An Unholy Alliance (21 page)

Bartholomew sighed. It was all becoming very

complicated.

Stanmore slapped him on the back. ‘I will put a man on it and see what I can find out for you.’

Bartholomew gave him a brief smile. ‘Thank you. How many people were thereat this coven at St John Zachan?’

he asked.

‘My man counted five people, but I suspect there are more members than this.’

‘Do you know the name of anyone who is in one of these covens?’

Stanmore screwed up his face and looked away. ‘Not for certain,’ he said.

‘Who?’ persisted Bartholomew, studying Stanmore

closely.

‘I do not know for certain,’ Stanmore repeated. He stared back at Bartholomew. ‘But I think de Belem might be a member of the Guild of the Purification.’

‘De Belem?’ said Bartholomew incredulously. ‘Reginald de Belem?’

Stanmore nodded, and grabbed Bartholomew by his

tabard. ‘I am not certain, so please be careful how you use that information. Sir Reginald has been through enough with the death of his daughter, and I would not want to be the cause of further grief should I be mistaken.’

Bartholomew looked away and stared down the

darkening path, his mind working fast. If there was rivalry between the two covens as Stanmore suggested, did this mean that someone in the Guild of the Coming was killing the women and leaving the secret sign of the rival coven on the bodies as some kind of insult? Or was it simply the work of the Guild of Purification? He thought about the incident in the orchard where at least three people had trespassed in Michaelhouse. Was an entire guild involved? Was he taking on dozens of people in this business? Was de Beiem’s daughter killed by the Guild of the Coming and marked as a warning to him, or had she been murdered by his own guild as punishment for some perceived misdemeanour?

He chewed absently on a stalk of grass. The woman in Nicholas’s tomb had been wearing the goat mask. Was a goat the symbol of the Guild of the Coming? He knew goats were associated with the Devil, as attested by the painting in the church. Was the woman killed by the Guild of the Coming and buried with a goat mask to claim the murder as their work? It seemed rather extreme.

And how was Nicholas of York involved? Bartholomew thought about de Beiem’s insistence that he investigate Frances’s murder. Did he suspect that Tulyet might be involved with the Guild of the Coming, his rival guild, and would therefore do nothing to help? And what of the third guild, the Guild of the Holy Trinity, which de Wetherset had told him about, and of which Nicholas was a member? Were they involved in this? Were they using the sacred symbol of one of the covens so that it would be blamed for the murders?

‘Matt.’ Stanmore’s voice cut across his thoughts, i do not like any of this, and I do not like the idea of you becoming involved in the doings of evil men. You must take care!’

Bartholomew turned to Stanmore and seized his arm.

‘Do not bring Edith into the town until all this is over.’

‘You can have no fear on that score,’ said Stanmore fervently. ‘And tomorrow I will bring my brother’s widow and her children here, too. That will keep her safe and Edith busy.’

Bartholomew left Stanmore and began to walk home alone. He should not have spent so much time talking, for it was now dark and he began to feel uneasy. Walking along the Trumpington road to Cambridge alone in the dark was foolish in the extreme, especially earning his medical bag. Anyone who did not know him would

assume it was full of valuables, or even food, and he would be dead before they realised it contained little of worth to anyone but another physician. And perhaps not even then, he thought briefly, wondering how many physicians would be remotely interested in the surgical instruments he carried, or in some of the more exotic of his salves and potions.

He froze as something darted across his path, and forced himself to relax when he saw it was only a deer, perhaps even the same one that he had admired that afternoon.

Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped, and he

spun round scanning the pathway, but he saw only an owl swooping silently towards a frantically running rodent.

He thought of how he had waited to join a large group of people before walking from the Fair into Cambridge at dusk, and now here he was, on a far more remote road, in the dark and totally alone. Something scrabbled in the bushes at the side of the road, and Bartholomew glimpsed two luminous eyes watching him balefully before slinking off into the undergrowth. A feral cat. He had had no idea there was so much wildlife on the Trumpington road at night which could frighten him out of his wits.

Swallowing hard, he took a few steps forward, wondering whether it would be better to go back to Stanmore and Edith for the night. Distantly, he heard the sound of hoof beats, no casual travellers, but moving quickly along the track. Were they outlaws bent on earning a quick fortune by raiding travellers on the road? Uneasily, he left the path to hide among the bushes until they passed.

The hoof beats grew nearer, coming from the

Trumpington side. He pressed back further, feeling cold water from a boggy puddle seep into his shoes.

Suddenly the horses were on him, and Bartholomew felt faint with relief as he recognised the ugly piebald war-horse that belonged to Stanmore. He left his hiding place and hailed him.

‘Matt!’ said Stanmore, looking as relieved as

Bartholomew felt. ‘It was only when I was home that I realised how dangerous it was for you to walk home alone. A man was almost killed here only last week.’

Bartholomew climbed clumsily onto the spare horse Stanmore had brought, still trying to quell his jangling nerves.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to become nervous.’

‘Looks scared half to death to me,’ Bartholomew heard Stanmore’s steward mutter, and one or two of the men with him laughed.

‘We should all be cautious,’ said Stanmore. ‘Especially after what happened to Will and my cart,’ he added, with a look that silenced all humour. ‘We live in dangerous times,’ Stanmore continued, ‘when a man cannot walk the roads alone. People say the Death is over, and that it has passed us by. But perhaps the wrath of God is still with us in a different way: people falling into witchcraft, masterless bandits roaming the highways, starvation and poverty increasing, the strong taking from the weak because there is no one to stop them, prostitutes brazenly flaunting their wares, murders in the town and the Sheriff doing nothing …’

‘We should be on our way, sir,’ said Stanmores steward politely.

Stanmore, his mouth still open to continue his diatribe, relented. ‘Of course. Hugh and Ned will ride with you, Matt, and will spend the night in Milne Street. The rest of you, home with me.’

Bartholomew parted from Stanmore for the second

time that night, and cantered towards Cambridge after Hugh and Ned. After an uneventful, but uncomfortable, ride along the rutted road, he arrived safely back at Michaelhouse and was allowed in by the surly Walter, who clearly disapproved of the privileges of free exit and entry afforded to Bartholomew by the Master. A few minutes later, Bartholomew saw the porter leave his post and slip across to Alcote’s room to inform him that he had been late.

He crept up to Michael’s room to see if he had

returned from Ely but the monk’s bed was still empty.

His room-mates slumbered on and Bartholomew went to his own bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

He was wakened after what seemed to be only a few moments by someone roughly shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked as he saw Michael hanging over him, holding a candle. He winced as hot wax fell on his arm, and pushed Michael away.

‘What is the matter?’ he said drowsily. ‘What has happened?’

‘I thought we were friends,’ Michael hissed in the darkness. Bartholomew raised himself on one elbow, and looked at Michael in astonishment. The fat monk was agitated, and Bartholomew flinched a second time as Michael’s shaking hands deposited more hot wax on his bare skin.

‘Whatever is the matter with you?’ he said, pushing Michael firmly away a second time and sitting up.

‘I do not consider what you did was funny,’ Michael said, his voice rising in anger.

‘Shhh. You will wake the whole College. What are you talking about?’

Bartholomew jumped as Michael dropped something

on his bed, and kicked it off in distaste.

‘You left that in my bed,’ said Michael in quiet fury.

‘That is a far cry from shadows on the wall.’

Light began to dawn in Bartholomew’s confused mind as he stared down at the severed head of a young goat that now lay on the floor. ‘You found this in your bed?’

he said, looking up at the furious monk.

‘You put it there as revenge for my trick with the shadows.’ stated Michael, his voice hard and accusing.

Bartholomew looked back down at the head. It had probably been taken from one of the butchers’ stalls in Petty Cury. Bartholomew knew that Agatha often bought heads cheaply from butchers to boil up for soups and broths. The head in itself was not an object for disgust; but the fact that it had been dumped on Michael while he slept gave it a sinister connotation.

‘When did you get back?’ he asked Michael.

‘About an hour ago. You were already fast asleep, or at least pretending to be, when I called out to you. That thing was not in my bed when I went to sleep, so you must have sneaked upstairs and put it on top of me while I slept.

The smell woke me.’ Michael still glowered at him, the light flickering eerily in the room as the hand that held the candle shook.

Bartholomew glanced upat Michael and saw the hurt in his eyes. He caught his breath as the implications dawned on him. Since the College was locked and guarded, who but a Michaelhouse scholar could have put it there? ‘Oh.

no! Please do not tell me that the College is going to become mixed up in all this,’ he groaned.

‘Someone from the College did put it there,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You.’

You should know me better than that, Brother,” said Bartholomew. ‘Dead animals can earn disease. Do you honestly believe I would put something in your bed that might make you ill?’

Are you telling me you did not do it?’ said Michael, sinking down on Bartholomew’s bed, his anger evaporating like a puff of smoke.

‘Of course I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And I doubt that eEnric would either, before you think to blame him. I suspect that this bearer of gifts had something far more sinister in mind than practical jokes.’

Michael shuddered. ‘So someone came into my room while I slept and put that thing on me?’ he asked, his anger now horror.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘So it would seem,’ he said.

‘I saw Walter slope off to Alcote’s room to tell him I had returned late. I suppose if he did the same when you returned, it. is possible that someone entered the College while he was away, and that the culprit need not necessarily be a member of College.’

‘But how would whoever it was know which was my

room?’ asked Michael.

‘Perhaps it was intended for someone else.’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps there are secret members of those covens in Michaelhouse.’

He thought back to the conversation he had had

with Stanmore earlier, and his assumption that while the circle was the symbol of the Guild of Purification, a goat might be the sign of the Guild of the Coming. He told Michael, and they regarded each other sombrely as they considered the possibilities.

‘But what does it mean?’ asked Michael, white-faced.

‘Was there a note or a message with it?’ Bartholomew asked.

Michael shrugged helplessly. ‘Just the head. Do you think the Guild of the Coming is warning me to stay away from them?’

‘It must be,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘And their message is clear. If they can leave a dead animal on you in your own College in the middle of the night, they can harm you in other ways.’

He stood and looked down at Michael. ‘Perhaps they chose you and not me because it is you who went to see the Bishop, and you who is reading Nicholas’s book.’

‘The book!’ exclaimed Michael, snapping his fingers.

‘There must be something in the book! But the only person who knows I am reading it, other than you, is de Wetherset.’

He met Bartholomew’s eyes, and they exchanged a

look of horror.

‘Surely not!’ breathed Michael.

‘Does this book record anything about these unholy

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guilds?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to dismiss too glibly the possibility that de Wetherset might be involved.

Michael shook his head. ‘There is very little incriminating in any of it. I do not understand why de Wetherset was so relieved to discover it had not been stolen.”

‘Unless he has not given all of it to you to read,’ said Baitholomew.

Michael’s green eyes were huge as he considered

Bartholomew’s words. Oh, lord, Matt! What have we been dragged into? You are right, of course. What I have read is nothing: de Wetherset had no reason to be concerned about the documents he has given me to read. He has only given me the parts he considers harmless! What a fool I have been! Do you think he is a member of a coven? Do you think he told them what I was doing?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘If he knows you have access to only those parts of the book he considers innocuous, there is no reason for him to warn you away with dead animals. No, Brother. The warning is either from someone who has seen you at the church and who has guessed what you are reading, or it is unrelated to the book at all. I think de Wetherset has been less than honest with us, but I do not see why he would need to send you the head.’

Michael, appalled, stared at the head on the floor. ‘I wish it had been you who left that thing on me after all,’

he said fervently. ‘If anyone had to dump dead animals on me in the night, I would rather it were you than anyone else! A practical joke, however vile, would be preferable to this sinister business.’