The Chancellor’s Secret

Prologue

Cambridge, early June 1360

John Baldok was pleased with himself. He had been in the castle, delivering a handsome sum of money that had been raised to repair the Great Bridge, when the Sheriff’s clerks had been distracted by a commotion in the bailey. It had happened just as they had finished recording receipt of the money in their ledgers, so when they had hurried outside to watch, Baldok had seized his chance. He had grabbed the coins, shoved them up his sleeve, and strolled nonchalantly out through the main gate. No one would ever accuse him of the crime. He was a burgess – one of the men who made important decisions about town affairs – and thus above suspicion.

Yet he did experience a small twinge of conscience. The town had struggled to pay the levy, and its theft meant people would have to dip into their purses a second time. It would cause hardship and suffering. But the ruthless side of him shrugged – it was the clerks’ fault for putting temptation his way, so any blame should be laid at their door, not his. Besides, he needed all the cash he could get these days, because his new mistress had very expensive tastes.

He grinned when he thought about Rohese. She was the Mayor’s wife, and he loved the thrill of tiptoeing into her bedchamber while Morys pored over his accounts on the floor below. The lovers were discreet, but their affair was an open secret even so. Fortunately, no one was likely to mention it to Morys, because the Mayor was a very unpopular man.

‘If you want anything done in Cambridge,’ another burgess had informed Baldok at his first guildhall meeting, ‘pay Morys. It does not matter what it is – building a new house, diverting water from the river, repairing a road, negotiating trade deals. Nothing will happen until he has had his cut. It is the way things work around here.’

‘Why was he elected if he is so brazenly corrupt?’ Baldok had asked, bemused.

The burgess shrugged. ‘He bought the votes he needed to win, and now nothing – nothing – happens until he has been paid. Being Mayor has made him very rich.’

It was an unsatisfactory state of affairs, but Baldok was disinclined to object, as he was not a very honest man himself.

Baldok reached the Great Bridge and hesitated. It had been damaged by spring floods, and should have been closed until it was repaired. Unfortunately, that entailed users taking lengthy detours, and they had objected so vigorously that the council had had no choice but to keep it open. Very heavy carts were banned, and horsemen were advised to dismount, but other than that, people were free to take their chance.

Only one other person was on the bridge that evening, because it was nearly dark and the weather was unseasonably cold. The traders from the surrounding villages had already gone home, and other than one or two priests hurrying towards their churches for compline, the streets were deserted.

Baldok began to cross the bridge, wincing as the handrail swayed alarmingly in time with his footsteps. He did not allow himself to dwell on the uncomfortable fact that repairs might have started that week, if he had not stolen the money.

It was to be one of the last thoughts he would ever have.

The next morning, Baldok’s body was found on the riverbank beneath the bridge. Sheriff Tulyet came to investigate, and asked the University’s Corpse Examiner, Doctor Bartholomew, for a cause of death. Bartholomew deduced that Baldok had died of a broken neck, sustained when he had toppled over the handrail to land on the shore below.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully; despite its lofty name, the Great Bridge was not very high. ‘I could jump off this thing and not suffer so much as a scratch.’

‘Not if you went head first,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘So was it accident, suicide or murder?’ asked Tulyet.

‘For Baldok to end up in this position suggests a hard push or a vigorous jump, which rules out an accident. Your clerks said he was in good spirits when he left last night …’

‘Not suicide either then,’ said Tulyet. ‘So he was murdered?’

‘It seems most likely.’

‘He had been delivering bridge-tax money to the castle,’ said Tulyet. ‘It subsequently went missing, although, as it happened when he was left alone with it, I do not need to look very far for the culprit.’

‘He stole it?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘But he was a burgess!’

‘Which is probably why he thought he could get away with it,’ said Tulyet wryly. ‘Had he lived, he would have learned otherwise.’

‘Well, there is no money with him now, so it was either stolen from his body, or someone else took or was given it before he died.’

Tulyet began to investigate, but learned nothing to tell him who had pushed the burgess to his death. Weeks passed, and although he hated the notion of a killer besting him, he was eventually forced to admit that there was no more he could do.