The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 3

Bartholomew, Michael and the triumvirate hurried into the High Street to gaze at the plume of greasy black smoke that wafted into the air to the south.

‘That is not the Gilbertine Priory,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is further away.’

‘Some farmer, clearing land, probably,’ said Heltisle dismissively.

‘It is the Spital!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘I have nuns lodged there, too – a score of ladies from Lyminster Priory.’

‘One convent sent twenty delegates?’ asked de Wetherset in surprise. ‘That is a lot.’

‘The largest by a considerable margin,’ acknowledged Michael, his face pale. ‘And one of them is Magistra Katherine de Lisle.’

‘De Lisle?’ mused de Wetherset. ‘Is she any relation to our Bishop Thomas de Lisle?’

‘His older sister,’ replied Michael tautly. ‘She is scheduled to speak at the conloquium today, so hopefully she will have left the Spital already, but–’

‘Then go and make sure,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘The Bishop will never forgive us if his sister is incinerated at an event organised by an officer of the University.’

Knowing this was true, Michael began to hurry along the High Street. Bartholomew fell in at his side, because everything was tinder-dry after the long spell of warm weather, and he wanted to be sure the blaze represented no danger to the town – only fools were unconcerned about fire when most buildings were made of timber and thatch. Cynric followed, and so did the triumvirate.

‘We cannot have you telling the Bishop that we skulked here while the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner rescued his beloved sister,’ called Heltisle. ‘We know the kind of sly politics you two practise.’

A few years before, Bartholomew had objected to the number of bodies he was required to inspect out of the goodness of his heart, so Michael had established the post of Corpse Examiner. The duties entailed determining an official cause of death for any scholar who passed away, or anyone who died on University property. Bartholomew was paid threepence for each body he assessed, all of which was spent on medicine for the poor. However, he wished Michael had chosen a less sinister-sounding title for the work he did.

‘Speaking of sly politics, Heltisle,’ said the monk coolly, ‘I understand you struck a deal with Clippesby over the sale of his treatise.’

Heltisle smirked. ‘And there is a contract to prove it – signed with one of my own metal pens, in fact – so do not try to renege. And if you claim he is mentally unfit to make such arrangements, then he should not be in the University. You cannot have it both ways.’

‘I cannot wait to see his face when he realises he has been bested by Clippesby,’ murmured Michael, walking more quickly to put some distance between them. ‘I must find a way to depose him, as he is a dreadful man. Even so, I would sooner have him than Aynton – at least Heltisle does not try to disguise his vileness with cloying amiability.’

‘Perhaps I can shoot him while I show scholars how to use a bow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘An arrow in the posterior will teach him a little humility.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, afraid he might actually do it. ‘He would claim you acted on our orders, and we do not want Michaelhouse sued.’

The plume of smoke seemed no closer when they reached the Trumpington Gate, where the sentries were gazing at the smudge of black that stained the sky.

‘It is the Spital,’ said a soldier to his cronies, ‘which is no bad thing. The place is haunted, and I shall not be sorry to see it go up in flames.’

‘He is right,’ Cynric told Bartholomew and Michael, as they hurried through the gate. He considered himself an expert on the supernatural, and was always willing to share his views with the less well informed. ‘It stands on the site of a pagan temple, see, where human sacrifices were made.’

‘It does not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, although he should have known better than to argue with Cynric. The book-bearer’s opinions, once formed, were permanent, and there was no changing his mind.

‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ declared Cynric darkly. ‘Building that Spital woke a lot of evil sprites. Indeed, it may even be them who set the place afire.’

‘Then let us hope Heltisle has the right of it,’ said Michael, ‘and it is just a farmer burning brush in order to plant some crops.’

‘Regardless,’ said Bartholomew, fearing it was not, ‘we should hurry.’

Five high-ranking scholars and Cynric, trotting three abreast along the main road south, was enough to attract attention, and folk abandoned what they were doing to trail after them, sure an interesting spectacle was in the offing. They included both scholars and townsfolk, who immediately began to jostle each other. Isnard the bargeman and his cronies were among the worst offenders, and Bartholomew was concerned – with only one leg, Isnard was vulnerable in a scuffle, although he never allowed it to prevent him from joining in.

‘I feel like the Piper of Hamelin,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Followed by rats.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And four louts from King’s Hall, who have chosen to don clothes that are brazenly French. They have done it purely to antagonise the likes of Isnard.’

‘It is working,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the bargeman had fixed the haughty quartet with angry eyes. ‘I had better send him and his friends home before there is a spat – the King’s Hall men have swords.’

For which we have His Majesty to thank, he thought sourly. Scholars were forbidden to bear arms in the town, but this stricture had been suspended by royal decree until the French threat was over. King’s Hall, which had always been warlike, was delighted to arm its scholars to the teeth.

Bartholomew knew Isnard and his cronies well, as all were either his patients or members of the Michaelhouse Choir. They had never been particularly patriotic, but the raid on Winchelsea had ignited a nationalistic fervour that verged on the fanatical. It would be forgotten when some other issue caught their attention, but until then, they were affronted by anything they deemed to be even remotely foreign. They met in disreputable taverns, where they nurtured their grievances over large flagons of ale.

‘No,’ snapped Bartholomew, seeing Isnard prepare to lob a handful of horse manure at the scholars. ‘If you make a mess on their fine clothes, they will fight you.’

‘Then they should wear English ones,’ retorted Isnard sullenly. ‘Right, lads?’

There was a growl of agreement, the loudest from a soldier named Pierre Sauvage. It was an unusual name for a man who had never ventured more than three miles outside Cambridge, but his mother had once rented her spare room to an itinerant acrobat from Lyons. Sauvage was so touchy about the possibility of having foreign blood that he was rabidly xenophobic. He told anyone who would listen that he had signed on at the castle purely because he wanted Tulyet to teach him how to kill Frenchmen.

‘Too right,’ he declared. ‘They have no right to strut around looking like the dolphin.’

‘He means the Dauphin,’ said Isnard, evidently of the opinion that the physician was unable to deduce this for himself. ‘Who we hate because it was his army what invaded Winchelsea and did all those terrible things. Is that not so, Sauvage?’

Unfortunately, his indignant remarks were overheard by the scholars from King’s Hall, who immediately swaggered over. Bartholomew shot an agonised glance at the smoke – he did not have time to prevent quarrels when he should be making sure the blaze represented no threat to the town.

‘Sauvage, Sauvage,’ mused one. ‘I think we might have a Frenchman here, boys. Shall we slit him open and see what is inside?’

‘Go home,’ ordered Bartholomew, cutting across the outraged response Sauvage began to make. ‘All of you. There will be nothing to see at the Spital.’

‘No?’ demanded the scholar archly. ‘Then why are you going there?’

Bartholomew thought fast. ‘Because the inmates have contagious diseases for me to treat.’

‘Lord!’ gulped Isnard. ‘I never thought of that. Come on, Sauvage. The Griffin broached a new barrel of ale today, and it would be a pity to let it go sour.’

He swung away on his crutches, and most of his cronies followed. The scholars stood fast, though, so Bartholomew began to describe some of the more alarming ailments he expected to be rife in the Spital, and was relieved when the King’s Hall men edged away and began to saunter back the way they had come.

‘Follow them,’ he told Cynric. ‘Make sure they go home – preferably without goading any more townsfolk into a spat along the way.’

By the time Bartholomew caught up with Michael, the monk and the triumvirate had passed the Gilbertine Priory with its handsome gatehouse and towering walls. Beyond it, the road was in a terrible state. There had been heavy rains the previous month, and carts had churned it into ruts. These had dried like petrified waves when the weather turned warm, so anyone hurrying risked a twisted ankle or worse. Bartholomew and his companions were obliged to slow to a snail’s pace, leaving Michael fretting about the nuns.

The Spital stood on what had, until recently, been nothing but scrubland. It comprised five buildings within a perfect walled square. In the centre was a hall that had a large room for communal eating below and a dormitory above. A chapel jutted from its back, placed to catch the rising sun at its altar end. The other buildings were in each of the four corners: a kitchen and accommodation for staff; a substantial guesthouse; the stable block; and a large shed-cum-storeroom.

The Spital’s gates were always closed, as not everyone was happy about lepers – or lunatics – living near the town, and the founders were cognisant of security. However, the gates stood open that day, as access was needed to the brook that ran along the side of the road for water. The scholars looked through them to see the blaze was in the shed – a temporary, albeit sturdy, structure used to store building materials. Smoke billowed through its reed-thatched roof, although the fire was so far contained, as there were no leaping flames.

‘The nuns are safe,’ breathed Michael in relief, seeing a black-robed gaggle near the stables. ‘Thank God!’

As everyone inside the Spital was busy with the fire, and no one came to greet them, de Wetherset began to relate its history to Aynton, who was a relative newcomer to the town.

‘A man named Henry Tangmer founded it to atone for sins committed by his niece. What was her name, Brother? I cannot recall.’

‘Adela,’ supplied Michael, who remembered her very well. ‘She is dead now, God rest her soul, and we have a leper hospital.’

‘I am no physician,’ said Aynton, ‘but I do know that one does not meet many lepers these days. So why did Tangmer dedicate his wealth to helping them, of all people?’

‘Lepers, lunatics, they are all the same,’ said Heltisle with a dismissive shrug. ‘Folk who cannot be allowed out, lest they infect the rest of us with their deadly miasmas.’

‘Lunacy is not contagious,’ said Bartholomew, not about to let such an outlandish claim pass unchallenged. ‘Nor are many kinds of leprosy.’

‘Regardless, the sufferers are still pariahs,’ retorted Heltisle, ‘so it is good that they are locked away, out of sight and mind.’

‘That is a terrible attitude towards–’ began Bartholomew hotly.

‘I have heard that Tangmer’s wife is very good at curing diseases of the mind,’ said de Wetherset, cutting across him. ‘She uses herbs, fresh air and exercise, by all accounts.’

‘Does she?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately intrigued.

‘Do not tell me that you have never been called out here,’ said Heltisle, then smiled superiorly. ‘But of course you have not. The inmates may be mad, but they will not want to be tended by a man who loves paupers and who insists on washing his hands at every turn.’

Bartholomew ignored him, knowing this would annoy him far more than any riposte he could devise on the spur of the moment. He asked de Wetherset to tell him more about Mistress Tangmer’s unusual therapies, but the Chancellor had had enough of the Spital.

‘They have the blaze under control,’ he said, watching two servants use fire hooks to haul down patches of smouldering thatch, where they could be doused with water. ‘The Bishop’s sister is safe and there is no danger to the University. I am going home.’

He, Heltisle and Aynton began to walk back the way they had come, Heltisle grumbling about the wasted effort. Bartholomew and Michael lingered though; Michael wanted to speak to the nuns, while Bartholomew’s interest was piqued by the Spital’s innovative-sounding treatment of lunacy and he hoped to learn more.

‘I asked Tangmer to show me around when I arranged for him to take my nuns,’ said Michael. ‘But he refused, lest my presence upset his patients.’

‘It might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, a fire will be far more distressing. I wonder how the Tangmers will deal with it.’

He watched the people inside, trying to distinguish patients from staff. Most were busy with the fire, although two distinct groups were not: the nuns, and a dozen respectably dressed individuals with children, who stood near the hall. Curiously, there was none of the frantic yelling that usually accompanied such crises, and the whole operation was conducted in almost complete silence. It was peculiarly eerie.

‘Of course, the nuns should be at the conloquium,’ said Michael, watching them crossly. ‘Magistra Katherine is due to lecture there shortly, and the other delegates will be wondering what has happened to her.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I thought you put twenty ladies here. I only count nineteen.’

Michael looked around wildly. ‘The Prioress – Joan de Ferraris! She is missing!’ Then he gave an irritable tut of relief. ‘There she is – in the stables. I might have guessed. She has always preferred horses to people.’

He nodded to where a massive woman, who would stand head and shoulders above her sisters, was soothing the animals. She looked rather like a horse herself, with a long face, large teeth and big brown eyes. She had rolled up her sleeves to reveal a pair of brawny forearms.

‘She is an excellent rider,’ Michael went on, and as he had lofty standards where equestrianism was concerned, Bartholomew supposed she must be skilled indeed. ‘And she single-handedly built her priory’s stables, which are reputed to be the best in the country. I should love to see them.’

‘But is she a good head of house?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that riding and stable-building were not especially useful skills for running a convent.

‘She is stern but fair, and not afraid to delegate tasks she feels are beyond her. She can also repair roofs, clean gutters and chop wood. Her nuns like her, and Lyminster is a happy, prosperous place, so yes, she is a good leader. But I had better go and pay my respects.’

He and Bartholomew started to walk towards them, but were intercepted by three men – Sheriff Tulyet and his two new knights, who were stationed just inside the gates.

‘Tangmer has asked us to keep sightseers out,’ explained Tulyet, raising a hand to stop the scholars from going any further. ‘He says they frighten his inmates.’

‘They do not look overly concerned to me,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew was aware of being eyed by the group near the hall. ‘They do not look particularly mad either.’

‘Insanity is not something you can diagnose at a glance,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, that is what Tangmer told me, when I suggested much the same.’

‘How dare he use us as free labour,’ growled huge, black-haired Sir Norbert. ‘We are not servants, to be ordered hither and thither. We are friends of the King.’

‘You offered your help,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘And this is how Tangmer chose to deploy it. It is your own fault for recklessly putting yourself at his disposal.’

‘I know why he wants everyone kept away,’ said fair-headed Sir Leger sourly. ‘Because madmen are exempt from the King’s call to arms, so are eligible for hire as proxies. Several scholars have already been here, clamouring to buy substitutes, and Tangmer aims to put a stop to it.’

‘By “scholars” he means Chancellor de Wetherset and his henchman Heltisle,’ put in Norbert, and spat. ‘Cowards!’

‘Speaking of cowards, have you made any progress with finding whoever dispatched Bonet the spicer?’ asked Michael.

‘None,’ replied Leger. ‘The killer left no clues, and there are no witnesses. Ergo, I am not sure we will ever–’

‘That man is on fire!’ interrupted Tulyet urgently, and stepped aside. ‘Your services will be needed, Matt. If Tangmer complains, tell him I let you in.’

By the time Bartholomew arrived, the burning man had smothered the flames by rolling in the grass, saving himself from serious injury. One arm was scorched, though, so Bartholomew sat him down and applied a soothing salve. Grateful for his help, the man began to chat, saying he was Tangmer’s cousin, Eudo. He was enormous by any standards, larger even than Sir Norbert, and reminded Bartholomew of a bull – powerful, unpredictable and not overly bright.

‘Everyone who works here is a Tangmer,’ Eudo said. ‘Henry and Amphelisa have no children, but his father had six brothers, so he has uncles and cousins galore. Lots of us were eager to come and work for him.’

Bartholomew had been told this before, and remembered that the policy of kin-only staff had caused great resentment in the town – there had been an expectation of employment for locals, and folk were disappointed when none was offered. Worse, the Tangmers declined to socialise outside the Spital, which, along with them refusing visitors, had given rise to rumours that it was haunted and that all its patients were dangerously insane.

‘Do you like Cambridge, Eudo?’ Bartholomew asked conversationally.

Eudo shook his massive head. ‘I used to go there to buy candles – before we started making our own – and there was always some spat between students and apprentices. I think it is a violent little place, so I try to avoid going there.’

‘You are not obliged to practise your archery, like the rest of us?’

‘Cousin Henry arranged for us to do it here instead, which is much nicer than rubbing shoulders with brawlers.’

When he had finished tending Eudo’s burns, Bartholomew started to walk back to the gate, but was intercepted by the founders themselves – Henry and Amphelisa Tangmer.

They were a curious pair. Tangmer was a heavyset, rosy-cheeked man who could have been nothing but an English yeoman. His wife was an elegant lady in a burgundy-coloured robe, who smelled strongly of fragrant oils. To Bartholomew’s eye, her facial features and casual grace were unmistakably French, and with sudden, blinding clarity, he understood exactly why they discouraged visitors. It was a sensible precaution in the current climate of intolerance and unease.

‘Thank you for helping Eudo,’ said Tangmer, stiffly formal. ‘But we can manage now. The shed is lost, but it was due to be demolished anyway, so it does not matter. All it means is that we shall have to build our bathhouse a bit sooner than we anticipated.’

‘Bathhouse?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately interested.

Amphelisa smiled. ‘We feel cleanliness is important in a hospital.’

Bartholomew thought so, too, although he was in a distinct minority, as most medical practitioners considered hygiene a waste of time. He opened his mouth to see what else he and Amphelisa might have in common, but Tangmer cut across him.

‘The children love to play in the shed, and I imagine one knocked over a candle. But the blaze is under control now, so if there is nothing else …’

‘I saw children by the hall,’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Are they patients?’

‘No, but we believe madness can be cured faster when the afflicted person is surrounded by his loved ones,’ explained Amphelisa. ‘We encourage our inmates to bring their families.’

‘Does it work?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

Amphelisa was willing to discuss it, but her husband cleared his throat meaningfully, so she made an apologetic face. ‘Perhaps we can talk another time, but now I must soothe those who are distressed by the commotion.’

‘I can help,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘A decoction of chamomile and dittany will–’

‘We have our own remedies, thank you,’ interrupted Tangmer, polite but firm. ‘And now, if you will excuse us …’

He took Bartholomew’s arm and began to propel him towards the gate, but stopped when there was an urgent yell from Eudo, who had returned to help with the fire. At the same time, a flame burst through the roof in a slender orange tongue.

‘Let it burn,’ Tangmer called. ‘It will save us the bother of knocking it down later.’

Eudo turned a stricken face towards him. ‘But I heard something. I think someone is still inside!’

Loath to get in the way while the Spital’s people effected a rescue, Bartholomew returned to Michael, Tulyet and the knights. The nuns also kept their distance, other than the mannish Prioress Joan, who abandoned the horses and strode forward to see if she could be of any use. Meanwhile, all the inmates raced towards the shed and began to hammer on it with their fists.

‘Stop! Get back!’ shouted Tangmer in alarm. ‘You will hurt yourselves. Eudo is mistaken – no one is inside. Is that not right, Goda?’

He turned to a woman who stood nearby. She was so small that Bartholomew had assumed she was a child, especially as she wore a bright yellow dress – an unusual colour for an adult – but Michael murmured that she was wife to the vast Eudo, leading the physician to speculate, somewhat voyeurishly, about the difficulties their disparity in size must generate in the marriage bed.

‘Of course it is empty,’ Goda said irritably. ‘The door was ajar, and the fire had not taken hold when I first saw the smoke. Anyone inside would have walked out then.’

‘Well, the door is closed now,’ said Prioress Joan, peering at it through the smoke. ‘So perhaps we had better open it and have a look inside.’

‘I ordered it shut after Goda raised the alarm,’ explained Tangmer, ‘to contain the blaze and make it easier to put out. But I can assure you that no one is–’

‘There!’ yelled Eudo, cocking his head to one side. ‘Voices – a woman’s.’

Bartholomew suspected the big man was mistaken, as the fire had been going for some time, belching smoke at a colossal rate. It was unlikely that anyone was still alive inside.

‘I heard it, too!’ shouted another of the staff, his face tight with horror. ‘We have to get her out. Open the door! Quick!’

‘No!’ howled Bartholomew, darting forward to stop him. ‘The door is smouldering – open it, and the fire will explode outwards, greedy for air. Is there another way in?’

Tangmer shook his head, his face pale. ‘All we can do is to hurl water at the flames until they are extinguished, and hope we are in time. Everyone – remove your shoes and fill them from the stream over the–’

‘Shoes will not suffice,’ snapped Prioress Joan. ‘Sheriff – set the men in a chain between here and the brook. Amphelisa – round up the women and children and send them for buckets. Well? What are you waiting for? Move!’

The urgency of the situation had caused her to lapse into French, the first language of most high-born ladies who held positions of authority in the Church. Bartholomew began to translate, sure few Spital folk would understand, but most immediately looked at Tulyet and Amphelisa, suggesting that they had.

‘But we do not have more buckets,’ gulped Amphelisa. ‘We have already used–’

‘Then bring pots and pans,’ barked Joan. ‘Anything that holds water. Master Tangmer – take your elderly lunatics and the smallest brats to the chapel. They are in the way here.’

‘If there is no other entrance, we will have to make one,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘At the back, where the fire burns less fiercely.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Joan. ‘Come with me and choose the best place.’ She jabbed a thick forefinger at one of the inmates, a dark-haired, wiry man with angry eyes. ‘You, bring us an axe. The rest of you, human chain and water now!’

She hitched up her habit and strode to the back of the shed, managing a pace that had Bartholomew running to keep up. They arrived to find smoke oozing between the planks that formed the walls. Bartholomew put his hand to one and found it was cool – the flames had not yet reached it. He heard the faintest of moans. Eudo was right: someone was inside!

He grabbed a stone and pounded the wall with it, to reassure whoever was inside that help was coming. Joan did likewise, although her blows caused significant dents.

‘Where is that lunatic with the axe?’ she demanded in agitation. ‘Hah! Here he is at last. Where have you been, man? To buy it in town?’

‘I did not know where to look,’ snapped the man, bristling. ‘And my name is Delacroix. I am no man’s servant, so do not address me as one.’

‘Keep your bruised dignity for later, Delacroix,’ said Joan acidly, grabbing the hatchet from him and swinging at the walls with all her might.

Splinters flew. Then the massive Eudo arrived with the biggest chopper Bartholomew had ever seen. In three mighty swipes, he had smashed a head-sized hole.

Bartholomew darted forward to peer through it, blinking away tears as fumes wafted out. It was impossible to see anything inside, and it occurred to him that whoever was in there had probably suffocated by now. Then he glimpsed movement. Someone was struggling to stand, and he had a brief impression of a bloodstained kirtle and a bundle shoved at him. He saw golden curls. The bundle was a child.

‘Stand back!’ he yelled, and indicated that Eudo was to hit the wall again.

More wood shattered. Then Delacroix snatched Joan’s axe and began a frenzied assault that had no impact and prevented Eudo from working. Bartholomew tried to stop him, but Delacroix fought him off. Then a fist shot out and Delacroix reeled backwards.

‘Put your back into it before it is too late,’ roared Joan at Eudo, wringing her bruised knuckles. ‘Hurry!’

Eudo obliged, and the hole expanded. Joan struggled to clamber through it, careless of the smoke that belched around her. She was too big to fit, obliging Bartholomew to haul her out again. She emerged smouldering, her wimple alight. Eudo threw her to the ground and rolled her over, whipping off his shirt to smother the flames.

‘No, help her!’ she snarled, pushing him away. Her face was streaked with soot, her habit was rucked up to reveal two powerful white thighs, and her wimple was in a blackened, unsalvageable mess. ‘The child!’

Bartholomew thrust his arms through the hole. Immediately, something was pushed into them. He pulled hard. There was an agonising moment when clothes snagged on the jagged edges, but Eudo drew a knife and hacked the material free.

Leaving Eudo and Delacroix to rescue the woman, Bartholomew and Joan carried the child away from the smoke. Her eyes were closed and there was no heartbeat. Bartholomew began to press rhythmically on her chest, pausing every so often to blow into her lungs. Nothing happened, so he did it again. And again, and again.

‘No!’ snapped Joan, when he stopped. ‘Do not give up. Not yet.’

He did as he was told, and was on the verge of admitting defeat when the child’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up and began to cough.

‘Praise the Lord!’ breathed Joan. ‘A miracle!’

She fetched Eudo’s discarded shirt and wrapped it around the girl, although it was Amphelisa who took the dazed child in her arms and crooned comforting words.

Bartholomew turned his attention back to the shed. Its roof was a sheet of orange flames, and groans and crashes emanated from within as it collapsed in on itself.

‘What of the woman?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘We could not reach her,’ rasped Eudo, whose face was ashen. ‘It was Mistress Girard, God rest her soul.’