Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 12

It was not easy for Bartholomew to remain limp and keep his eyes closed while he was grabbed by the wrists and hauled unceremoniously down the steps, but he knew he would not live long if he failed – and neither would Michael. Once in the crypt, he was dragged across the floor and deposited in a corner. Moments later, Ellis joined him, although when Bartholomew opened his eyes a fraction, he knew the sub-chanter was not faking his demise: an arrow had taken him in his chest, causing a wound that had, fortunately for Bartholomew, provided enough blood for both of them.

‘Here is your quarrel,’ someone was saying. His tone was far from friendly. ‘The physician must have knocked it out of himself when he fell. You should not leave it lying around.’

‘I planned to collect it on our way out,’ said Marmaduke coolly. ‘I would not have forgotten.’

‘You might. There is much to do today, and it may have slipped your mind.’

‘And what if it did?’ demanded Marmaduke petulantly.

His companion sounded as though he was struggling for patience. ‘Because the last time that happened, it brought Langelee to my door. If the barb had not been damaged as it was extracted from Sir William, it would have identified me as the man who had supplied you with it.’

Bartholomew recalled who had commissioned the hen-feather arrows: Ellis, Dalfeld, Fournays and Gisbyrn. He struggled to recognise the speaker’s voice. Ellis was dead, and it was not sufficiently refined to be Dalfeld or Gisbyrn. Surely he could not have been wrong about the surgeon?

He opened his eyes a little more, then was not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed when he saw Frost – relieved because it exonerated Fournays, and alarmed because Frost was a professional warrior who would not be easy to best. He supposed the arrow had come from Gisbyrn’s supply. Did it mean Gisbyrn was involved in whatever was happening, too? It seemed likely, and Bartholomew could only suppose it was related to trade and the war with Longton.

‘I got my target this time, though,’ said Marmaduke in satisfaction. ‘You were wrong: I am not losing my touch. That was a difficult shot, yet I managed it with ease. Where did I hit him?’

Bartholomew tensed, hoping he would not come to find out.

‘Head,’ replied Frost tersely. ‘Although body shots are better options in these sorts of situations. You might want to remember that in future.’

‘There will be no more killing once this is over,’ said Marmaduke. ‘My soul is too steeped in blood already, although I am not sorry to have added Bartholomew to my tally. He refused to pray over Sampson’s toe.’

There was no reply, and Bartholomew wondered whether he was not the only one who thought the ex-priest had lost his reason. He raised his head slightly, and when he saw no one was looking in his direction, he lifted it a little more and surveyed his surroundings.

The lanterns held by Marmaduke and Frost revealed a low-ceilinged vault, and he could tell from the muted sound of their voices that the walls were thick. The floor was beaten earth, and puddles suggested it was in no better state than the church above – water was oozing through any number of cracks, and piles of masonry showed that there had been collapses in the recent past. Parts of the ceiling were being held up by crude scaffolding that did not look strong enough.

The crypt ran the length of the nave, and coffins or the gauzy forms of shrouded skeletons filled every available scrap of space. It was eerie, and Bartholomew glanced quickly at the door, relieved to see it had been left partly open. He was not usually sensitive to atmospheres, but he did not like the notion of being sealed inside a tomb by a heavy stone portal.

The lamplight also revealed that Frost and Marmaduke had brought help in the form of two soldiers. Bartholomew’s heart sank. He might have managed Frost and Marmaduke with planning and luck, but he could not best soldiers, too. He would be cut down in an instant, and then Michael would also die.

He glanced at the monk, who had been bound, gagged and forced to sit at the base of a pillar. He sighed his relief when he saw who was next to him, similarly secured. Cynric was sobbing, which surprised him: the Welshman did not weep easily. It was only when the book-bearer shot an agonised glance in his direction that he realised the tears were for him.

‘This is a sorry turn of events,’ snapped Frost, pacing in agitation. He scowled at his men. ‘You were supposed to be guarding him, so how did he come to kick that coffin over?’

Next to Cynric were the shattered remains of a casket, which he had used to tell his friends where he was, although his stricken expression said the rescue had not gone quite as he had anticipated.

‘It is a pity,’ sighed Marmaduke. ‘Because now we have no choice but to kill Brother Michael, and I had hoped he could be spared. But we shall ensure that Langelee goes home with Huntington, so I doubt Michaelhouse will grieve for long.’

‘So what happens now?’ Frost was tense and unhappy, and when there was a hiss of crumbling mortar, he whipped around with a knife in his hand.

‘We wait,’ replied Marmaduke calmly. ‘They will be here soon. Do not allow yourself to become anxious – it is almost over.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. Who was Gisbyrn going to bring with him? More of his merchant cronies? Talerand? Multone or Oustwyk, whose interest in the scholars’ investigations had seemed suspect from the start? Dalfeld, with his reputation for ruthless cunning?

‘It will be over sooner than you think if we stay down here,’ growled Frost, glancing uneasily at the ceiling. ‘The place is unsafe, and we should wait upstairs.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the soldiers, and Marmaduke scowled. ‘We cannot risk being seen. We had a close call with Cynric, and we are lucky I was able to catch him when he ran, or our plans would have been foiled there and then.’

The soldiers exchanged glances, and one fingered the purse at his waist with a shrug. The meaning was clear: they were being well paid, and it was not for them to question their employers. For a moment, the only sounds were trickling water, Cynric’s sobs and Frost’s pacing, but then there was an echoing crack, followed by a rumble from the far end of the crypt. Moments later, a billow of dust wafted towards them.

‘It has started,’ said Frost, his voice tight with tension. ‘I told you yesterday that this vile place would not survive all this rain. We should leave before–’

‘Before what?’ came a voice from the stairs. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as he recognised Helen’s curvaceous form. She smiled at Frost. ‘Surely you were not thinking of abandoning me before we have finished our work? Are you?’

As Helen glided down the steps, Marmaduke scuttled towards her, furnishing her with a somewhat garbled account of why Michael and Cynric were prisoners, and Bartholomew and Ellis were dead. Bartholomew’s heart pounded when she took a lamp and came to inspect him, so hard that he thought she must surely be able to hear it.

‘Pity,’ she said softly. ‘I liked him best. Was it really necessary to shoot him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Frost shortly, and Bartholomew was under the impression that if Marmaduke had not done it, the henchman would have obliged. ‘And if you want your plan to work, Michael and Cynric must die, too.’

Her plan, thought Bartholomew, relieved when she moved away, taking the lantern with her. Then it occurred to him that Frost was much more likely to follow the woman he loved down a dubious path than Gisbyrn. But what plan? And why must it necessitate their deaths?

‘I suppose so,’ said Helen with a rueful sigh, and Bartholomew saw her shoot an apologetic glance at Michael. The monk gazed back stonily.

‘Marmaduke thinks we should stay down here,’ said Frost, to reclaim her attention. ‘But it is unsafe. We should wait upstairs.’

‘Right is on our side,’ said Helen simply. ‘No harm will come to us, because we have the saints’ protection. But I need to know exactly what the scholars have learned, so we can take steps to mitigate the damage.’

‘I eavesdropped on their discussion.’ Frost was delighted to curry favour, and provided a concise account of all that had been reasoned about Cotyngham’s murder and the attempt on Dalfeld’s life. When Helen nodded approvingly, he flushed with pleasure.

‘Clearly, Ellis and the scholars were ignorant when they arrived, so the only question that remains is why he came,’ said Helen, looking hard at Cynric. With a nod, she indicated that Frost was to remove the gag from the book-bearer’s mouth.

Bartholomew looked around desperately for something he might use as a weapon, but he had dropped his medical bag and neglected to take his sword from Holy Trinity. He had nothing. Moving with infinite care, he reached towards Ellis, hoping the sub-chanter would have a knife in his belt. Most men did, even vicars, for cutting meat and paring fruit.

‘Well?’ demanded Helen. When Cynric only regarded her defiantly, she turned to the soldiers. ‘Cut off Brother Michael’s ears.’

‘No!’ shouted Cynric, when one warrior grabbed Michael’s head and the other drew a dagger. Bartholomew could only watch in horror. ‘Wait! I came because people kept telling me this place is cursed. But it is not.’

‘No?’ asked Helen coldly. ‘What makes you think so, when I have been to considerable trouble to make people believe it is?’

Bartholomew recalled that she had been the one who had first mentioned the tale to them, and that she had repeated it several times since.

‘Because I would have felt it,’ replied Cynric simply. ‘St Mary ad Valvas is sad, not haunted. So I came to see why someone should have invented such a story, and I noticed that the rubble on the top of the plague pile was different to that below – there was less moss and different weeds. The only explanation is that it was added later.’

‘So you decided to dig,’ surmised Helen. ‘Poking, where you should not have done.’

Now Bartholomew understood exactly why she had started the rumours: derelict buildings were a free source of raw materials, but she had not wanted anyone to raid St Mary ad Valvas, lest they discovered what was buried in the chancel. Of course, he still did not know why she should have hidden Cotyngham there, given that it had almost certainly been Cave who had murdered him.

Michael had been struggling with his gag while the conversation was taking place, and had managed to spit it out. Bartholomew was relieved. Perhaps the monk would talk sense into her.

‘Let Cynric go,’ Michael said quietly. ‘He has done nothing wrong.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Helen. She sounded sincere. ‘But I am afraid it is impossible.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael.

‘Because I am righting a terrible wrong,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘I am sorry blood must be spilled in the process, especially yours, but we are not the ones who started it. My conscience is clear.’

‘Longton?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it something to do with the feud between him and Gisbyrn?’

‘You would not understand.’ Helen turned to Frost. ‘Is all ready?’

The henchman nodded. ‘A few judiciously aimed strokes with a mallet will make the scaffolding collapse, and the crypt will go with it. You were right to choose today to act: not only is everyone preoccupied with the floods, but rain will be blamed for destabilising the church, too. No one will suspect sabotage, and none of our victims will ever be found.’

There was a brief silence, during which Frost and the soldiers gazed uneasily at the ceiling, Helen smiled with a serenity that was unnerving, and Marmaduke’s face was lit with a grin that made him look deranged. Eventually, Helen turned her beatific expression on the ex-priest.

‘Where are Anketil and Dalfeld? There is no point demolishing the place if they are not in it.’

‘You intend to kill them, too?’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘But why?’

‘They are a risk we do not need to take, Helen,’ said Frost, ignoring him. ‘Let me bring down the church now, and we can deal with Dalfeld and Anketil later. This is not a good–’

‘It will happen as I say,’ said Helen curtly. Stung by the rebuke, Frost fell silent.

Michael was staring at Marmaduke. ‘Why do you want Dalfeld dead? We know you have already tried to kill him once – and Sir William paid the price – but what has he done to make you hate him? Surely it is not because he is interested to know why you were defrocked?’

Marmaduke did not deign to reply, and addressed Helen instead. ‘I sent him a message, urging him to come. I told him I wanted to make a confession – he is still a friar, after all – and that he was the only one who would understand. He will take the bait, because his curiosity will be piqued.’

‘And I invited Anketil,’ added Frost ingratiatingly. ‘I promised him a handsome benefaction for Holy Trinity if he hurries here at once, so he will not be long, either.’

‘Anketil will not be coming,’ interjected Michael, to reclaim their attention. ‘He is dead.’

Helen gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! How can he be dead?’

‘It is a complex story.’ Michael indicated his bound hands. ‘So untie me, and let us repair to more conducive surroundings for–’

Helen darted towards him with such venom that he flinched. ‘You will tell me now.’

‘He was a French spy,’ explained Michael quickly. ‘So was Wy, who stabbed him.’

‘Anketil a spy?’ breathed Helen, shocked. ‘Then the tales about the monks at Holy Trinity are true? I always assumed they were spiteful rumours. But no matter. Dalfeld can still die here, and–’

‘It was you!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. Bartholomew paused in his efforts to locate Ellis’s knife, wondering what was coming. ‘Gisbyrn inherited all Myton’s belongings, to discharge the debts he was owed. The letters in that rosewood box were among them. You left them in the library! Why? So we would chase traitors, and leave you alone!’

Helen’s confusion seemed genuine. ‘There was something about spies in that box?’

‘It makes sense now,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘As Gisbyrn’s friend, you have access to his house. You were able to lay hold of Myton’s box, and leave it for us to find.’

‘Yes – so you could see whether Myton had owned a copy of the codicil,’ explained Helen. ‘I told you: I want your College to have Huntington. I did not have time to plough through all that rubbish myself, and so I thought you could do it.’

‘I listened outside the door, you see,’ said Marmaduke smugly. ‘And I heard the Dean tell you that one desk looked more promising than the others. I mentioned it to Lady Helen, and we put the box there, so you would think you had stumbled on it by chance.’

‘Except that it immediately aroused our suspicions,’ said Michael in disdain. ‘We are not stupid, to assume we missed the thing earlier. But why the subterfuge? Why not just give it to us?’

Helen stared at him. ‘Yes, I suppose that would have been best, but it did not occur to me.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Frost, when there was a low, eerie groan from the ceiling. ‘We may not have to smash the scaffolding – the place is ready to come down on its own. Forget Dalfeld. I will deal with him later.’

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Michael. He sounded tired and defeated, as if he knew words were a waste of time. ‘I have no idea why we are here, or what you intend to do.’

‘Then ask me,’ said Helen pleasantly. ‘I have nothing better to do for a few moments. But when Dalfeld arrives, you will have to die. I am sorry, but it cannot be helped.’

‘Mother of God!’ muttered Frost tightly to himself. ‘More chatter?’

Aware that time was running out fast, Bartholomew intensified his search for Ellis’s knife. Anxiety and tension were on the verge of making him sit up to look, when his questing fingers touched metal. He pulled it towards him, dismayed to discover the blade was neither large nor sharp.

At that moment, he sensed he was the object of attention and froze in alarm. But it was only Cynric. The book-bearer had been unable to look away from the place where his friend’s body had been dragged, and his sharp eyes had detected movement. Knowing all would be lost if Helen saw him gaping, Bartholomew gestured urgently. Cynric immediately looked away, but not before triumph had flashed in his eyes. Uneasily, the physician saw he thought salvation was at hand.

As Michael seemed disinclined to take Helen up on her offer of information, the book-bearer obliged, confidence and hope blossoming with every word. Bartholomew sincerely hoped his dramatically changed demeanour would not arouse his captors’ suspicions.

‘I assume it was you who killed Cotyngham?’ Cynric asked haughtily. ‘That is why you stopped me digging?’

‘We most certainly did not!’ declared Marmaduke, genuinely shocked. ‘He was loved by Archbishop Zouche, and we would never have harmed him. Besides, he was good to me.’

Cynric’s eyes narrowed. ‘How was he good to you?’

Bartholomew knew the answer to that, putting together two separate conversations with Marmaduke – one when Michael had asked how he had earned a living after being defrocked, and had been informed that Marmaduke had a benefactor; and the other when the ex-priest had waxed lyrical about Cotyngham’s generosity, a quality also praised by Huntington’s parishioners, Sir William, Helen, Fournays and the Franciscans. Michael had drawn the same conclusion.

‘Cotyngham was a kindly man,’ he said quietly, ‘who took pity on someone who had fallen foul of unfair persecution.’

‘Helen,’ warned Frost. ‘I am going to carry you out if you do not come with me. Let Marmaduke wait here for Dalfeld–’

Helen glowered at him. ‘If you lay one finger on me, I will never marry you.’

Frost’s mouth snapped closed, and the glances exchanged between his men said they were bemused by his uncharacteristic meekness. Bartholomew could only suppose they had never been in love. Meanwhile, Marmaduke nodded vigorously in response to Michael’s remark.

‘It was unreasonable of Thoresby to bow to the pressure brought by the other executors, just because I made them feel guilty for failing to do what Zouche wanted. They should have helped me with the chantry, not silenced me for reminding them of it. Later, Cotyngham was charitable…’

‘So was Lady Helen,’ put in Frost, in a transparent effort to regain her favour.

‘Yes, she was.’ Marmaduke smiled briefly at her. ‘And Cotyngham arranged for me to mind St Sampson’s toe, too. He said it would keep me out of trouble.’

‘Then it is a pity it did not work,’ muttered Cynric.

‘You say you did not kill Cotyngham,’ said Michael, speaking quickly when Marmaduke took an angry step towards the book-bearer. ‘But I suspect you know who did. Did you witness Cave’s astonished reaction when he learned “Cotyngham” was ill in the infirmary – he knew it was impossible, but was not in a position to explain why?’

‘Actually, we guessed because it was Cave who urged Ellis to claim Huntington,’ replied Helen. ‘The church that my uncle had specifically said was to go to you.’

‘I found Cotyngham with his head stove in.’ Marmaduke shuddered. ‘I suspect Cave knocked him over. It was probably an accident, but he had no right to push elderly priests around. Later, Ellis let slip that Cave had gone alone to Huntington, on the pretext of a lost purse. There must have been a quarrel, perhaps about the church silver they took…’

‘Please!’ begged Frost, when there was another rumble and more dust billowed. ‘This mad revenge is not worth your life, Helen. Come with me now, before it is too late.’

‘No!’ snarled Helen, so fiercely that Frost took an involuntary step away. ‘Not yet.’

Bartholomew could not delay much longer, either, and knew he had to act soon if he wanted to save his friends. Gripping the knife, he began to ease into a position where he could surge to his feet and attack. But attack whom? Frost, the deadliest fighter who would need to be neutralised? Helen, because she was in charge, and the others might crumble without her? As he moved, the blade scraped against the floor and Frost whipped around, eyes narrowed.

‘Why did you not kill Cave?’ Cynric asked loudly. ‘To avenge Cotyngham?’

‘I wanted to,’ replied Marmaduke. ‘But Lady Helen had a better idea.’

‘You hired an imposter to sit in the Franciscan Priory,’ surmised Michael. ‘And convinced Fournays to keep him in quiet seclusion. Cave’s punishment was being in constant fear.’

‘An actor!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘There are plenty in York. Helen and Isabella have hired a troupe of them to perform their play.’

‘You even made the fellow cakes, and persuaded Isabella to lend him books,’ Michael went on. ‘All to make him seem more convincing.’

‘I had hoped Prioress Alice would keep him in the nunnery, where I could “tend” him,’ said Helen. ‘Warden Stayndrop caused us a good deal of agitation by insisting that he remain with his fellow Franciscans. But my actor rose to the challenge with consummate skill.’

‘Although he fled when he thought he might be exposed at last,’ said Michael disdainfully.

‘But why dump Cotyngham in the plague pit?’ asked Cynric. ‘Why not alert the proper authorities, so Cave could be charged with his crime?’

‘They did not “dump” him,’ said Michael quietly. ‘They laid him decently to rest in the church that had been his before the Death – with the congregation he had loved. And they told no one, because they thought he would be happier here than at Huntington.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘That is why I sensed this church is more sad than haunted!’

‘And they disguised the odour of decay with animals,’ Michael went on. ‘Cats and a pi–’

‘Perhaps Frost is right,’ interrupted Marmaduke, apparently unwilling for Helen to be reminded of that particular beast. ‘Leave me to deal with Dalfeld, while you go. I will not let you down.’

‘Yes,’ said Frost, relieved. He held out his hand. ‘Come, Helen.’

Bartholomew willed her to go, leaving him just Marmaduke and the two guards to tackle, but she hesitated. ‘It should not have ended like this,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted to help Michaelhouse, not deprive it of members.’

‘Help Michaelhouse,’ mused Michael. ‘You have said from the start that we should have Huntington because it is what Zouche wanted. Is that what this is about? Zouche?’

‘My uncle was the kindest man who ever lived,’ said Helen softly.

‘He was,’ agreed a new voice, and it was all Bartholomew could do to prevent himself from reacting when he saw Isabella. ‘Unlike his selfish, treacherous executors.’

‘You should have stayed in the minster,’ said Helen, moving quickly to embrace her cousin. ‘There was no need for you to have come.’

‘I wanted to be here,’ Isabella assured her. ‘Besides, the minster is more like a fish-market than a house of prayer at the moment, and I could not concentrate on my devotions.’

‘Everything is in place,’ Helen assured her. ‘Anketil died before we could get him, but Dalfeld is expected at any moment. Then we shall seal the door, leaving him to die here in terror.’

‘At the same time ensuring that dear Cotyngham is buried with his beloved congregation for all eternity,’ finished Isabella, smiling. ‘But why are Cynric and Michael here? We have no grudge against them. Indeed, our uncle would want them returned safely to Cambridge.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately they stumbled across our plan, so they must die, too,’ explained Helen. ‘Our revenge is almost complete, and I am unwilling to forgo it, even for them.’

Isabella inclined her head. ‘However, we cannot wait for Dalfeld. He is notoriously unpunctual, and I would sooner send him poison. The scholars shall have the crypt to themselves.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Frost. ‘Someone who sees sense at last.’

‘Is Zouche’s last will and testament the reason you have done all this?’ asked Michael, to prevent them from leaving. Frost had taken Helen’s arm and was guiding her towards the steps, while the soldiers now toted mallets. ‘Because its terms were not fulfilled?’

Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. Should he attack now? Or wait, and hope he would be able to rescue Michael and Cynric after the scaffolding had been knocked down? But one glance at the now-sagging ceiling told him it would collapse long before he could reach them. Meanwhile, Michael’s question had caught Isabella’s attention. Like all people with a cause, she was eager to explain why she was right.

‘Our uncle wanted to be buried in a chantry chapel, and asked nine men to see it finished,’ she said bitterly. ‘With the exception of Marmaduke, they all failed him.’

‘He gave them money, property and promotions when he was alive,’ added Helen, pulling away from Frost, much to his agitated exasperation. ‘He loved them and trusted them. But they took what he gave, then declined to carry out their end of the bargain. They were not dishonest – they stole nothing – but they allowed the fund to evaporate through laziness and incompetence.’

‘So you killed them,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Starting with Christopher five years ago, and followed by Neville, Welton, Playce, Stiendby, Ferriby and Roger. Fournays is easy to hoodwink – he gave verdicts of spotted liver and debility. But what happened to Roger? Did he hurl himself into the King’s Fishpool in his final agonies, allowing Fournays to say he drowned?’

‘There was no agony – he simply fell. We are not monsters.’ Isabella sounded indignant that he might think so. ‘Alice dabbles in the dark arts, and I read about this particular compound in one of her books – a substance that kills quickly, but with no pain. None of them suffered, I assure you.’

‘Alice knows nothing of our work, before you ask,’ added Helen. ‘She would not approve.’

‘So that vicar with the big teeth – Ferriby – was right when he claimed he had been poisoned,’ said Michael, gabbling now. ‘It was not just because he was old and addled.’

‘He became suspicious after Christopher and Neville,’ explained Isabella with a grimace. ‘We wanted to dispatch him sooner, but he was too careful. Of course, the foolish man never asked why there were designs on his miserable life. If he had, he might have finished the chantry chapel, and thus been spared.’

‘But Dalfeld is not an executor,’ said Michael. ‘Why should he–’

‘He was our uncle’s lawyer,’ replied Isabella, all righteous indignation. ‘He had a moral responsibility to see his wishes fulfilled. But he did not bother.’

‘Zouche would not have wanted this!’ cried Michael, as they all turned to go. He sounded frantic, and Cynric shot an agonised glance in Bartholomew’s direction, urging him to act. ‘He–’

‘Do you not comprehend the enormity of the crime against him?’ flared Isabella, with such passion that Michael flinched. ‘His inept executors have interfered with the progress of his immortal soul! He might be trapped in Purgatory for ever without his obits, and–’

‘I do not believe that,’ shouted Michael. ‘Not if he was a good man. Let me go, Isabella. We can discuss this theological point, because Aquinas says–’

‘Do not listen to him,’ warned Frost, when Isabella’s interest was caught. ‘Debate with Jorden or Mardisley instead. They are excellent theologians – better than this monk.’

‘They are,’ acknowledged Isabella sullenly. ‘But they refuse to include me in their discourses. I shall poison them soon, too, because they have no right to reject me.’

‘They reject you because you are not as good as you think,’ declared Cynric, sufficiently confident that he was about to be saved to lash out with some brutal truths. ‘You talk a lot, but your grasp of the subject is feeble. And any decent scholar knows it.’

Isabella’s jaw dropped, and Bartholomew winced. Cynric was right: Isabella’s knowledge was flawed, but saying so now was hardly sensible. Rage took the place of shock, and she advanced on the book-bearer with a murderous expression. Desperately, Bartholomew tried to think of a way to distract her without squandering the slim advantage of surprise that he held. But Michael was there before him.

‘Myton!’ he yelled, and Bartholomew knew exactly what he was going to say; he had drawn the same conclusion himself, based on what Chozaico had whispered just before he had left. ‘He stole the chantry money.’

Isabella’s advance on Cynric faltered. Meanwhile, Helen had allowed Frost to guide her up the first few steps, but at Michael’s claim, she spun around. This time, however, Frost nodded that his men were to begin demolishing the scaffolding. They walked towards it, mallets at the ready.

‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless competition was destroying Myton’s business,’ Michael raced on. ‘And he needed cash to save it. So he started to borrow from a source that was not being used.’

‘The chantry fund,’ breathed Isabella, exchanging a shocked glance with her cousin.

‘No one stole it,’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘It just dribbled away. We would have noticed theft.’

‘No,’ said Michael harshly, ‘you would not. No one was monitoring it very assiduously, and Myton was probably careful to remove only small amounts. But small amounts add up over time.’

‘Hurry,’ snapped Frost to his men.

‘Wait!’ countered Helen. She turned to Michael, while the soldiers exchanged nervous glances, torn between two masters. ‘Go on.’

‘I imagine Myton intended to pay it back. But he borrowed more and more, and his finances never improved. When he realised he never would be able to replace what he had taken, he killed himself. His raiding of his friend’s chantry money is the “terrible sin” he mentioned in the letter he wrote to Gisbyrn, and what he almost confessed to Chozaico.’

‘So your vengeance is misplaced,’ finished Cynric, full of disdain. ‘Myton is the real villain.’

Frost had had enough. He strode towards the scaffolding and snatched a mallet from one of the soldiers. All his agitation and anxiety was in the first blow he dealt the structure, and splinters flew in every direction. The sound boomed through the vault, and Bartholomew was sure the ceiling sagged. The soldiers evidently thought so, too, because they ran, knocking over one of the lamps as they went. In the sudden darkness that descended in his corner, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.

‘Just one last question,’ said Michael, quiet and dignified as he finally accepted his fate. ‘And then you can leave us to make our peace with God. Did you poison Radeford?’

Bartholomew had been creeping forward, aiming to brain Marmaduke, stab Frost and hope the women would not pose too much of an obstacle to him freeing his friends, but he stopped dead at the mention of Radeford’s name. Why had he not made that connection when Isabella had first mentioned poison with such chilling familiarity?

Frost swung at the scaffolding a second time, causing it to groan ominously.

‘Yes,’ Isabella replied calmly. ‘I have forged a codicil that will ensure your College wins Huntington, but the time I spent with John Radeford told me that he would never have accepted a document that he considered dubious. Worse yet, he might have encouraged Michaelhouse to withdraw its claim if he suspected dishonest practices.’

Helen took up the tale. ‘So I found a cloak that was similar to his own, and took him some of the soup he liked – the kind with mint, which masked the taste of Isabella’s … secret ingredients. I do not believe anyone saw me, but if they had, they would have assumed I was him.’

‘You killed Radeford because he was honest?’ whispered Michael, white-faced.

Helen nodded apologetically. ‘And because he was keen to reach an amicable settlement with the vicars. Ellis would have cheated you, and our uncle would not have approved of that.’

‘We wish it had not been necessary,’ said Isabella. ‘We even came to apologise to his corpse in St Olave’s Church. But as we approached, we saw Doctor Bartholomew with the spoon…’

Frost’s third blow caused a huge section of scaffolding to fall, and he yelped in alarm before dropping the mallet and racing towards the stairs. This time he did not bother with Helen.

‘Our uncle made his wishes quite clear,’ Isabella went on with unnerving calm, as cracks and groans echoed around her. ‘And not even poor John Radeford could be permitted to interfere. I was more sorry than you will ever know, but we could not let him live.’

Bartholomew had heard enough. Rage boiled in him, and he hurtled towards her, determined that her warped justice was not going to harm Michael and Cynric. And then the roof collapsed.

Ignoring the stones that crashed down around him, Bartholomew raced across the vault and barrelled into Isabella with such ferocity that she was flung aside like a bundle of rags. Then he shoved Helen as hard as he could into a wall, before felling Marmaduke with a punch. He did not wait to see what happened to any of them, thinking only of freeing his friends before it was too late.

‘Matt!’ cried Michael, smiling despite the danger he was in. ‘I thought they had murdered you!’

Bartholomew used Ellis’s knife to hack at the ropes that secured Cynric, but the blade was blunt and he was clumsy with tension. Then Michael yelled a warning, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Marmaduke. When he saw the expression of glittering hatred on the ex-priest’s face, Bartholomew knew he should have hit him harder.

Marmaduke had grabbed a piece of scaffolding, and he swung it at the physician’s head. It came so close to connecting with its target that Bartholomew felt the wind of it on his cheek. As Marmaduke staggered, unbalanced by the force of the blow, Bartholomew clouted him again, vigorously enough to hurt his own hand and send the man sprawling. But the ex-priest was tough. He scrambled upright almost immediately, and this time he held a dagger.

There was another hissing groan, followed by an almighty crash as the ceiling at the far end of the vault gave way. Dust billowed out of the darkness, momentarily blinding Bartholomew, so he felt, rather than saw, Marmaduke lunge at him. Hands fastened around his throat, and he opened his eyes to see the ex-priest’s face filled with a murderous hatred.

The fingers tightened, and although Bartholomew struggled with every ounce of his strength, he could not break the grip. Darkness began to claw at the edges of his vision. But just when he felt his knees begin to buckle, the pressure was released abruptly and Marmaduke slumped to the floor. Cynric stood behind him, holding a stone – Bartholomew had sawn through enough of the rope to allow the Welshman to struggle free.

Bartholomew grabbed the dagger Marmaduke had dropped, and bent to hack away the ropes that bound Michael. But they were viciously tight, and the circulation had been cut off in the monk’s feet. It took the combined strength of physician and book-bearer to haul him upright.

They turned for the steps, but Marmaduke was there yet again. He was laughing wildly, and yelling something about Sampson’s toe. Isabella had also recovered, and was coming to her accomplice’s aid. She held a knife.

It was no time for caution. With a battle cry he had learned at Poitiers, Bartholomew surged towards Marmaduke, startling him with the fury of the attack. Then more stones fell, and suddenly Marmaduke was no longer in their way.

‘Carry Michael outside!’ Bartholomew yelled to Cynric, standing so he was between them and Isabella. It was a tall order, given the disparity in his friends’ sizes, and he hoped it could be done.

‘Now it is just you and me,’ said Isabella, so softly as to be almost inaudible over the thunderous sounds of collapse that reverberated around them. ‘We shall die here together.’

Bartholomew tried to duck around her, but she flailed with the knife, and he was obliged to retreat or risk being disembowelled. More of the ceiling dropped, and the air around them was so full of dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Then a hand fastened around his tunic, dragging him to his knees. It was Marmaduke again, torn and bloody, but still intent on revenge. Isabella moved in, dagger held high.

All seemed lost, but out of nowhere an image of Radeford sprang into Bartholomew’s mind. The lawyer had been kind and decent, and they had killed him for it. Rage filled him again. He wrenched away from Marmaduke and lashed out with his fists as hard as he could. He felt them connect, but there was too much dust to let him see with what.

He staggered upright, and when he found no one there to stop him, lurched towards the stairs. They were littered with debris, and it was not an easy scramble. The sliding door was ahead of him, and he watched with horror as it began to roll closed, its mechanism thrown into action by the shifting angle of the floor on which it rested. He started to step through it, but it lurched violently, and he could tell from the noise it made that it would kill him if he was caught by it.

Desperately, he looked around and his eye lit on a mallet that had been dropped by Frost or one of his soldiers. He jammed it in the tracks. The door stopped moving, and he shot through it. But he was only just in time – the mallet flew into pieces from the immense weight, and the door slammed closed right behind him. It caught the hem of his tunic, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. He tore it free, and emerged with relief into the cold, clean dampness of the church above.

Unfortunately, his problems were still not over. The collapsing crypt had destabilised the chancel walls, which were beginning to teeter. He leapt backwards as one section crashed at his feet, and he knew he would never reach the nave door alive.

But St Mary ad Valvas was well endowed with windows. He raced towards the nearest and launched himself through it with as much power as he could muster. There was a moment when he thought he was going to collide with the sill, but he grazed across it and sailed through, to land in a skidding, sprawling, spraying heap in the flooded grass on the other side.

It was not a moment too soon, and he had barely finished sliding when the wall crumpled inwards. He clambered to his feet and ran, aiming to put as much distance between him and the building as possible, and hoping with all his heart that Cynric and Michael had escaped, too.

He reached the minster, and took refuge behind one of its sturdy buttresses. Peering around it, he was just in time to see the top of the tower wobble, and then glide out of sight in a cloud of dust with a sound like distant thunder.

It was not many moments before people began to pour out of the minster, to see what was responsible for such an unearthly medley of groans, rumbles and crashes. They pointed and yelled, surging forward to stand unwisely close to the dust-shrouded ruins. The vicars-choral were hot on their heels, pleading with them to watch from a safer distance. Few heeded the advice.

Bartholomew joined the stream of spectators, shoving through them frantically as he hunted for Michael and Cynric. They were nowhere to be found, and despair began to seize him.

‘There you are,’ came an aggrieved voice, and he whipped around to see Michael, dirty, bruised and dishevelled, but certainly alive. Cynric was beaming at his side. ‘Where have you been? We were worried.’

‘Thank God!’ Relief turned Bartholomew’s legs to jelly, and he grabbed Michael’s shoulder for support. ‘I thought you were still inside – that Cynric was unequal to carrying you.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you are not suggesting that I am fat.’

‘Or that I am feeble,’ added Cynric, although the gleam in his eyes said he was amused.

Bartholomew had no wish to linger by the rubble, so he led the way to the minster, hoping one of the vicars would give him something to drink, to wash the grit from his mouth and throat. Inside, he was startled to hear people cheering, and was obliged to shout when he asked Talerand what was happening.

‘The tidal surge,’ the Dean hollered back. ‘It was smaller than predicted, and the devastation is not nearly as great as we feared. The water levels are already falling. And look!’

They followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw bright light arch through the stained glass of the chancel windows. It had stopped raining, and the first sunshine in days told those inside that although there would be a lot of work to do before York recovered, the worst was over.

The Dean bustled away, all smiles and eccentric bonhomie, and Bartholomew leaned against a wall, feeling tainted by the entire encounter with Helen, Isabella, Marmaduke and their deranged plans. He was so engrossed in maudlin thoughts that he did not see Langelee until the Master was standing right in front of him. Langelee regarded his Fellows’ torn and dirty clothes with rank disapproval.

‘I hope you have not made a mess in the library,’ he said. ‘That is where you have been, is it not? Securing the documents that will convict Chozaico and his accomplices? As I ordered?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Michael tiredly. ‘But what are you doing here? I thought you were helping Alice to settle refugees in Holy Trinity.’

Langelee waved an airy hand. ‘She is an extremely efficient woman, and needed no assistance from me. So I decided to risk the bridge, and spend my time doing a little business for Michaelhouse. I have been negotiating with the vicars about Huntington.’

‘We have some bad news about that,’ said Michael. ‘We met Jorden earlier, and he told us that a codicil was never made. Ergo, we have no right to the place, no matter what Zouche intended.’

‘Yes, I met Jorden, too,’ said Langelee slyly. ‘It was what prompted me to race here before all was lost. Ah, Dalfeld! There you are. Have you finished?’

‘Marmaduke sent for you,’ said Michael, as the oily lawyer approached. ‘Why did you not answer his summons?’

Dalfeld winked. ‘Because your Master has precipitated a situation that promises to be rather lucrative. I shall see what Marmaduke wants later.’

‘Well?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. ‘Did the vicars agree to my terms?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘They are desperate to make amends and have agreed unanimously to what you have proposed, giving me full authority to negotiate the finer details.’

‘Make amends for what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Isabella wrote a powerful letter to Jafford,’ explained Langelee. ‘In which she argues that the flood is God’s anger at the vicars’ treatment of Michaelhouse. It certainly convinced me, and it convinced him, too. He and the bulk of his colleagues are eager for a reconciliation, so I suggested a solution that suits us all.’

‘What solution?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘What have you done?’

Langelee turned back to Dalfeld. ‘Is that the document which will make our agreement legal and binding?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘It states that Michaelhouse will relinquish all claims on Huntington in exchange for eighty marks, payable immediately. I think you will agree that it is a generous sum.’

Bartholomew gaped as Dalfeld handed Langelee a heavy purse. ‘No!’ he exclaimed, shocked. ‘It is not right!’

‘A hundred marks, then,’ sighed Dalfeld, beginning to count out more coins. ‘But that will be their final offer.’

‘Very well,’ said Langelee blandly. ‘Where do I sign?’