The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 16

Bartholomew was glad when Heltisle’s Horde was augmented by half a dozen Gilbertines, led by Prior John. The canons carried no weapons, so would be of scant use in a fight, but there was always the chance that the presence of priests would make a mob think twice about what it was doing. He glanced behind him, and noted that the six beadles were now down to five, as one had slunk away rather than face what lay ahead.

The glow from the Spital was brighter now, and he realised with despair that there were hundreds of torches – which meant hundreds of folk baying for ‘enemy’ blood. What could he, Michael, Cynric, five reluctant beadles and a handful of unarmed canons do against so many? Tulyet had been right: the Spital was already lost, and they should have stayed in the town, where they might have done some good.

‘I still do not believe it,’ Michael gasped as they hurried along. ‘The culprit cannot be Joan. She is too bluff and honest for so sly a scheme. It seems to me that someone has gone to a lot of trouble to see her accused.’

‘Katherine?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘She is the Bishop’s sister, and we all know how devious and ruthless he can be. Perhaps it runs in the family.’

As far as Michael was concerned, that was a worse solution than Joan. ‘We only have Isabel’s word that a comb was by Paris’s body, and she was deceitful, as evidenced by her questionable dealings with Alice. Besides, there was no time for Joan – or anyone else – to reclaim the thing while Isabel lay insensible.’

‘There was,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘When Isabel swooned a second time – at the disturbing sight of a wantonly low-cut bodice – she was out for several minutes. If it was a repeat of her first episode, there would have been ample time for the killer to act.’

‘I still do not believe–’

‘And there is something else. We crossed Joan off our list of suspects because Goda said she could see Joan in the stables while she herself was in the kitchen. But did you check that is actually possible? I did not.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Cynric, who had been listening with unabashed interest. ‘But I know the answer: you cannot see one from the other, because the chapel is in the way.’

‘Goda lied,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘She did not mention seeing Joan when we first spoke to her – she only “remembered” during a second interview, by which time Joan had realised that she needed help.’

‘There is a flaw in your argument,’ pounced Michael. ‘Goda claimed she could see the shed from the kitchen, too – which is possible, because I have a vivid recollection of a tray of cakes being carried from the kitchen when I was examining the burnt shed. But Goda made no mention of Joan slinking inside with a fancy French dagger – and remember that this was before anyone would have had a chance to bribe her.’

‘Goda cannot have been gazing out of the door every moment that morning,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At some point she would have looked away to put bread in the oven or fetch ingredients from the pantry. Or perhaps Goda did see Joan, but did not know it – she said the Girards “popped in and out”. Well, one “Girard” may have been Joan in disguise.’

Michael remained unconvinced. ‘But why would Goda lie? She cannot have known Joan well enough to warrant that sort of devotion.’

‘She did not do it for friendship, she did it for money. We know she was greedy – she coveted the dagger that killed the Girards, and she asked to be paid for answering questions. Joan capitalised on that avarice and bought herself an alibi.’

‘He may be right, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘Ever since the Spital murders, Goda has been flush with cash – new clothes, new shoes, new hair-frets. And that is suspicious, because the Tangmers are broke. She did not get her windfall from them.’

‘No, she got it from the oils she stole from Amphelisa,’ countered Michael.

‘Not even the best oils would fetch the kind of money Goda has been laying out,’ stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘They–’

‘But Goda began to sport these new purchases before Joan knew she needed an alibi,’ Michael pointed out irritably. ‘I repeat: Matt’s logic is flawed.’

‘Not so,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Hélène’s milk was dosed with a soporific, and as I seriously doubt that Joan thought to pack some when she left Lyminster, it means she got it here – from someone with access to Amphelisa’s supplies. I imagine Goda charged her a small fortune.’

‘And may have blackmailed her about it after,’ put in Cynric.

‘Which means Joan knew that Goda would do anything for money,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘while Goda knew that Joan had deep pockets. A deal was made and we looked no further at either suspect.’

‘Moreover, Goda hated the French,’ said Cynric. ‘I heard her say so several times. She would have had no problem looking the other way while Joan dispatched a few.’

‘But people like Goda can never be trusted to keep their mouths shut,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘So Joan killed her, too. She is tying up loose ends, ready to return to her priory and her life as a servant of God.’

‘What about Delacroix and his friends?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Are they to be forgotten in all this? I thought we had agreed that they were our most likely suspects.’

But Bartholomew was still thinking about Joan, and something else became clear to him. ‘We have assumed it was Alice who told Norbert about the peregrini – that she guessed what they were on one of her visits to the Spital. But Joan and her Lyminster sisters also recognised them as displaced Frenchmen.’

‘It was Alice!’ snapped Michael. ‘She betrayed herself by scratching.’

‘Precisely! Joan knew that if she clawed at herself as she dispensed her treacherous news, everyone would assume that Alice was the guilty party. And we did.’

‘Then what about the Rouen daggers?’ pressed Michael. ‘Joan said they were familiar. Why would she do that if she had been the one to wield them?’

‘And has her testimony led us to the killer? No, it has not! What it has done, however, is make us think she is on our side, valiantly striving to dig solutions from her memory.’

‘But why?’ cried Michael. ‘There has been no hint of Joan doing anything like this before. I would have heard if there were lots of unsolved murders around her priory.’

Bartholomew knew the answer to that, too. ‘Because of Winchelsea. She was appalled by what she saw there, and Katherine said she is building a chantry chapel for the victims – a massive undertaking that reveals how deeply she was affected by the experience.’

‘She was distressed by it,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘She mentioned it several times when we rode to the Austin Priory together. But–’

‘She is avenging the victims by killing Frenchmen: Paris, Bonet, the Girards, Bruges and Sauvage. Although she made an erroneous assumption with the last two.’

‘And tonight will see the remaining peregrini slaughtered,’ finished Cynric. ‘She will not even have to bloody her own hands, because our town will do it for her.’

When they reached the Spital and saw the baying mob outside, Bartholomew’s heart sank. Spats sparked between the different factions – mostly scholars against townsfolk, but Maud’s and Corner hostels were engaged in a vicious shoving match, while the bakers and the grocers harangued each other nearby. No one was listening to anyone else, and tempers everywhere ran high. There was no sign of Leger, and the scant troops Tulyet had spared to protect the place were under the less experienced command of a sergeant.

‘I do not know where Sir Leger went,’ the man said apologetically when Michael demanded an explanation. ‘He just told me to take over.’

‘He must have gone inside,’ murmured Michael, and brightened. ‘Maybe he has sneaked the peregrini out already.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Cynric. ‘They would have been spotted.’

‘Have you seen Prioress Joan?’ Bartholomew asked the sergeant.

The man nodded to where the Trumpington road snaked south. ‘She went that way an hour ago, like the Devil was on her tail. I called for her to stop – it was stupid, riding so wild with night approaching – but she ignored me.’

He hurried away when a quarrel by the gate resulted in drawn daggers. Perkyn watched him go with mounting alarm.

‘I am not staying here to be cut down in my prime,’ he gulped. ‘I–’

‘Stand your ground!’ barked Michael, although the Horde had now dwindled from five to three. ‘You will be quite safe as long as you follow my orders.’

‘He will not,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘There must be upwards of four hundred armed men here, all spoiling for a fight. You cannot reason with them, because they are long past listening, even if you could make yourself heard.’

‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘They could have broken inside by now, but they hesitate out here. That means there is still a chance that we can persuade them to–’

‘They are not “hesitating”, Brother, they are thwarted,’ countered Cynric, assessing the scene with a professional eye. ‘The Spital was designed for this sort of situation – to repel folk who want to get at its lepers. The walls are high and the gates are sturdy, like a fortress.’

‘So the people inside are safe?’ asked Bartholomew in relief.

‘Not safe,’ replied Cynric. ‘Just bought a bit more time. The defences will be breached tonight, and then the Spital and its inhabitants will burn.’

‘But there must be something we can do,’ said Bartholomew in despair. ‘We cannot just stand here and watch innocents being butchered.’

‘There is one thing,’ said Cynric hesitantly. ‘When I thought Satan was coming to live here, I made a thorough reconnaissance of the place, just to know what resources he would have at his disposal, like. There is a tunnel at the back …’

‘A tunnel?’ blurted Michael. ‘Why would–’

‘He just explained why,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘The Spital was built like a fortress, to protect it from attack. Fortresses have sally ports, lest its defenders should ever need to slip out unseen.’

Cynric nodded. ‘Unfortunately, the Tangmers cannot use it now, because the Spital is surrounded by hostiles. Anyone creeping out will be caught and killed.’

‘Are you sure they did not leave earlier?’ asked Bartholomew, hopefully. ‘Before there were so many besiegers?’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Cynric. ‘I can see one of them from here, watching us from the top of the wall. They are in there all right.’

‘So if this sally port cannot help us, why mention the damned thing?’ demanded Michael curtly.

‘Because they could use it if we make sure they are not seen sneaking out,’ explained Cynric. ‘In other words, if we create a diversion for them.’

‘Two diversions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘One for us to get inside so we can round them up, and one to bring them out and spirit them away.’

Cynric gaped at him. ‘We cannot go inside! What if the defences are breached while we are in there? We would be torn to shreds.’

‘It is a risk we must take,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How else will we explain the plan?’

‘But they are French, boy,’ objected Cynric. ‘The villains we fought at Poitiers.’

‘We did not fight women, priests and children,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Or the Tangmer clan, whose only crime was to offer sanctuary to people in need.’

‘You may have fought the Jacques, though,’ muttered Michael acidly. ‘Unless they were too busy rebelling against their aristocratic overlords to defend their country at Poitiers.’

‘Jacques?’ pounced Cynric, his eyes alight with interest. ‘Some are Jacques? Why did you not say so? I have no problem helping brothers who stand against oppression.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, too desperate for Cynric’s help to confess that the Jacques were no longer in there. ‘Now, show us this tunnel before it is too late.’

As Cynric led the way cautiously through the shrieking besiegers, Bartholomew saw the Welshman was right to predict that it was only a matter of time before the Spital’s defences were breached. At the front, a determined but inept gang of townsmen was trying to set the gates alight, while all along the sides were folk wielding axes, picks and hammers. At the same time, a number of resourceful scholars were busily constructing makeshift ladders, ready to scale the walls.

Then they reached the back, and Bartholomew felt hope stir within him. No one was there, because the whole area was choked with brambles, so that reaching a wall to batter at was impractical. But even as he drew breath to point this out, a mass of bobbing torches signalled the arrival of more rioters, all eager to find a hitherto unoccupied spot where they could stand and howl abuse.

‘Stupid Tangmer!’ spat Cynric, as the newcomers began to bellow at the strangers inside. ‘He could have made it out earlier, but it will be ten times harder now that Isnard and his friends have arrived.’

Bartholomew peered into the gloom and saw it was indeed the bargeman and his cronies who had laid claim to the back wall. All had drunk themselves into a frenzy of hatred, and the vile words and threats that spilled from their mouths shocked him to the core. He wondered if he would ever see them in the same light again.

He glanced behind him, and saw that the last of the Horde had vanished, leaving just him, Cynric, Prior John, Michael and the six canons. His stomach churned. The plan’s success depended on no one noticing what he was about to do, which would be all but impossible with so few helpmeets. If just one man looked across at the wrong time …

‘Right,’ whispered Cynric, stopping near a particularly dense thicket of brambles. ‘Tell us the plan. I hope it is a good one, or your Frenchies will die and the Tangmers with them.’

Everyone looked expectantly at Bartholomew, who scrabbled around for inspiration.

‘The canons must holler that they have spotted a spy, then make a show of running after him,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘The mob will scent blood and join the chase, leaving the rest of us to slip into the tunnel unseen.’

There was silence as the others regarded him in consternation. He did not blame them. There was a lot that could go wrong, and he was not happy with it himself, but it was all he could devise on the spur of the moment.

‘But no one will believe us!’ gulped John. ‘We are men of God – the rioters will know we are not in the habit of flying off after some hapless soul like a pack of savages.’

‘You are not,’ agreed Cynric, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘But Isnard is. Make sure he hears when you raise the alarm, and he will do the rest.’

‘Yell as loudly as you can,’ Michael instructed the Gilbertines, his voice unsteady with agitation. ‘It would have been better with more men to help, but …’

‘Do not worry, Brother,’ said John, grimly determined. ‘We know what is at stake. You can rely on us to do what is necessary.’

‘Then let us begin,’ said Cynric.

Bartholomew had no real hope that the diversion would work, because John was right: who would believe that the gentle, kindly Gilbertines would bay for the blood of strangers? But Cynric had the right of it, and bigotry saved the day. Isnard was livid at the notion that the enemy might be escaping right under his nose, and his bellows of rage drowned out all else. Within moments, the canons were leading a demented, screaming mass of drunken zealots over the fields at the back of the Spital, Isnard swinging after them on his crutches.

‘Now, follow me,’ Cynric hissed to Bartholomew and Michael when they had gone.

He ducked into the brambles and was immediately lost from sight. Bartholomew did likewise, Michael at his heels. It was almost pitch black without the rioters’ torches, but they could just make out a rough, winding path through the foliage.

‘Someone has used this today,’ whispered the book-bearer, although how he could tell in the dark was beyond Bartholomew. ‘Sir Leger on his horse probably, which means he is inside, waiting for the best chance to lead his charges out. Good! Let us hope he has them assembled, so they will be ready to go at once.’

‘I think we might have made a tactical blunder by sending the rioters across the fields,’ blurted Michael suddenly. ‘Because they will be coming back – empty-handed and furious – in exactly the direction that we will be taking the peregrini.’

‘There is a concealed track,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Leger must have used it safely today, or someone would have noticed him riding back here and disappearing – and the Spital would be in flames already.’

They reached the wall, where a short, steep slope led down to an arch that was almost invisible in the gloom. Cynric slithered towards it and began to wrestle with a gate. Bartholomew followed, helping the less-agile Michael and marvelling that Leger had convinced a horse to make the journey.

‘How did you find it?’ he whispered, thinking that it would never have occurred to him to explore briar thickets in search of hidden entrances.

‘By being thorough,’ replied Cynric, ‘which was important when I thought Satan was going to live here. But we can discuss this later. Now, get inside. Hurry!’

‘You first,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the gate and the passage beyond uneasily. He could see nothing but blackness. ‘You have done it before.’

But Cynric shook his head. ‘I had best stay here, ready to create the second diversion, which must be done properly, or you will all be killed as you come out. Prior John cannot do it, because even Isnard will be suspicious if he tried the same thing twice.’

It was a good point, although Bartholomew was dismayed to learn that Cynric would not be there when he ventured inside the Spital. The book-bearer was much better at anything that required sneaking around in the dark than him or Michael.

Heart pounding, and expecting at any moment to hear a screech to say they had been discovered, he stepped into the tunnel, one hand on the wall as he made his way along it. It was damp and stank of mould. The ground descended sharply, then began to rise again as they passed under the wall’s foundations. Then his groping hands encountered another door. He grasped the handle and pushed. It opened, and fresh air wafted around him.

He emerged behind a compost heap, near the blackened rubble of the shed. Cautiously, he peered around, hoping desperately that the peregrini would be waiting there, but nothing moved.

‘It should have been me left behind to handle the second diversion,’ grumbled Michael, brushing dirt from his habit. ‘I am not built for creeping about in underground passages. I am not a ferret.’

Bartholomew motioned him to silence, then crept forward cautiously. Two lamps burned near the gate, while more were lit in the chapel, but other than those, the Spital was in darkness. Moreover, there were no sentries on the wall or patrolling the grounds to raise the alarm in the event of a breach.

‘The Tangmers were standing guard when we arrived,’ he whispered. ‘Cynric saw one of them. Now they are not. Does it mean they escaped while we were walking about outside?’

‘I think we would have seen them,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But look how many lamps blaze in the chapel. I have a bad feeling that they aim to claim sanctuary.’

‘But they will not get it!’ gulped Bartholomew in alarm. ‘In Winchelsea, the parish church was set alight with dozens of people locked inside – the peregrini and the Tangmers will suffer the same fate if they are caught in there. We have to get them out!’

He began to stumble across the uneven ground towards it, Michael at his heels. They reached the hall and aimed for the chapel’s main door, but it was locked. No one answered their frantic knocking, so they hurried to the side entrance in the hope of making themselves heard there. It was open. Bartholomew stepped inside and immediately smelled burning. He grabbed a lantern and ran into the chancel, coughing as smoke swirled around him.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Michael, peering around through smarting eyes. ‘And what is on fire?’

‘Amphelisa’s workshop,’ rasped Bartholomew as he started down the nave. ‘I told her the chapel was not a good place for it. It is too close to those great piles of firewood.’

‘Unseasoned firewood,’ rasped Michael, ‘which is why there is so much smoke. We–’

He faltered when a figure appeared through the swirling whiteness. It was a large Benedictine nun with a wet scarf over her nose and mouth. She had exchanged her black cloak for Amphelisa’s old burgundy one, which was so impregnated with spilled oils that Bartholomew could smell them even over the stench of burning.

Behind her were three men, all armed with crossbows. Their faces were also masked, although Bartholomew recognised Leger’s fair hair, and thought the other two were knights from the castle.

‘Why could you two not have minded your own business?’ growled Joan crossly. ‘I suppose you used that wretched tunnel to sneak in.’

‘How did you know about–’ began Michael.

‘I had a good look around when I was billeted here,’ replied Joan briskly, and shook her head in exasperation. ‘I had no wish to kill you, but now I have no choice.’

‘I will do it,’ offered Leger helpfully.