Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 11

Langelee elbowed Bartholomew and Michael out of the way, and began kicking and pounding on the door for all he was worth. But it had been built to last, and his assault made no impression whatsoever. His lack of success caused his efforts to grow more frenzied and less systematic. Knowing no sensible discussion could take place until the Master’s fury was spent, Bartholomew put the time to use by descending the stairs to explore their prison.

He was alarmed when he reached water almost immediately. In the pitch darkness, he rested one hand against the wall for balance, and moved down to the next step, to gauge how deeply the place was flooded. After three stairs, it was past his knees, and by six, when he finally reached the bottom, it was almost to his chest. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he pushed away from the stairway, and began to wade forward.

He could touch the ceiling by raising his hands above his head, and it sloped at the far end, forcing him to stoop. The walls and floor were stone, and with the exception of several narrow grilles – through which water was pouring at an alarming rate – there was no other opening except the door. The basement had originally been built to store foodstuffs, and he found three cheeses and several hunks of smoked meat suspended from the ceiling in cloths. They would not starve. However, the water was rising fast, and he wondered how long it would be before they would drown.

He began to grope his way back towards the door, using Langelee’s racket as a beacon. Then the Master stopped his assault abruptly, and all that could be heard was water surging through the vents. It echoed eerily.

‘The only way out is through the door,’ Bartholomew called. There was no answer, and he found himself disoriented, uncertain which way to go. ‘Brother?’

‘Is there anything to eat?’ came the monk’s voice.

In other circumstances, Bartholomew might have laughed, but he was far too cold and fraught for levity. As he waded, he wished he had stayed in the dry, because the lower half of his body was numb, and the water smelled rank. Moreover, his fingers brushed against something furry, and he knew it was a rat, driven from its nest by the rising tide. He jerked away in revulsion.

‘The door is too thick to batter down.’ Langelee sounded angry and dispirited in equal measure. ‘And it is secured from the other side by a bar. Ergo, the only way we are going to leave is if someone lets us out.’

Shivering, Bartholomew reached the stairs and clambered up them, eager to be out of the wet. He climbed as high as he could, jostling with Langelee for a place at the top. Once there, he rubbed his legs hard in an effort to warm them.

‘Chozaico has left me here to die,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘Me, a fellow Benedictine!’

‘Actually, I believed him when he said he would send word when he reached the coast,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall be rescued then, if not before.’

‘But we might be drowned by then,’ said Michael, an edge of panic in his voice. ‘Odo said Bestiary Hall is not liable to flood, but he is clearly wrong. It would have been better if he had killed us upstairs, because this fate will be far worse. I cannot swim!’

‘We will not die,’ said Langelee with grim determination. ‘I have things to report to Thoresby and Longton, and I cannot do that if I am a corpse. I want them to know they have been nursing a nest of vipers in their bosom all these years.’

‘They will know eventually,’ said Michael weakly. ‘Matt asked Marmaduke to tell the Abbot, and we left those documents in the library.’

Langelee’s laughter was bitter. ‘Bartholomew did not have time to explain all we had learned to that stupid ex-priest, and Multone has heard accusations against Holy Trinity before. He will ignore them. And if you think anyone is going to find anything in that library…’

‘We left the box sitting on a shelf,’ argued Michael. ‘In plain view.’

‘You think it will be there now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The fact that it was there this afternoon, but not this morning, suggests that someone intended it to be found at a specific point in time – wanted us to come here and confront Chozaico, knowing we would be bested.’

‘Talerand?’ asked Langelee. ‘Fournays? Dalfeld? Multone and Oustwyk? One of the vicars-choral? Gisbyrn or Longton? God knows, we have enough suspects.’

‘Well, whoever it is,’ said Bartholomew grimly, ‘he is cleverer than us.’

When Langelee, in angry frustration, turned his attention to the door again, Bartholomew joined in, hoping the exercise would drive the numbing chill from his body. It worked for a while, but the creeping cold began again when he stopped. They sat in silence, listening to the sound of the water change as the cellar filled.

‘Perhaps you are right, Brother,’ said Langelee eventually. ‘We will drown. And that is a pity, because I have much to offer the world.’

‘We all do,’ said Michael. Suddenly, he squawked and flailed around violently, drenching his companions in spray. ‘Something touched my leg!’

‘Rats,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘They are being driven out of their dens by–’

‘Please keep such hypotheses to yourself,’ pleaded Michael. ‘I do not want to hear. And I do not want to think about our predicament, either, so we shall talk about something else. Tell me what you thought about our confrontation with Chozaico.’

‘I think he is a genius to have outwitted us for so many years,’ obliged Langelee. ‘And I am all admiration for the scale of his deception. I visited Holy Trinity many times when I lived here, but it never once occurred to me that his monks were actually soldiers. I shall never forgive myself for defending this place when the mob attacked.’

‘Even if Abbot Multone does believe Marmaduke, Chozaico will still escape,’ said Michael. ‘As we discovered earlier, everyone is too preoccupied with saving the city to worry about spies.’

‘I am not sure Marmaduke was the best person to tell, anyway,’ said Bartholomew resignedly. ‘Wy said he was a man to watch, and then started muttering about him, the plague pit at St Mary ad Valvas, and Cotyngham.’

‘The church where Sir William was shot,’ mused Michael, heaving his bulk on to a higher step. It meant Bartholomew was crushed, but he did not complain, grateful for the warmth of the monk’s body against his legs. ‘The sooner it is demolished, the better. Not only is it an eyesore, but Helen was right when she said it is cursed – it seems to attract evil happenings.’

‘Cynric does not think it is haunted,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite the fact that he is the first to detect questionable atmospheres–’

‘Then Cynric is wrong,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because even I sense something nasty about the place.’

They lapsed into silence again, Bartholomew’s teeth chattering so violently that he feared they might crack. Then he began to drowse, and when Langelee spoke, startling him awake, he had no idea how much time had passed. He was immediately aware that something had changed, though: it was the sound of the water, which had gone from gushing to a low roar.

‘Something has broken,’ explained Langelee. ‘The river has burst its banks, or some reservoir of water has been released. The cellar is filling faster now.’

Bartholomew knew Langelee was right when Michael shifted positions and he could hear that the monk was sitting in water. He tried to force himself to think, although he had stopped shivering and there was a warm glow in the core of his being that he knew was illusory.

‘Does anyone want to make a final confession?’ asked Michael. ‘Because if so, he might want to do it now, while I am still in a fit state to grant absolution. Matt will have to swim to the far end of the room while I hear yours, Master, because I imagine you have plenty to get off your chest.’

‘I am not swimming anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of becoming trapped somewhere and suffocating against the ceiling. ‘Besides, listening will pass the time.’

‘I am not telling you two my sins,’ growled Langelee, adding haughtily, ‘Such few as they are. Bartholomew’s will be far greater.’

The physician had no idea what should have given him this notion, when he had not been the one who had performed unsavoury favours for high-ranking churchmen. Suddenly, the water changed its sound once again. It was no longer a roar, but an odd kind of gurgle, and he could only assume that the grilles were now underwater. He tried to work out whether this meant the rate of flow would reduce, but his mind was too sluggish for complex calculations.

‘When we escape, the first thing I am going to do is run to the library and collect that box,’ said Langelee, although his defeated tone told his Fellows that he did not expect to be in a position to do any such thing. ‘With luck, whoever left the documents for us to find will not have recovered them yet. Then I am going to make Thoresby listen to me, and lead a posse to catch Chozaico.’

‘And I shall go to St Mary ad Valvas,’ said Michael. ‘Wy’s confidences, such as they were, suggest something is to be found there – something that ties together Cotyngham, Huntington, Myton and the shooting of Sir William.’

‘Chozaico was right: the solution to all our mysteries does lie in Myton,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to think clearly. ‘We have been hearing about him ever since we arrived…’

‘He was a good man,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘However, as it was he who revealed the fiasco surrounding the lost list of spies, perhaps we should look into his life. And his death.’

‘He was said to have been venerable and discreet,’ added Michael. ‘But I am beginning to wonder if we should accept William’s interpretation of what that means: haughty and secretive.’

‘No,’ said Langelee immediately. Then he sighed. ‘Complex and clever, perhaps, but not secretive. And I never met a man more deeply loyal to Zouche and to York.’

Bartholomew was growing sleepy again, but knew it had nothing to do with tiredness and a great deal to do with the heat that was being leached from his body. He forced himself to his feet and began kicking the door again, determined not to let himself slide into a fatal doze just yet.

As he battered, the faces of those he loved flitted through his mind, starting with Matilde, and followed by his sister. Then came his friends at Michaelhouse, and the patients who declined to be treated by anyone else. And his students. Who would finish their training if he was not there?

At that point, something knocked into the door from the other side, and with a wave of despair, he realised the floodwaters must have invaded that room, too, and had washed a barrel or some other floatable object against it. He kicked again, to vent his rage at the futility of it all, and was startled when there were two answering thumps. There were voices, too.

Michael was quicker to understand what it meant than the physician. He leapt to his feet and began hammering and yelling for all he was worth. Within moments, there came the sound of the bar being removed, and the door was hauled open to reveal the startled faces of Abbot Multone and Warden Stayndrop. And behind them, equally astonished, was Prior Penterel of the Carmelites.

Langelee did not dash immediately to the library, and Michael did not go to St Mary ad Valvas, because both were far too cold. With calm efficiency, Penterel lit a fire, while Stayndrop piled it with logs. Meanwhile, Multone rummaged among the heaps of supplies, and emerged with armfuls of dry clothes. The habit he discovered was tight and short on Michael, but the monk donned it gratefully anyway, while the huge range of secular garments available for Bartholomew and Langelee underlined just how often Chozaico’s intelligencers must have used Bestiary Hall as a base from which to prowl the town in civilian garb, gathering information.

‘The flood?’ Bartholomew asked, feeling warmth seep back into his body. He was sitting so close to the fire that he was in danger of setting himself alight, but he did not care. He wished his wits were sharper, though, and declined the wine Multone offered. A glance towards the window told him it was dark, and he wondered how long they had been trapped in the basement.

Multone sighed. ‘The Foss has invaded the south-eastern part of the city, and the Ouse has burst its western banks. Our nunnery is lost, I am afraid – Prioress Alice and her ladies are homeless, although the water is not very deep anywhere as yet.’

‘But the tidal surge is expected soon,’ added Stayndrop. ‘And then we shall see.’

‘Is it Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Already?’

Stayndrop nodded. ‘It will be light soon.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Langelee. ‘How did you know to rescue us?’

‘Stayndrop and I met Chozaico on the Ouse Bridge last night,’ explained Multone. ‘We begged him to attend our emergency conference in the minster, but he demurred, saying he had other urgent business. Then he gave us a letter for Prior Penterel, which he insisted we deliver in person with all possible speed.’

‘But we had better things to do than act as his messenger-boys,’ said Stayndrop indignantly. ‘So we went about our own affairs, and I forgot about the matter until I met Multone not long ago.’

‘Rather guiltily, we thought we had better do as he had asked.’ Multone took up the tale. ‘Even though it meant going to the Carmelite Priory.’

‘The letter urged me to hurry to Bestiary Hall immediately,’ said Penterel, gamely overlooking the slur on his foundation. ‘And to look in the cellar.’

‘Naturally, Stayndrop and I were intrigued,’ said Multone. ‘So we decided to accompany him. But I do not understand. What were you doing down there?’

‘He must have seen the rising water,’ said Michael to Langelee, after he had furnished their rescuers with a brief account of what had happened. ‘And he knew we would be in danger. He risked capture by making arrangements to set us free so soon – it was hardly his fault that the attempt was delayed. Will you go after him?’

Langelee started to nod, then sighed. ‘Later. He gave us a chance, so now I feel obliged to give him one. I wonder why he did it?’

‘We cannot stay here much longer,’ said Penterel, beginning to edge towards the door. ‘I want to be in my own convent when this high tide invades.’

‘We all do,’ nodded Abbot Multone, standing abruptly. ‘And we need to shepherd as many people inside our precincts as possible, so that when these waters arrive, folk will be safe.’

‘We Franciscans have already started,’ said Stayndrop. ‘So have the Dominicans, Gilbertines and Augustinians. Indeed, I suspect Holy Trinity will be the only foundation to remain closed.’

‘If this surge does come, York will need all the refuges it can get,’ said Langelee, suddenly all brisk business. ‘Send for Alice and her nuns, Abbot Multone – they are homeless, so they can open Holy Trinity in Chozaico’s stead. They are Benedictines, after all. And I shall help.’

‘That is an excellent idea,’ said Multone gratefully.

Langelee turned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘York was my home for a long time, and I owe it to the place to make sure Alice knows what she is doing. You two must go to the library and take those documents to Thoresby. But hurry – the security of your country is at stake.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Langelee to cope with refugees alone, but understood it was important to retrieve the evidence that would convict the spies before it disappeared. Michael sketched a blessing after the Master, and they watched him dart away to where Holy Trinity was a forbidding black mass in the gloom. Then they began striding towards the bridge.

The main road was still crammed with people and animals, all confusion and noise. The water was barely ankle deep, and Bartholomew supposed it had been simple bad luck that they had been incarcerated in the one room in Bestiary Hall that was prone to flood. He glanced up at the sky: dawn was a twilighty glimmer through thick grey clouds.

‘Did Marmaduke come to you with a message?’ he asked of Multone as they went. ‘Telling you to bring armed lay-brothers?’

‘No,’ replied Multone, surprised. ‘Not that I would have been able to oblige anyway – they are too busy with the displaced hordes. Indeed, I should be there now, calming the panic and leading prayers…’

‘We all should,’ said Stayndrop. He was clutching Penterel’s hand to steady himself, and Multone was gripping the Carmelite’s other arm. People were pointing at the unusual sight of a Franciscan and a Benedictine accepting help from a White Friar, and Bartholomew wondered whether their example would begin to heal the damage Wy’s malice had wrought through the years.

They had not gone far when they met Jorden, wet, dirty and harried. The Dominican paddled towards them, and began to speak in an agitated gabble.

‘There is something I should tell you. I only remembered it last night – the first opportunity I have had to consider matters other than theology for an age, because Mardisley is a very demanding opponent. If I let my mind wander for an instant, he–’

‘Tell us what?’ interrupted Michael curtly, eager to be on his way.

‘It is about the codicil giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. I am afraid it does not exist. If my mind had not been so full of the Immaculate Conception, I might have recalled sooner–’

Michael was becoming impatient. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The clerk charged to draw up the deed was a Dominican, and I was his assistant at the time. We obliged, but Zouche kept ordering us to redraft it – he wanted to ensure it was absolutely right, you see, so as to safeguard Cotyngham. He discussed the wording with all manner of people, and the business took weeks.’

‘Are you saying it was never finished?’ asked Michael, alarmed. ‘That it is incomplete?’

‘We did finish, but Zouche died before it could be signed. Because it was effectively worthless, we scraped the parchment clean, and used it for something else. Ergo, you will never find the codicil, because it does not exist. It never did – at least, not in a form that could help you.’

‘But Radeford found it,’ objected Michael.

‘Impossible,’ said Jorden firmly. ‘But we had better discuss this later, when there are not people needing my help.’

He sped away before Michael could question him further.

‘Radeford suspected there was something amiss with what he found,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Michael about to dismiss Jorden’s testimony. ‘He said as much – told us he wanted to study it carefully before showing it to anyone else.’

‘But who would forge a document giving us Huntington? It makes no sense!’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone who does not like the vicars-choral.’

‘Speaking of Radeford, what did your book-bearer mean when he said he would soon follow him?’ asked Multone, as they resumed their precarious journey. The water was filthy and it stank; Bartholomew was profoundly grateful that the day was still too dark to allow him to see why. ‘He called out as I passed him not long ago, and asked me to give you the message.’

Bartholomew stopped abruptly and stared at him. ‘What?’

‘He was with Marmaduke,’ elaborated Multone. ‘Walking arm-in-arm. He tried to say something else, too, but Marmaduke was in a hurry and would not let him finish.’

‘What did he start to say?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking with such intensity that the Abbot took a step away from him.

‘I am not sure. He was calling over his shoulder, and we were near the minster, which was noisy.’

‘Please try to remember,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘It is important.’

‘I thought he mentioned St Mary ad Valvas, but I probably misheard. Why would he be making reference to that horrible place?’

‘What is wrong, Matt?’ asked Michael, alarmed by the physician’s reaction.

‘Cynric,’ replied Bartholomew, stomach churning in alarm. ‘Marmaduke has him.’

The physician began wading quickly towards the bridge. He stumbled when he trod on some unseen obstacle beneath the surface, and the time spent regaining his balance allowed Michael to catch him up.

‘Explain,’ ordered the monk, grabbing his arm to make him slow down. ‘How do you know Marmaduke has Cynric? And what do you mean by “has” anyway?’

‘Cynric is not in the habit of wandering about arm-inarm with strangers,’ replied Bartholomew, freeing himself roughly and ploughing onwards again. ‘So there is only one explanation: Marmaduke was holding him close because he had a knife at his ribs. And the message Cynric gave the Abbot…’

‘That he would soon follow Radeford,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What did–’

‘Radeford is dead!’ shouted Bartholomew, exasperated by the monk’s slow wits. ‘So Cynric was telling us that he will soon be dead, too. Why could Multone not have mentioned this the moment we were released? We wasted ages chatting about nonsense while Cynric was in danger!’

‘Steady,’ warned Michael soothingly. ‘We will save him. Multone was probably right when he thought he heard Cynric mention St Mary ad Valvas, because we know the place is home to all manner of sinister activities. We shall go there straight…’

He faltered, because they had reached the bridge, which was the scene of almost indescribable chaos. The volume of water racing beneath it was making the entire structure vibrate, and the sound was deafening. Its houses had been evacuated, but the frightened residents had refused to go far, and stood in disconsolate huddles, blocking the road for pedestrians and carts alike. Meanwhile, Mayor Longton had ordered the bridge closed, and a mass of frantic humanity swirled about its entrance, desperate to reach friends and family on the other side.

Bartholomew started to fight his way through them, but the crowd was too tightly packed, and with horror he saw it was going to prevent him from racing to Cynric’s aid. But he had reckoned without the powerful bulk of Michael, and the combined authority of Abbot Multone, Warden Stayndrop and Prior Penterel. The monk was able to force a path where Bartholomew could not, and the other three quelled objections by dispensing grand-sounding blessings in Latin that had folk bowing their heads to receive them.

‘You cannot cross,’ said the soldier on duty, putting out his hand when they reached the front of the melee. ‘It is about to collapse.’

‘But we must,’ cried Michael. ‘We have urgent business on the other side.’

‘Urgent enough to cost you your life?’ asked the guard archly.

‘Yes!’ shouted Bartholomew, shoving past him and beginning to run. He staggered when the bridge swayed under his feet, but then raced on, closing his ears to the unsettling sound of groaning timbers from the houses as the structure flexed. He glanced behind him to see that Michael, Stayndrop, Multone and Penterel had followed, and were close on his heels.

They were over in a trice, only to find their way blocked by a desperate crowd on the other side, all standing knee deep in water that made it impossible to see where land began and river ended. Again, Michael shouldered his way through them, while the three heads of houses prevented him and Bartholomew from being lynched by bestowing benedictions.

Once free of the press, Bartholomew hesitated, not sufficiently familiar with the layout of the streets to know where to tread – it would be very easy to step into a ditch or a runnel and be swept towards the churning river.

There was a cry behind him, and he whipped around to see Stayndrop gaping in dismay – water had invaded his priory. Penterel clapped a comforting arm around his shoulders and led him towards it, while Multone had already disappeared to his own abbey. Bartholomew glanced back at the bridge, and saw guards struggling to prevent people from storming across it; he hoped he had not set a precedent that would end in tragedy.

But it was no time to berate himself, so he aimed for a gap in the houses that he hoped was a lane leading towards Petergate, stumbling to his knees when he tried to move too quickly and the water tripped him. He staggered on, only to fall a second time when a crate washed into him. Suddenly, there was a flurry of warning yells, and the water grew much deeper and faster.

‘Another burst bank,’ muttered Michael, hauling Bartholomew upright by the scruff of his neck. ‘Hurry, or we shall both be swept away.’

They struggled on, relieved to find the water shallowing as they moved north. By St Sampson’s Church, there was no evidence of it at all, although the ground squelched underfoot. It was where they had first met Marmaduke, and gasping for breath, Bartholomew lurched inside, wanting to be sure the ex-priest had not taken his prisoner there.

It was full of people praying that the flood would abate before it reached them. Belongings were piled in heaps along the aisles, and mothers cradled frightened children. But there was no sign of Marmaduke, and a harried parish priest informed them that he had not been there all night.

‘And his help would have been appreciated,’ he said bitterly. ‘He has been in here every other day, guarding Sampson’s toe. Why did he have to choose today to disappear?’

Bartholomew had no time to explain. He turned and ran. Michael, who had been clinging to the doorpost in an effort to catch his breath, began to follow.

‘You are going the wrong way,’ the monk gasped, but Bartholomew ignored him, then spent several agonising moments in a dead end, and was obliged to retrace his steps. He tried to make up for lost time by taking what he thought was a shortcut, but then became hopelessly lost in the tangle of alleys that had confounded him and Radeford on their first day in the city. When he finally emerged on the right road, Michael was some distance ahead.

Petergate was packed with people, animals and carts, most aiming for the sanctuary offered by the minster. They were greeted at the precinct gates by vicars-choral, who dispensed practical advice and directions to where they could be fed and dried out.

‘Wait!’ gasped Michael, as the physician shot past him. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm, and swung him around. ‘Do not make the same mistake as Langelee by racing blindly into a situation you do not understand. What is your plan?’

Bartholomew twisted away, unwilling to admit that he did not have one, but that his bag contained several surgical knives, and he did not imagine Marmaduke capable of besting him and the book-bearer at the same time. He did not let himself think that Marmaduke was clearly no stranger to combat if he had overpowered as competent and seasoned a warrior as Cynric.

He powered into the door of St Mary ad Valvas with his shoulder, hoping it was rotten enough to splinter, because he possessed neither the skill nor the patience to pick the lock. But the door was not secured at all, and he found himself staggering, hopelessly off balance, as he flew inside. And then he sagged in dismay. The church was empty.

St Mary ad Valvas was calm and still after the hectic commotion outside. A few bedraggled pigeons cooed in the fractured roof, and rain splattered from a broken gutter on to the chancel floor, but it was otherwise silent. It seemed more dank and dismal than ever in the cold, grey light of early morning, and it reeked of decay and mildew.

‘Where is he?’ Bartholomew whispered, as the monk caught up. ‘Where would Marmaduke have taken Cynric? I have no idea where he lives. How do we find out?’

‘His house is near St Sampson’s,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And I checked it while you were messing about in dead-ended alleys. Neither he nor Cynric were there.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, grateful that one of them was still capable of thinking rationally.

Michael pushed past him, and began to inspect the church more carefully, while Bartholomew slumped against a wall, his mind filled with tortured images of Cynric waiting for rescue that would never come.

‘He was here,’ called the monk suddenly. ‘Look!’

He had reached the fallen screen that divided nave from chancel, and was pointing at one of the pillars. Cynric had evidently been made to sit at its base: there was a slight indentation in the moss that grew at the bottom, but more importantly, he had managed to take a piece of chalky stone and scratch three letters on it, spelling the first part of his name.

‘And here is one of the abbey’s spades,’ said Michael, rubbing at a design that had been embossed on the wood of the handle. ‘It is soiled, so he was digging for something. But what?’

Bartholomew climbed over the splintered mass of the rood, and entered the chancel. He stopped in shock when he saw that the plague mound had been disturbed – the floor was littered with lumps of rock and scattered earth. The stench of decay was stronger than it had been, too.

‘Did Cynric do this?’ breathed Michael, recoiling in horror. ‘Why would he–’

‘What are you doing?’

Both scholars jumped, and they spun around to see Ellis standing behind them. The sub-chanter had lost his pattens, and his fine shoes were covered in mud. His lips glistened in the gloom.

‘Have you seen Marmaduke today?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Or Cynric?’

‘You should not be in here,’ said Ellis, ignoring the questions. ‘It is not safe with all this rain. The roof is unstable, and the additional weight of sodden timbers might cause it to collapse.’

‘Marmaduke,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘He was in the minster during the night,’ replied Ellis, eyeing them with suspicion. ‘I am not sure why, because he usually prefers the more modest surroundings of St Sampson’s. What is that awful stench? It cannot be the plague grave, surely? Not after all this time.’

Bartholomew stared at the mound. Ellis was right: the smell could not be attributable to the victims who had been buried there ten years before, and who were now no more than bones. Moreover, he was fairly sure the odour did not derive exclusively from the dead pig and cats, either.

‘There must be another body in there!’ he exclaimed in understanding. ‘Cynric–’

‘It cannot be Cynric,’ interrupted Michael quickly. ‘He has not been missing long enough.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Cynric was digging here. Wy mentioned Marmaduke and the plague pit…’

He scrambled up the heap quickly and began to haul away pieces of stone with his hands, not caring that they ripped his fingernails and grazed his skin. Under the slabs was soil, soft and sticky from the rain.

‘Stop!’ cried Ellis in horror. ‘There are victims of the pestilence inside that!’

‘This is what Cynric was doing when Marmaduke found him,’ gasped Bartholomew, grabbing the spade and hacking away the packed earth. ‘He–’

‘Then he had no business,’ snapped Ellis. ‘It might release the Death into York a second time. Come down at once, or I shall summon the minster guards and have you arrested.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael uncomfortably, sure the physician had lost his wits. ‘The last thing we need is another outbreak of the disease. That will certainly not help Cynric.’

Bartholomew ignored them both, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he intensified his efforts, certain he was about to discover a clue that would tell him where Marmaduke had taken his friend.

‘Enough!’ commanded Ellis, irate enough to clamber up the pile after him. ‘You have no right to disturb the dead.’

‘Someone is buried in here,’ rasped Bartholomew. ‘It is–’

‘Of course someone is buried,’ snarled Ellis, reaching out to drag him away. Bartholomew jigged free. ‘The whole thing is a tomb!’

‘The plague dead will be skeletons.’ Struggling to stay out of grabbing distance and dig at the same time, Bartholomew managed to expose a leg. He fought not to gag as the stench of putrefaction rose around him. ‘Look! This is much more recent – no more than a few weeks. It is why there has always been such a rank odour here.’

‘From the animals!’ shouted Ellis, lunging again. ‘The Dean keeps asking the vergers to remove them, but they pretend to forget. I do not blame them: toting maggot-ridden pigs and cats is–’

‘I suspect they were brought here at the same time as this man,’ interrupted Bartholomew, scrambling to where the corpse’s head should be. ‘To disguise any odour emanating from him.’

‘This is nonsense!’ yelled Ellis. He tried to drag the physician away, but Michael seized the hem of his cloak and yanked him back. ‘Your behaviour is disgraceful. I will see you fined so heavily that you will beg me to take Huntington, to pay the price of–’

‘There!’ said Bartholomew, stepping aside suddenly. He had exposed the face of a man who had possessed a shock of thick grey hair, although its time in the mound had turned it filthy and tangled. The skin was dark with decay, but not enough to make him unrecognisable to anyone who had known him in life.

‘Cotyngham!’ exclaimed Ellis in astonishment. ‘What in God’s name is he doing here? He is supposed to be in the Franciscan Priory.’

There was silence after Ellis’s blurted announcement. In the distance, bells rang, but it was not a time when offices should be said, so Bartholomew could only suppose they were sounding an alarm. Perhaps the tide had started to surge, and people were being warned to head for higher ground. Would St Mary ad Valvas be safe, or would its crumbling walls be swept away by the encroaching waters?

‘It cannot be Cotyngham,’ said Michael. ‘He escaped from the friary two nights ago, but Matt says this fellow has been dead for weeks.’

‘It is Cotyngham,’ said Ellis shakily. ‘I recognise his hair and the ring on his finger.’

‘Then who was staying with the Franciscans?’ asked Michael.

‘An imposter,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘It makes perfect sense now. But never mind this. We need to look for Cynric.’

‘Look where?’ demanded Michael. ‘This is a vast city, and we have no idea where to begin. Our best chance of helping him is to assess what we know of Cotyngham – Cynric was excavating him when he was captured, so understanding what brought him here in the first place may point us in the right direction.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced, but took a deep breath to calm himself, and began to speak. ‘When Cotyngham was first taken ill, Fournays ordered him kept in isolation – we were allowed in, but only because Stayndrop was beginning to accept that seclusion was not working.’

‘And because you are a physician,’ added Michael, while Ellis looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘But we had never met Cotyngham, so were not in a position to know whether it was him or not. Stayndrop also admitted to knowing him only slightly, while Fournays told you that he did not know him at all.’

‘I thought there was something odd about the case from the start,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘When we first saw him, “Cotyngham” was blank-eyed and drooling, but his heart was racing. Now I know why: the imposter was terrified that he was about to be unmasked.’

‘We were the first visitors Stayndrop had allowed in. His fear was understandable.’

‘The second time I saw him, he was breathless.’ Every fibre in Bartholomew’s body screamed at him to begin tearing the city apart, and it was not easy to talk calmly. ‘Probably because he had had to rush to don his disguise. I imagine these two incidents prompted his flight…’

Michael nodded. ‘It is one thing to lounge in isolation, comfortably housed and fed, but he was unwilling to risk himself once Stayndrop started admitting visitors. And it explains why Oustwyk saw a “Cotyngham” who was fleet-footed enough to give him the slip.’

‘So what does this tell us?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep his voice steady. ‘That Cotyngham died when Ellis and Cave visited him a month ago, and they buried him here? And then installed an imposter in the friary?’

‘No!’ cried Ellis, his face white. ‘Cotyngham was perfectly well when we left him.’

‘But Cave left part of his shoelace in Cotyngham’s chimney,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘He must have been searching for the codicil…’ He faltered, thinking about what Jorden had claimed.

‘And Cotyngham would not have granted such a liberty if he was alive,’ said Michael quickly, unwilling to share that particular snippet of information with the sub-chanter just yet. ‘Ergo, Cave must have known that Cotyngham was dead.’

‘The lace may have been left after we had learned Cotyngham was ill,’ Ellis flashed back. ‘Cotyngham was not in a position to refuse permission then, either. You cannot use it to prove that Cave knew the man was dead. Or to prove that he killed him, lest you think to try.’

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘You began proceedings to claim Huntington the moment Cotyngham was installed in the infirmary, at a point when there was no reason to assume he would not recover. The only logical explanation is that you knew he would never be in a position to resume his duties. Moreover, there is the testimony of Huntington’s villagers.’

‘What testimony?’ demanded Ellis uneasily.

‘They cleaned his cottage, because they said it smelled, yet Cotyngham kept it neat. I suspect the odour was from his corpse, moved shortly before they were informed that “Cotyngham” was in the infirmary.’ Anxiety for Cynric made Bartholomew brusque. ‘What did you do? Hire someone to impersonate him while you devised a plan that would exonerate you of murder?’

‘No!’ cried Ellis. ‘We have never–’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, cutting across him, and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Keeping Cotyngham secluded was a treatment recommended by Fournays.’

‘No,’ groaned Bartholomew, unwilling to go over old ground. ‘Fournays did not kill Cot–’

‘Hear me out! By his own admission, Fournays has scant experience with ailments of the mind. He was at a loss as to what to do. Then who should come along, to tell him about an uncle who had suffered a similar complaint, and who had been cured by being kept in isolation?’

‘Marmaduke!’ exclaimed Bartholomew.

‘Precisely. And Fournays acted on this advice, being a suggestible, malleable sort of fellow.’

Ellis shook his head in incomprehension. ‘Are you saying that Marmaduke killed Cotyngham and buried him here? And Cave is innocent?’

The relief in his voice was so apparent that Bartholomew regarded him closely. ‘That surprises you! You thought Cave was guilty.’

‘No,’ stated Ellis, although his eyes said otherwise.

Bartholomew pointed to the body in the mound. ‘This is murder, Sub-Chanter Ellis. Murder! You cannot conceal what you know about it.’

Ellis licked his lips, and when he spoke, it was in a mumble. ‘Cave said he had lost his purse in Huntington, and returned the next day to look for it. I confess I may have wondered since then whether he had done something to Cotyngham…’

‘And you told no one?’ demanded Michael.

Ellis spread his hands. ‘I had no proof, and he is one of my vicars. But once we learned that Cotyngham was in the infirmary, he was very vocal in urging me to claim Huntington at once…’

Bartholomew rounded angrily on Michael. ‘You said discussing Cotyngham would help us find Cynric, but all we have done is waste time.’

The monk nodded towards the body. ‘Examine him, and tell us exactly how he died.’

‘Why?’ exploded Bartholomew. ‘We already know that Cave killed–’

‘Cave is almost certainly irrelevant,’ Michael flared back. ‘Cynric was digging here when Marmaduke took him prisoner. Hence Marmaduke objected to what he was about to find, which tells us that Marmaduke knew what was buried. If you want to help Cynric, look at the body.’

Bartholomew had reached the door before accepting that Michael might have a point, and that Cotyngham might hold clues to help Cynric. He hurried back to the plaque mound, scraped the rest of the soil from the corpse, and crouched next to it. This time, Ellis was silent. The physician’s hands shook as he reached out to touch Cotyngham, a combination of cold and strain.

‘It is difficult to tell after so much time,’ he said at last. ‘But his skull is broken. Had he been alive when it happened, the wound would certainly have killed him.’

‘Good,’ said Michael encouragingly. ‘What else?’

‘Nothing else!’ cried Bartholomew in despair. ‘He has been dead too long.’

‘Easy,’ said Michael. ‘Remember that you are helping Cynric by doing this. Now take a deep breath, and look again.’

Bartholomew did as he was told, struggling to quell his rising panic. He stared at Cotyngham, but his thoughts were full of what Marmaduke might be doing to his old friend while they squandered precious moments. Suddenly something occurred to him, although it was nothing to give him any comfort.

‘Marmaduke!’ he whispered. He gazed at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘We know he can use a bow, because he had one during the riot outside Holy Trinity. And if he is familiar enough with this church to take Cynric prisoner here, then there is nothing to say that he is not the archer who shot Sir William.’

‘It is possible,’ conceded Michael. ‘Moreover, he told us himself that his eyesight is poor, and we have considered from the start that the culprit might not have been aiming at William, but at you – a scholar from the College that intends to have Huntington from the vicars.’

‘No!’ cried Ellis angrily. ‘If Marmaduke did try to kill Bartholomew, it was not on our orders. Besides, when we first met you, we thought Bartholomew was a servant, because he was hatless. We did not know he was a scholar until later.’

‘Hats!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as understanding dawned. ‘The first time we met Dalfeld, he was livid because his hat and cloak had been stolen…’

‘You think the intended target was Dalfeld now?’ asked Michael in confusion.

‘Bartholomew and Dalfeld are the same height, and both have black curly hair,’ mused Ellis. ‘Moreover, although Dalfeld is usually elegant, his gipon was stained and ripped that day, because a robber had pushed him over. I can see how they might have been mistaken from a distance, especially by a man with bad eyesight, and when visibility was poor because of the rain.’

‘I had no hat and was carrying my cloak because Cave had lobbed dirt at me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It made a mess, so Sir William told me to take it off. My tunic was travel stained – it might have appeared muddy from afar.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I suppose it is possible that Marmaduke was expecting Dalfeld to come from the direction of the abbey, so when he saw you with William–’

‘He made a mistake,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Or rather, two mistakes: he identified the wrong victim, and he overestimated his skill. It was windy that day, and neither the bow he stole from the city butts nor the hen-feather arrow were of decent quality. All this affected his aim.’

‘And we found the remains of bread and cheese,’ mused Michael. ‘Exactly the kind of meal that might be eaten by an ex-priest without much money – and left by a man who had waited some time for his victim to appear. I was never happy with Langelee’s contention that the would-be assassin might have enjoyed a hurried meal.’

‘But why would Marmaduke want to kill Dalfeld?’ asked Ellis, then he rubbed his chin and answered the question himself. ‘Recently, Dalfeld has been saying that there was more to Marmaduke’s defrocking than the peddling of false relics. And he has a point: the Church does not usually oust members for that sort of crime.’

‘So why did it happen?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew made an agitated sound that said he thought the discussion irrelevant to Cynric.

Ellis shrugged. ‘Probably because he irritated Zouche’s other executors over his obsession with the chantry – he kept pestering them about it. They were powerful men, and I suspect some of them encouraged Thoresby to defrock him, so they would have an excuse to ignore his nagging. But this cannot be a reason for Marmaduke wanting Dalfeld dead. Dalfeld is not an executor.’

‘Listen!’ Bartholomew cocked his head suddenly. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ asked Michael. ‘There is nothing–’

‘A crash.’ Bartholomew looked around wildly. ‘It came from below us. Is there a crypt?’

‘There was,’ replied Ellis. ‘But it became unstable during the Great Pestilence, which is why none of the plague-dead were taken down there. I imagine it will have collapsed by now. But even if it has not, I would not recommend going–’

‘Where is the door?’ demanded Bartholomew, wishing he had thought of it sooner.

When Ellis hesitated, Bartholomew lunged towards him, and there was something in his eyes that warned the sub-chanter to provide a reply, because he pointed quickly to the remains of a metal gate, rusted and twisted. Beyond it were several steps that looked as though they were blocked by rubble, but when Bartholomew inspected them more carefully he saw they actually curved around a corner. And beyond them was a stone door on an elaborate system of tracks.

‘St Mary ad Valvas!’ breathed Michael. ‘I knew the dedication must bear some reference to a sliding door, and there it is.’

Bartholomew was about to suggest they arm themselves, when there was a sudden groan and the door rolled open. Then everything happened very fast.

He felt an arrow slice past his face and the shock of it made him jerk backwards, so he lost his footing. At the same time, something thudded into Ellis, who promptly collapsed on top of him. This was followed by an explosion of shouting and hammering footsteps, which stopped almost as soon as it had started.

The sub-chanter’s blood was gushing all over Bartholomew, whose first instinct was to fight away from the warm, sticky flow. But some innate sense of self-preservation warned him to feign death when hands came to turn him over.

‘I got him,’ said Marmaduke. Bartholomew heard Michael’s strangled cry of grief before the ex-priest addressed someone else. ‘And you got Ellis. Both are dead.’

‘What are you–’ began Michael unsteadily, but his question ended in a yelp.

‘No talking,’ snapped Marmaduke. ‘You should not have come here, so now you must pay the price for your curiosity. But do not worry. You will not have long to contemplate your fate.’