‘Especially to a defrocked priest.’

‘Abbot Multone, then,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Please! Just tell him to come with armed lay-brothers as quickly as he can.’

‘I shall do my best,’ promised Marmaduke. ‘Although I–’

But Bartholomew sped away before the ex-priest could say more. He ran hard, dodging and ducking as he tried to catch up with his colleagues, but it was not easy, because so many people were on the move. Most were loaded down with packs and bundles, while others pushed handcarts that were too large for the lanes and caused blockages. Everywhere, tempers were high, and he took care to apologise to those he jostled – fights were breaking out for far less provocation. Meanwhile, the doors of every church were open, some offering sanctuary and others an opportunity to pray.

‘God’s teeth!’ he muttered when he reached the river.

It was flowing hard and fast, an evil brown torrent thick with the soil from the fields it had washed away upstream. And this time, it carried much larger trees, some of which punched into the bridge before they were swept past, causing the entire structure to shudder.

Michael was arguing with Langelee. ‘We cannot cross. It may be safe now, but what if it collapses, trapping us on the other side of the city? We must not risk losing the codicil to–’

‘Huntington will be irrelevant if these spies are not caught,’ snarled Langelee. ‘Because the French will invade, and they will raze the place to the ground. Follow me.’

Reluctantly, his Fellows stepped on to the bridge, but it was not long before Bartholomew faltered to a standstill, not liking the way it shivered under his feet. Farther along, there was a cry of alarm, and several tiles slipped from Dalfeld’s roof. They smashed into the street below, narrowly missing pedestrians.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Too late?’ echoed Chozaico weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘By spreading lies about the Carmelites,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The Order you infiltrated.’

‘What?’ breathed Chozaico, paler than ever. ‘The vicious tales about the White Friars were your doing?’

‘We would have been destroyed years ago if Wy had not arranged for them to share some of the hatred,’ said Odo, defensively. ‘We had no choice. You saw the ferocity of the riot the other day.’

‘And I know how he did it,’ said Michael. ‘Courageously, the Carmelites stand up to dishonesty, tackling people like the vicars-choral who stole their topsoil, Elen Duffield who bought wine that she then refused to pay for, and that arrogant potter who throws mud.’

‘Wy encouraged these spitefully vociferous villains to protest their innocence.’ Langelee took up the tale. ‘Thus shedding doubt on the Carmelites’ other victories. It was sly, dishonourable and it worked brilliantly.’

‘And the feud between Longton and Gisbyrn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how Wy had always been more outspoken and less charitable than his fellows. He wondered how Penterel had not seen through him, but then supposed that the Prior was a gentle man who would be disinclined to think badly of anyone. ‘Did you exacerbate that for the same reason?’

Chozaico groaned when Wy grinned gloatingly.

‘The odd word to a merchant one day, and a wealthy landowner the next,’ Wy said. ‘It has been easy to keep them at each other’s throats. And Dalfeld helped. I just happened to mention that he could claim more money in fees from both parties if they were enemies, and he obligingly did all he could to intensify their hatred.’

‘But we did not anticipate that the quarrel would end in Sir William being shot, Prior Chozaico,’ said Odo quickly. ‘We would never have sanctioned that.’

Wy’s expression hardened. ‘But, pleasant though it is to review my cleverness, we cannot waste what little daylight is left. Odo? Kill these meddling scholars and let us be on our way.’

‘No,’ said Chozaico, standing abruptly, although Odo had made no move to obey Wy anyway. ‘We shall lock them in the cellar. It will not be long before people come to raid this place for food, and our guests will be rescued then – after we are safely away.’

‘But then they will tell everyone about me,’ objected Wy. ‘And I might want to come back here one day. Dispatch them, and let us make a clean end of this business.’

Suddenly, the crossbow was swinging round to point at Bartholomew, who saw there was nothing he could do to prevent Wy from shooting him. He braced himself to die.

Chozaico’s yell of horror rang through the chamber, and Langelee surged to his feet, but Odo’s reactions were faster. He dived at the pedlar so the shot went wide. Wy spat and struggled as they rolled on the floor, furious at being thwarted, but then his eyes bulged and an expression of abject disbelief flashed across his face. Odo held him for a moment, then let him go.

‘I am sorry,’ the soldier said, scrambling to his feet as Chozaico gaped in shock. ‘But we could not have taken such a man with us anyway. He was too selfish and unpredictable, and would have endangered all our lives.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked Chozaico in a small voice.

‘No, but he soon will be,’ replied Odo dispassionately. ‘Would you like the physician to ease his last moments? Or will you grant him absolution?’

‘Both.’ Chozaico’s hand shook when he indicated that Bartholomew was to oblige. ‘And then we had better leave before it really is too late.’

‘It is already too late,’ warned Langelee, as Bartholomew knelt next to Wy and Odo handed him his bag. ‘Marmaduke is fetching help as we speak.’

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, and Wy released a vengeful chuckle.

‘Marmaduke,’ he whispered, pulling Bartholomew towards him with a bloodstained hand. ‘Fitting he … destroys … spies.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with rummaging in his pack for a potion to ease the dying man’s final moments than in listening to another bout of gloating vitriol.

‘Cotyngham,’ Wy breathed, almost inaudible as the life drained out of him. ‘I saw him … dead. Marmaduke … in plague pit…’

Bartholomew wondered if he had misheard. Langelee had embarked on a diatribe, berating Chozaico for his years of deceit, and it was difficult to hear what Wy was trying to say.

‘… ad Valvas,’ gasped Wy. He was fading fast, but his eyes were still bright with malice. ‘Marmaduke … a man … to watch. I should have … worked with him.’

Bartholomew had no idea what he was talking about, but before he could say so, the breath hissed between Wy’s lips and he went limp. The physician glanced up at Chozaico, who sagged in despair and waved Langelee to silence.

‘Lock them in the basement,’ he said to Odo. ‘It has food enough to last several days. And I do not think water will be a problem.’

Without further ado, the scholars were bundled towards a door in the corner of the hall. It was enormously thick, designed to keep rats at bay. Open, it revealed a flight of steep stone steps, and smelled of bad drains. The stairs were pitch black, and there was no indication that the prisoners were going to be provided with a lamp. As Bartholomew was shoved forward, he heard the lap of water.

‘Wait!’ he cried, trying to struggle free of the soldiers who held him. ‘We will drown.’

‘You will not,’ snapped Odo. ‘I doubt it is more than ankle deep.’

Chozaico’s response was kinder. ‘I will send word of your whereabouts when we reach the coast, just in case you have not been rescued. You will not be here more than a day or two.’

‘We may not live that long,’ shouted Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. ‘The river is rising, and water will pour into–’

‘We did not say it would be comfortable,’ said Odo, becoming impatient. ‘But it is better than what Wy had in mind. Besides, Bestiary Hall is two hundred years old – it would not have survived so long if it was liable to flood. You will be perfectly safe.’

One of the soldiers gave Bartholomew a shove that propelled him down the stairs faster than was comfortable, especially in the dark, and he was hard pressed to keep his balance. He did not descend all the way, and turned after he had staggered down five or six steps.

‘Traitors,’ snarled Langelee, when it was his turn to be prised through the door.

‘We cannot be traitors,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘England is not our country, and we have never professed to be anything other than loyal to France. But Wy was right – time is passing, and you are going in the cellar whether you like it or not. Please do not make us use force.’

Michael stalked past him with his head held high, flinging off the soldiers who attempted to assist him, although Langelee fought wildly. But even the burly Master could not hold out against so many, and it was not long before all three scholars were through the door. Once they were, Chozaico sketched a blessing at them, but then hesitated.

‘The answer to Huntington, Sir William’s shooting and Zouche’s chantry lies in Myton,’ he said, glancing behind him uneasily, as if he feared his warriors’ disapprobation. ‘I am not sure why. However, the day before he died, he came to talk to me. I realise now that it was because he had learned what we had been doing, and wanted to confirm details before taking action.’

‘And?’ snapped Langelee, starting to move up the stairs again.

‘And he made a sort of confession,’ Chozaico went on quickly, raising his hand when his men reached for their weapons. ‘He was a deeply troubled man, and I did my best to comfort him, but I did not understand what he needed. I was left with the impression that he might have taken something, and it troubled his conscience. Regardless, perhaps this knowledge will help you win Huntington.’

‘Why should you care about that?’ demanded Langelee.

Chozaico smiled wanly. ‘Let us say it is to compensate you for not catching your French spies.’

And then the door slammed, plunging the cellar into darkness.