Mystery in the Minster (41 page)

‘He was with Marmaduke,’ elaborated Multone. ‘Walking arm-in-arm. He tried to say something else, too, but Marmaduke was in a hurry and would not let him finish.’

‘What did he start to say?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking with such intensity that the Abbot took a step away from him.

‘I am not sure. He was calling over his shoulder, and we were near the minster, which was noisy.’

‘Please try to remember,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘It is important.’

‘I thought he mentioned St Mary ad Valvas, but I probably misheard. Why would he be making reference to that horrible place?’

‘What is wrong, Matt?’ asked Michael, alarmed by the physician’s reaction.

‘Cynric,’ replied Bartholomew, stomach churning in alarm. ‘Marmaduke has him.’

The physician began wading quickly towards the bridge. He stumbled when he trod on some unseen obstacle
beneath the surface, and the time spent regaining his balance allowed Michael to catch him up.

‘Explain,’ ordered the monk, grabbing his arm to make him slow down. ‘How do you know Marmaduke has Cynric? And what do you mean by “has” anyway?’

‘Cynric is not in the habit of wandering about arm-inarm with strangers,’ replied Bartholomew, freeing himself roughly and ploughing onwards again. ‘So there is only one explanation: Marmaduke was holding him close because he had a knife at his ribs. And the message Cynric gave the Abbot …’

‘That he would soon follow Radeford,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What did—’

‘Radeford is
dead
!’ shouted Bartholomew, exasperated by the monk’s slow wits. ‘So Cynric was telling us that
he
will soon be dead, too. Why could Multone not have mentioned this the moment we were released? We wasted ages chatting about nonsense while Cynric was in danger!’

‘Steady,’ warned Michael soothingly. ‘We will save him. Multone was probably right when he thought he heard Cynric mention St Mary ad Valvas, because we know the place is home to all manner of sinister activities. We shall go there straight …’

He faltered, because they had reached the bridge, which was the scene of almost indescribable chaos. The volume of water racing beneath it was making the entire structure vibrate, and the sound was deafening. Its houses had been evacuated, but the frightened residents had refused to go far, and stood in disconsolate huddles, blocking the road for pedestrians and carts alike. Meanwhile, Mayor Longton had ordered the bridge closed, and a mass of frantic humanity swirled about its entrance, desperate to reach friends and family on the other side.

Bartholomew started to fight his way through them, but
the crowd was too tightly packed, and with horror he saw it was going to prevent him from racing to Cynric’s aid. But he had reckoned without the powerful bulk of Michael, and the combined authority of Abbot Multone, Warden Stayndrop and Prior Penterel. The monk was able to force a path where Bartholomew could not, and the other three quelled objections by dispensing grand-sounding blessings in Latin that had folk bowing their heads to receive them.

‘You cannot cross,’ said the soldier on duty, putting out his hand when they reached the front of the melee. ‘It is about to collapse.’

‘But we must,’ cried Michael. ‘We have urgent business on the other side.’

‘Urgent enough to cost you your life?’ asked the guard archly.

‘Yes!’ shouted Bartholomew, shoving past him and beginning to run. He staggered when the bridge swayed under his feet, but then raced on, closing his ears to the unsettling sound of groaning timbers from the houses as the structure flexed. He glanced behind him to see that Michael, Stayndrop, Multone and Penterel had followed, and were close on his heels.

They were over in a trice, only to find their way blocked by a desperate crowd on the other side, all standing knee deep in water that made it impossible to see where land began and river ended. Again, Michael shouldered his way through them, while the three heads of houses prevented him and Bartholomew from being lynched by bestowing benedictions.

Once free of the press, Bartholomew hesitated, not sufficiently familiar with the layout of the streets to know where to tread – it would be very easy to step into a ditch or a runnel and be swept towards the churning river.

There was a cry behind him, and he whipped around to see Stayndrop gaping in dismay – water had invaded his priory. Penterel clapped a comforting arm around his shoulders and led him towards it, while Multone had already disappeared to his own abbey. Bartholomew glanced back at the bridge, and saw guards struggling to prevent people from storming across it; he hoped he had not set a precedent that would end in tragedy.

But it was no time to berate himself, so he aimed for a gap in the houses that he hoped was a lane leading towards Petergate, stumbling to his knees when he tried to move too quickly and the water tripped him. He staggered on, only to fall a second time when a crate washed into him. Suddenly, there was a flurry of warning yells, and the water grew much deeper and faster.

‘Another burst bank,’ muttered Michael, hauling Bartholomew upright by the scruff of his neck. ‘Hurry, or we shall both be swept away.’

They struggled on, relieved to find the water shallowing as they moved north. By St Sampson’s Church, there was no evidence of it at all, although the ground squelched underfoot. It was where they had first met Marmaduke, and gasping for breath, Bartholomew lurched inside, wanting to be sure the ex-priest had not taken his prisoner there.

It was full of people praying that the flood would abate before it reached them. Belongings were piled in heaps along the aisles, and mothers cradled frightened children. But there was no sign of Marmaduke, and a harried parish priest informed them that he had not been there all night.

‘And his help would have been appreciated,’ he said bitterly. ‘He has been in here every other day, guarding Sampson’s toe. Why did he have to choose today to disappear?’

Bartholomew had no time to explain. He turned and ran. Michael, who had been clinging to the doorpost in an effort to catch his breath, began to follow.

‘You are going the wrong way,’ the monk gasped, but Bartholomew ignored him, then spent several agonising moments in a dead end, and was obliged to retrace his steps. He tried to make up for lost time by taking what he thought was a shortcut, but then became hopelessly lost in the tangle of alleys that had confounded him and Radeford on their first day in the city. When he finally emerged on the right road, Michael was some distance ahead.

Petergate was packed with people, animals and carts, most aiming for the sanctuary offered by the minster. They were greeted at the precinct gates by vicars-choral, who dispensed practical advice and directions to where they could be fed and dried out.

‘Wait!’ gasped Michael, as the physician shot past him. He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm, and swung him around. ‘Do not make the same mistake as Langelee by racing blindly into a situation you do not understand. What is your plan?’

Bartholomew twisted away, unwilling to admit that he did not have one, but that his bag contained several surgical knives, and he did not imagine Marmaduke capable of besting him and the book-bearer at the same time. He did not let himself think that Marmaduke was clearly no stranger to combat if he had overpowered as competent and seasoned a warrior as Cynric.

He powered into the door of St Mary ad Valvas with his shoulder, hoping it was rotten enough to splinter, because he possessed neither the skill nor the patience to pick the lock. But the door was not secured at all, and he found himself staggering, hopelessly off balance, as
he flew inside. And then he sagged in dismay. The church was empty.

St Mary ad Valvas was calm and still after the hectic com motion outside. A few bedraggled pigeons cooed in the fractured roof, and rain splattered from a broken gutter on to the chancel floor, but it was otherwise silent. It seemed more dank and dismal than ever in the cold, grey light of early morning, and it reeked of decay and mildew.

‘Where is he?’ Bartholomew whispered, as the monk caught up. ‘Where would Marmaduke have taken Cynric? I have no idea where he lives. How do we find out?’

‘His house is near St Sampson’s,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And I checked it while you were messing about in dead-ended alleys. Neither he nor Cynric were there.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, grateful that one of them was still capable of thinking rationally.

Michael pushed past him, and began to inspect the church more carefully, while Bartholomew slumped against a wall, his mind filled with tortured images of Cynric waiting for rescue that would never come.

‘He
was
here,’ called the monk suddenly. ‘Look!’

He had reached the fallen screen that divided nave from chancel, and was pointing at one of the pillars. Cynric had evidently been made to sit at its base: there was a slight indentation in the moss that grew at the bottom, but more importantly, he had managed to take a piece of chalky stone and scratch three letters on it, spelling the first part of his name.

‘And here is one of the abbey’s spades,’ said Michael, rubbing at a design that had been embossed on the wood of the handle. ‘It is soiled, so he was digging for something. But what?’

Bartholomew climbed over the splintered mass of the
rood, and entered the chancel. He stopped in shock when he saw that the plague mound had been disturbed – the floor was littered with lumps of rock and scattered earth. The stench of decay was stronger than it had been, too.

‘Did Cynric do this?’ breathed Michael, recoiling in horror. ‘Why would he—’

‘What are you doing?’

Both scholars jumped, and they spun around to see Ellis standing behind them. The sub-chanter had lost his pattens, and his fine shoes were covered in mud. His lips glistened in the gloom.

‘Have you seen Marmaduke today?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Or Cynric?’

‘You should not be in here,’ said Ellis, ignoring the questions. ‘It is not safe with all this rain. The roof is unstable, and the additional weight of sodden timbers might cause it to collapse.’

‘Marmaduke,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘He was in the minster during the night,’ replied Ellis, eyeing them with suspicion. ‘I am not sure why, because he usually prefers the more modest surroundings of St Sampson’s. What is that awful stench? It cannot be the plague grave, surely? Not after all this time.’

Bartholomew stared at the mound. Ellis was right: the smell could not be attributable to the victims who had been buried there ten years before, and who were now no more than bones. Moreover, he was fairly sure the odour did not derive exclusively from the dead pig and cats, either.

‘There must be another body in there!’ he exclaimed in understanding. ‘Cynric—’

‘It cannot be Cynric,’ interrupted Michael quickly. ‘He has not been missing long enough.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Cynric was
digging
here. Wy mentioned Marmaduke and the plague pit …’

He scrambled up the heap quickly and began to haul away pieces of stone with his hands, not caring that they ripped his fingernails and grazed his skin. Under the slabs was soil, soft and sticky from the rain.

‘Stop!’ cried Ellis in horror. ‘There are victims of the pestilence inside that!’

‘This is what Cynric was doing when Marmaduke found him,’ gasped Bartholomew, grabbing the spade and hacking away the packed earth. ‘He—’

‘Then he had no business,’ snapped Ellis. ‘It might release the Death into York a second time. Come down at once, or I shall summon the minster guards and have you arrested.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael uncomfortably, sure the physician had lost his wits. ‘The last thing we need is another outbreak of the disease. That will certainly not help Cynric.’

Bartholomew ignored them both, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he intensified his efforts, certain he was about to discover a clue that would tell him where Marmaduke had taken his friend.

‘Enough!’ commanded Ellis, irate enough to clamber up the pile after him. ‘You have no right to disturb the dead.’

‘Someone is buried in here,’ rasped Bartholomew. ‘It is—’

‘Of course someone is buried,’ snarled Ellis, reaching out to drag him away. Bartholomew jigged free. ‘The whole thing is a tomb!’

‘The plague dead will be skeletons.’ Struggling to stay out of grabbing distance and dig at the same time, Bartholomew managed to expose a leg. He fought not to gag as the stench
of putrefaction rose around him. ‘Look! This is much more recent – no more than a few weeks. It is why there has always been such a rank odour here.’

‘From the animals!’ shouted Ellis, lunging again. ‘The Dean keeps asking the vergers to remove them, but they pretend to forget. I do not blame them: toting maggot-ridden pigs and cats is—’

‘I suspect they were brought here at the same time as this man,’ interrupted Bartholomew, scrambling to where the corpse’s head should be. ‘To disguise any odour emanating from him.’

‘This is nonsense!’ yelled Ellis. He tried to drag the physician away, but Michael seized the hem of his cloak and yanked him back. ‘Your behaviour is disgraceful. I will see you fined so heavily that you will
beg
me to take Huntington, to pay the price of—’

‘There!’ said Bartholomew, stepping aside suddenly. He had exposed the face of a man who had possessed a shock of thick grey hair, although its time in the mound had turned it filthy and tangled. The skin was dark with decay, but not enough to make him unrecognisable to anyone who had known him in life.