The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 19

Bartholomew was so stunned by Lucy’s arrival that the lamp slid from his fingers and almost fell in the water, while Michael lost his grip on the wall and was forced to scrabble wildly until he found another handhold. Both were too astonished to speak, although a distant part of Bartholomew’s mind reminded him that Narboro had been sick at the sight of Elsham’s relatively unscathed corpse, so sawing off heads would likely be well beyond him. Lucy, on the other hand, had not baulked at preparing Martyn’s decomposing body for the grave.

‘You took your time,’ Narboro told her sourly. ‘And how could you be so careless as to leave a piece of my mirror in Morys’s corpse?’

‘A proper man would have had a knife to hand,’ Lucy flashed back at him, ‘but all you could provide was a bit of glass. But never mind this. The river is flooding fast, so if you do not want to drown, jump in and swim to my boat.’

‘If I do, Bartholomew will catch me,’ gulped Narboro. ‘Paddle it across to–’

‘It is too wide for the door.’ Lucy produced a small crossbow. ‘But the scholars will not stop you, I promise. Come, quickly now, before the water rises any higher.’

‘I do not understand,’ gasped Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘You helped us … you distracted Donwich, so he would not …’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Lucy shortly. ‘And now I am leaving.’

‘But why embark on a murder spree with Narboro?’ asked Bartholomew, acutely aware that he could not reach either culprit before he was shot or stabbed, so all he could do to delay their departure was talk. ‘The man who broke his promise to marry you.’

‘Neither of us had a choice, thanks to her damned brother,’ spat Narboro.

‘His lawsuit will ruin Narboro,’ explained Lucy, ‘and end my chance of winning another suitor. Rather than let him destroy both our lives, we agreed to work together. Narboro would not have been my first choice of collaborator, but needs must.’

‘But your brother has agreed to drop the case,’ said Bartholomew, coughing as water slapped into his mouth. ‘You did what he asked, so now he will–’

‘He will renege,’ interrupted Lucy shortly. ‘He thinks Narboro’s breach of promise reflects badly on him, and he wants to prove that he is strong and proud. He never had any intention of honouring the agreement he made with me, and I was a fool to think he might.’

‘So we devised a scheme to steal all his money and disappear to France,’ finished Narboro, ‘where we shall go our separate ways. I shall find work as a clerk, and she will settle in a town where no one will look at her with scorn and pity.’

‘Although I shall go alone if you do not come over here soon,’ warned Lucy, struggling to keep her boat at the door and maintain her hold on the weapon at the same time. The water had risen so fast that she had to stoop slightly to see under the lintel.

‘But Lyonnes overheard us planning,’ said Narboro, too frightened to swim, and so talking to delay it. ‘We were in Brampton’s house with the window open, and he was working on the bridge outside. He demanded a share of the money in return for his silence.’

‘Then he and Dickon quarrelled,’ said Lucy, indicating with an exasperated flick of the crossbow that Narboro was to jump at once. ‘We realised we could be rid of him, and no one would ever think to blame us.’

‘But it did not work,’ said Bartholomew noting with alarm that his lamp was beginning to run out of fuel. ‘Because Morys learned the truth.’

Lucy grimaced. ‘We lured Lyonnes to the Chesterton road, but Morys saw Narboro and me hurrying there together, and drew his own conclusions after the body was found. Then he demanded money for his silence.’

‘I paid some of it,’ put in Narboro. ‘You and William saw me in the guildhall with him, so I had to devise a quick lie. But when he was arrested, Lucy and I knew it was only a matter of time before he betrayed us in exchange for clemency.’

‘So you arranged for him to escape,’ surmised Bartholomew.

‘Dickon did,’ said Lucy. ‘We told him that John was going to hang, and as John is the only friend the boy has ever had …’ She struggled to keep her balance as yet another surge rocked the coracle. ‘Come on, Narboro, for God’s sake, or I really will leave you.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard when he recalled how much time Lucy had spent with Matilde. She seemed to read his thoughts, and her expression turned vengeful.

‘I told her some things about you. None are true, but she will never marry you now, even if you do survive the flood. It is my revenge for you arresting Morys and forcing me to cut off his head.’

‘I am coming!’ called Narboro, sheathing his knives and preparing to brave the water at last. He descended three steps and stopped. ‘Lord! It is like ice!’

‘Jump!’ Lucy snapped at him. ‘Or so help me, I am going.’

Narboro gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘And forfeit the money I stole from your brother? How will you get to France without it?’

Lucy did not reply, and Bartholomew saw she now had to crouch to look through the door. Soon, the whole room would be underwater and he and Michael would drown.

‘And Aynton and Elsham?’ he asked, desperately. ‘Why kill them?’

Lucy’s face was full of scorn. ‘Have you not worked out who did that yet? How much clearer does it need to be? The clue is in the letter I retrieved from Martyn’s body. It reveals that Aynton wrote to his friend Teofle about Baldok. Aynton’s letter to Narboro likely contained the same information.’

‘Which I never did receive,’ put in Narboro. ‘However, I do know he wrote to me because of my Court connections.’

‘But your tales of being the King’s favourite are vainglorious lies,’ rasped Michael. ‘I asked Teofle, and he said you were so lowly as to be all but invisible.’

‘Not so!’ cried Narboro. ‘The King loves me, and even remembered my name once.’

‘The point is not what you know about Narboro’s standing at Court,’ said Lucy, ‘but what Aynton believed – which was that Narboro has powerful royal connections. Aynton aimed to use him to get a message to the King, and to use Teofle to get a message to the Archbishop. A message about Baldok.’

‘Yes,’ croaked Michael. ‘But what about Baldok? That he was a thief?’

‘Work it out for yourselves,’ challenged Lucy. ‘Just like I did. Not that it matters, because you will die in here and so will never be in a position to–’

There was a great splash as Narboro jumped at last. Bartholomew shoved the lamp at Michael and paddled to intercept him, but he was too cold and his muscles were too tired. A crossbow bolt hissed into the water next to him, causing him to duck, and when he surfaced again, it was to see Narboro reach the coracle and haul himself in.

There was a moment when Bartholomew considered following Lucy and Narboro through the door, but he knew that would be suicide without a boat, so he resigned himself to taking refuge on Hoo Hall’s upper floor. He retrieved the lamp and towed Michael to safety, then scrambled up the steps, limbs numb with cold.

‘Find dry clothes,’ he gasped, as they stumbled into the dormitory. ‘I will call for help.’

‘No one will hear,’ predicted the monk. ‘Dick has evacuated all the nearby houses, and the water is making too much noise to attract attention from further away.’

‘I can see people working on the sluices – Zoone, William and others. I will wave the lamp. One of them will come to investigate.’

But the roaring water swallowed his cries, while no one took any notice of a winking light. It was not long before he conceded defeat. Shivering, he pulled off his wet shirt and tunic, and replaced them with some that Narboro had left behind. Michael had already donned a baggy robe, and held a blanket around his shoulders.

‘I have a bad feeling we will die here, Matt,’ the monk said softly. ‘Hoo Hall is a squat building on low-lying land. Unless the sluices are opened, the water in Coe Fen and the Mill Pond will continue to rise, and then even the roof will not be tall enough to save us.’

‘Zoone will find a way to do it,’ said Bartholomew, doggedly optimistic. He hoped it would be soon, or Michael was going to be right. He turned his thoughts to what Lucy and Narboro had admitted. ‘They beheaded Lyonnes and Morys, but deny responsibility for Aynton and Elsham.’

‘Do you believe them?’ Michael sounded as if he no longer cared, but was trying to make the effort for Bartholomew, who did.

The physician nodded. ‘They had nothing to gain from confessing to two murders, but disavowing all knowledge of two others.’

‘So has Lucy identified the culprit, or was she just trying to make us feel stupid?’

‘I think she was telling the truth.’ Bartholomew felt warmth begin to flow back into his icy limbs. ‘And if she can work it out, so can we.’

‘If you say so.’ Michael’s voice was unsteady as he watched the water lap ever higher outside the window.

‘It seems that Aynton discovered who pushed Baldok off the bridge, and decided to tell the Archbishop and the King. He chose to contact one via Teofle, and the other through Narboro, whom he mistakenly believed was a favoured courtier. The secret to the mystery lies in why he elected to disclose his discovery to them, and not to you or Dick.’

‘Because the killer is more powerful or influential than us?’ suggested Michael. ‘Or more dangerous?’

‘Who?’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Morys? One of his burgesses? Another high-ranking scholar? A wealthy–’

He was interrupted by Michael’s cry of alarm. Water was bubbling through the floorboards.

‘You must leave me,’ the monk gulped. ‘Swim to safety while you can.’

‘I would drown,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The water is moving far too fast now. Our only hope is to climb on the roof, and hope that someone notices us.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, peering upwards. ‘Is that possible? I am not a monkey.’

His face was pale as he watched Bartholomew’s preparations – blankets knotted together to form a rope, and an oiled cloak to huddle under once they were outside.

With water now swirling around his knees Bartholomew handed one end of the ‘rope’ to Michael, fastened the other around his waist, and clambered on to the windowsill, aware of the flood running very fast just below. He stood, grabbed the edge of the roof, and hauled himself over it. He slipped once, but was saved by Michael’s powerful hand beneath his foot.

Then he was on the roof, wishing it was thatched rather than tiled, as it would have been much less slick. He crawled up it, reached the apex, and secured the rope to the chimney, just as Michael yelled that water was flowing in through the window.

‘Tie your end around you, and do not worry about falling,’ he called. ‘I will pull you back up if you lose your footing.’

He was far from sure he could, given that the monk was heavy and he was exhausted, but Michael did not hesitate. He was more nimble than Bartholomew would have anticipated, and he supposed it was pure terror that prompted the monk to hump up the roof like a portly caterpillar. They huddled behind the chimney, which afforded at least some protection from the driving rain.

‘Now what?’ asked Michael hoarsely.

‘We wave the lantern,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Someone will see it eventually.’

‘Lantern?’ asked Michael weakly. ‘Oh. Do you want me to go back and fetch it?’

Bartholomew was too tired to feel exasperated. ‘It was almost out of fuel anyway. So now, all we can do is wait – and hope that the flood goes down before we are swept away.’

Bartholomew had no idea how long he and Michael crouched on the roof, trying to stay out of the rain. He tried to listen for church bells, which would give him some idea of the time, but all he could hear was the hiss of rain and the roar of the river. He was aware that, while they waited uselessly, Narboro and Lucy would be paddling to freedom in their coracle, and the chances of apprehending them grew less with every passing minute.

‘I cannot stop thinking about tomorrow,’ said Michael softly. ‘Or rather today, as it must be Saturday by now. I would have enjoyed announcing the good news about the University’s future, and then presiding over my first graduation ceremony as Chancellor.’

Bartholomew felt wretched. ‘This is my fault. You said to wait before coming here, and you were right.’

‘But had we delayed, we would never have heard Lucy and Narboro’s confession,’ said Michael generously. ‘It was not all in vain.’

‘We should have taken Morys somewhere dry, like Dick asked,’ said Bartholomew, full of self-recrimination. ‘Then the lane would have been too flooded for us to reach this place, and we would not be in this predicament.’

‘Look!’ cried Michael, pointing suddenly. ‘Two men in a boat. We are saved!’

‘It is Dickon,’ said Bartholomew, straining his eyes in the gloom. ‘What is–’

‘Over here!’ yelled Michael, standing to wave his arms over his head. ‘Hurry!’

‘He cannot have seen us sitting here in the dark,’ said Bartholomew, frowning his puzzlement. ‘So how did he know where to come?’

‘Who cares?’ shouted Michael. ‘Dickon! Is that his father with him? No, the fellow is too big. It must be one of his soldier friends.’

It was then that answers crashed into Bartholomew’s mind like an avalanche. ‘Stop, Brother!’ he gulped, hauling the monk back behind the chimney. ‘Do not let him see you!’

‘It is too late,’ said Michael. ‘He is waving back. But why–’

‘He is not coming to rescue us,’ whispered Bartholomew, numb with shock. ‘He is coming because he met Lucy and Narboro, and she told him that we have all we need to work out who killed Aynton. And I have: it was Dickon!’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘The strain of our predicament has addled your brain, Matt. Dickon is not the culprit. How can he be?’

‘Easily! It was written in the letter that Lucy found in Martyn’s hat. Very few words were legible, but yet so were two of them. Not an adverb and a conjunction, as I stupidly assumed, but part of two nouns – Tulyet and son.’

‘Lord, Matt! That is–’

‘It makes sense! Aynton discovered that the “Tulyet son” killed Baldok, but he could hardly tell the Sheriff, while the Senior Proctor is the Sheriff’s friend. He had to appeal to an authority outside the University and the shire – to the King and the Archbishop. But he could not write to them by normal channels, lest the Sheriff and the Senior Proctor found out …’

The boat came closer, and Bartholomew could see Dickon’s brutish face grinning in triumph. It said more than words to confirm his suspicions. Michael continued to shake his head in disbelief, but Bartholomew knew he was right.

‘Dickon killed Baldok,’ he went on, ‘and when Aynton found out, he killed him as well, along with the messengers who carried his letters. Martyn’s was hidden in his hat, too well concealed for his killer – Gille – to find, but Huntyngdon’s was in his purse.’

‘It was not,’ countered Michael. ‘The purse was empty – thieves had been there first.’

‘Thieves who then left the good clothes and boots?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘However, tell me who swooped forward to cut the thing from Huntyngdon’s belt, declared nothing was in it, then disappeared around the end of the bridge to take it to you?’

‘Yes, it was Dickon, but –’

‘He lied about it being empty. I should have retrieved it myself, then we would have had answers days ago.’

‘But all this means that Dickon is the “friend” who ordered Elsham and Gille to kill,’ argued Michael. ‘Why would they commit capital crimes on the say-so of a boy?’

‘Dickon is not just a boy,’ snapped Bartholomew, knowing he had to convince Michael fast, or they would both die. ‘He is the Sheriff’s son, and his best friend is John Morys. The Mayor knew that Gille and Elsham were thieves – he doubtless told his cousin John, who passed it on to Dickon. The boy blackmailed them into doing what he wanted.’

‘I cannot accept that–’

‘Moreover, Elsham was Rohese’s lover. Perhaps Dickon threatened to reveal that, too, unless they did what he asked, and no one wants to be on the wrong side of Morys and his savage Fenland kin. And finally there is the comment Elsham made about his afterlife.’

‘That the “friend” might disturb it if he spoke out,’ recalled Michael. ‘You thought that particular remark referred to Stasy and Hawick, the warlocks.’

‘And what does everyone say of Dickon?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘That he is the Devil’s spawn! It used to be figurative, but these days, folk believe it literally.’

Michael was still not convinced. ‘Then who killed Elsham? Not Dickon, if the man was under his control.’

‘Of course it was Dickon! Such men can never be trusted, and he is not a fool.’

‘But Isnard saw the killer’s arms – he said nothing about them belonging to a child.’

‘Dickon is already bigger than some adults – Clippesby, Aungel and Cynric to name but three. He gave Ulf a hat in exchange for creating a diversion on the bridge, and he shoved the stone down on the boat – unlike the other children, he is strong enough to do it. When I questioned them, I thought it was Ulf who had terrified them into silence, but it was Dickon.’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because I later cornered them when Ulf was not there, but they still refused to talk. And who was with me at the time? Dickon’s father! Of course they could not reveal who had ordered them to run amok on the bridge! God only knows if Gille is still alive.’

‘But Dickon is a child!’

‘A very dangerous child. And if you need more proof, look at who is with him in the boat – John, released by Dickon from his castle cell.’

Bartholomew recalled the boy’s interaction with the wardens who had let the prisoners escape – he had not been menacing them for giving defiant answers to Tulyet’s questions, but to make sure they did not reveal his role in the affair. He swallowed hard, aware that John probably held him responsible for thwarting the plan to steal the bridge money with Morys, and live the rest of his life in luxury. He would want revenge.

‘I suppose this explains why Dickon failed to find Martyn’s body when he was sent to explore the riverbank,’ whispered Michael. He looked sheepish. ‘Perhaps we should have been suspicious when the beadle I sent to repeat the search complained that Dickon unsettled him by dogging his every step, making it impossible to do his job.’

Bartholomew was disgusted with himself. ‘Yes, we should.’

The boat bobbed closer, John rowing and Dickon kneeling in the bow. They reached Hoo Hall, and Dickon stood. He could just touch the edge of the roof by stretching upwards.

‘Brother Michael,’ he called sweetly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew. Come down. I will not hurt you, I promise. I just want to talk.’ His voice sent a cold shiver down Bartholomew’s spine, and he thought he had never heard anything so wicked.

‘How do we stop them from coming up here after us?’ asked Michael unsteadily. ‘Dickon has a sword, while John is a knight. We cannot defeat them in combat.’

Bartholomew considered quickly. ‘It will not be easy to climb from their boat to the roof – the distance is too great. So, we must prevent them from getting a handhold.’

‘But how? Moreover, the distance between the boat and the roof will not be “too great” if the water keeps rising.’

‘We will face that problem when it comes,’ said Bartholomew, although he knew in his heart that his plan would only postpone the inevitable. He pulled a tiny surgical blade from his scrip. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope they value their fingers.’

Michael prised a tile off the roof. ‘Very well. You cut their hands and I will bruise them. Ready? Because here they come.’

At first, it was fairly easy to fend off Dickon and John. The boy howled when Michael crushed his thumb, while John retreated after Bartholomew stabbed his hand. Then John rowed the boat to the other side of the building, looking for a better place from which to launch an attack. Bartholomew scrambled over the apex, and down the other side, driving the villainous pair away by kicking free two loose tiles that rocketed downwards and nearly decapitated them. They hastily retreated to a safe distance to review their strategy.

‘At least they cannot separate,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew waited tautly for the next assault.

The boat eased forward again, Dickon in the prow. The boy’s face was dark and angry, while John’s was calculating as he assessed the roof for weaknesses.

‘Come down,’ ordered Dickon sullenly, sucking his bruised hand. ‘Or when I catch you, I will chop off your ears and noses before I run you through.’

‘You should not be here, John,’ called Bartholomew, slithering down towards them, ready to stab again. ‘You had a chance to run – you could still take it.’

‘He is not going anywhere until we kill Brampton,’ shouted Dickon. ‘Lucy told us everything – how it was her brother who hit John over the head, and while he lay witless, beheaded Morys.’

‘He would have done the same to me,’ put in John, ‘but I came to my senses before he could start, and he ran away. He let Dickon take the blame for Lyonnes – a man he dispatched himself.’

‘So when we have dealt with you, we will pay Brampton a visit,’ said Dickon. ‘Then we will take all his money and go to France.’

‘Dickon, enough,’ shouted Bartholomew, stamping on the hairy hand that was trying to grab his ankle; John gave a grunt of pain. ‘Brampton is not the culprit – Narboro and Lucy lied to you. Now they are escaping.’

‘No one lies to me,’ declared Dickon. ‘I am a brave and mighty warrior.’

‘Enough of this foolery,’ snapped Michael. ‘Think of your parents. They will–’

‘I do not care about them,’ interrupted Dickon, and smiled at his companion. ‘John understands me much better.’

‘You killed Baldok,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him with chatter while he thought of a way to defeat them. ‘That is where all this started. You pushed him over the bridge. Why? For the money in his purse?’

He glanced up at the sky, wondering how long it would be until daylight, when someone might spot what was happening, and race to their rescue. But it was still pitch black, and he knew dawn would come too late.

‘He called me an ill-mannered brat,’ said Dickon indignantly. ‘Me, a powerful soldier! So I punched him and over he went. If he had stepped to one side to let me pass, like I ordered, none of it would have happened. It is all his fault for being stubborn.’

‘You killed him because he refused to give way to you?’ breathed Michael in disbelief.

‘He should not have challenged me,’ said Dickon, unrepentant. ‘But he was a thief anyway – when I went to look at his body, he had the bridge taxes up his sleeve. John is looking after them for me, and I shall spend them on armour when we reach France.’

Bartholomew glanced at John’s brutish face and wondered if Dickon would live that long. If the knight had any sense, he would dispatch this malevolent and unpredictable imp, and keep everything for himself.

‘What happened then?’ he asked. ‘Did Aynton witness the incident?’

‘No one did,’ said Dickon sullenly. ‘But later on, your Chancellor was nagging me about learning to read, and I accidentally threatened to do to him what I had done to Baldok. I tried to tell him it was a joke, but the stupid man took it as a confession.’

He drew his sword, and suddenly, it was not chubby fingers that were scrabbling at the edge of the roof, but a very sharp blade that swept back and forth. Bartholomew looked around for something to defend himself with, but there was nothing.

‘And as Aynton could not tell your father and your father’s friend what you had admitted,’ he went on, ‘he wrote to Teofle and Narboro–’

‘He was a dimwit!’ smirked Dickon. ‘He told me what he was going to do, because he thought it would make me sorry. So I told Gille and Elsham to kill the messengers – said I would tell everyone about their thievery otherwise. I took Huntyngdon’s letter from his purse without you seeing, along with a few coins, but Gille could not find Martyn’s.’

‘We have it,’ said Michael, jumping away from the sword and then lashing out with his foot at John. It connected, and the knight swore. ‘And it is all we need to hang you.’

‘We have more than that,’ said Bartholomew, lest Lucy had mentioned to Dickon that the ink had run and was virtually illegible. ‘We have Aynton’s dying testimony.’

‘He never said anything about me,’ stated Dickon. ‘I was there, remember?’

‘You were,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, ‘which is why he chose his words with such care. He said he was responsible for Huntyngdon’s death – he would probably have told me about Martyn, too, but you interrupted – which allowed us to make the connection between him and the missing men.’

‘Well, he was responsible,’ shrugged Dickon. ‘If he had not pestered me about learning to read, I would not have blurted the stuff about Baldok, and he would not have told Huntyngdon and Martyn to deliver his stupid letters.’

‘Then he lowered his voice, hoping you would not hear,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘I thought he whispered litteratus the first time, and non litteratus the second. But he actually said neither. The word he spoke was inlitteratus.’

‘Yes, that might have been it,’ conceded Dickon. ‘So what?’

‘It means ignorant or illiterate.’

‘If he called me names, then I am glad I killed him!’ spat Dickon, jabbing hard with his sword, and missing Bartholomew’s leg by a whisker.

‘But why did Aynton not just tell you what Dickon had done?’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He had nothing to lose at that point.’

‘No, but I did,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Dickon was listening, and Aynton knew that accusing him would put me in danger, too. He did his best to pass a message without Dickon realising, but I did not understand it. Until now.’

He grabbed Michael’s tile and used it to swipe at the sword, knocking it from Dickon’s hand. The boy howled in dismay as it cartwheeled into the black water and disappeared with a splash.

‘You will pay for that!’ he cried, reaching for another. ‘It was my favourite!’

‘You were fortunate with Elsham,’ said Michael, eyeing him with contempt. ‘Ulf and his rabble played their part perfectly, and your stone landed right on top of your victim.’

‘It was a brilliant shot,’ bragged Dickon. ‘No one else could have done it.’

‘It was a poor plan,’ countered John. ‘It left him alive long enough to say things that should have been kept quiet, while Gille escaped altogether.’

Dickon was stung by the criticism, so sought to redeem himself with some warlike posturing. He addressed Bartholomew and Michael.

‘You cannot escape, so surrender and I will kill you quickly. I have a potion that is almost painless. I already gave some to Narboro and Lucy, and they did not suffer much.’

‘You poisoned them?’ gasped Bartholomew, shocked anew.

‘John reminded me that they would be a threat to us as long as they lived. Just like you.’ Dickon turned to the knight. ‘I am tired of all this chattering, and the water is high enough for us to reach the roof now. Are you ready to finish them? Yes? Then charge!’