The Tarnished Chalice (51 page)

‘Because I had no proof before. I have it now, though. Matthew was the key, although he does not know it.’ The physician was startled, but then recalled the discussion he had had with Dame Eleanor. They had talked about wake-robin, and how it was used to expel afterbirth. Wake-robin was another name for cuckoo-pint. ‘He told Eleanor that all good midwives know to give cuckoo-pint in small amounts over a number of hours. However, you gave my mother her potion in one large dose. You knew exactly what you were doing.’

‘Prove it,’ challenged Ursula, but Bartholomew could see she was worried.

There was another knock, harder this time. Someone was becoming impatient.

Christiana ignored it. ‘Once I knew what to ask, I was able to go to midwives and apothecaries, and discuss with them the correct way to administer it. They all said the same: bit by bit. My mother was the only one who received hers all at once. Matilde was right after all.’

‘So what if she was?’ demanded Ursula, suddenly defensive. ‘No one cares about this now. And no jury will ever convict me.’

‘I was not thinking of going to a jury,’ said Christiana in a soft voice that made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. ‘I was thinking of dispensing my own justice. I tried with the milk, but that did not work, because I could not use a strong enough dose – you would have noticed.’

The hammering came a third time. ‘Spayne?’ came Michael’s voice. ‘I know you are in there, because I can see your lamps. We are looking for Matt. He is missing and I am worried.’

‘Lady Christiana might know where he is,’ shouted Ursula, before Christiana or Hugh could stop her. ‘Come in and ask her yourself—’

She fell silent when Hugh leapt towards her and placed a dagger under her chin. ‘That was stupid, lady,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘We asked you to keep quiet.’

‘It was not stupid at all,’ said Ursula defiantly. ‘It was extremely clever. Now the monk knows she is here, and if I come to any harm, she will be his prime suspect.’

‘Christiana is with you?’ With relief, Bartholomew recognised Dame Eleanor’s voice – the one person who could talk sense into her misguided friend.

‘Let them in,’ said Christiana to Hugh. ‘Ursula is right. We cannot let Michael go, having heard that. He is tenacious, and I do not want him investigating my affairs.’

‘We could kill him later,’ suggested Hugh. ‘After we have finished here.’

‘We will do it now,’ said Christiana. ‘We have already made two unsuccessful attempts to dispatch the fellow, and learned to our cost that he is not an easy target. Claypole’s arm is still bruised, and I was almost brained twice – once with the branch of a tree and once with a shoe-scraper.’

‘What about Dame Eleanor?’ asked Hugh nervously. ‘She might not like it.’

‘She will be no trouble,’ replied Christiana.

When Christiana moved towards the door, Bartholomew pushed away from his window and tried to run to the front of the building, to warn the monk. The snow had drifted, so it was knee deep and like wading through mud. He tried shouting, but there was too much racket on the main road, and he knew Michael would not hear him. He took only a few steps before realising it was futile, and struggled back to his vantage point, defeated.

It gave him no pleasure to know Michael would soon see he had made a dreadful mistake with the woman he had admired, and he was disgusted with himself for dismissing Hugh’s role with the letter so readily. He was a child, it was true, but one with an eye for mischief, and also one who was a talented archer, as Bartholomew himself had witnessed at the butts. And, like many other males at the cathedral, Hugh was captivated by Christiana.

By the time he reached the hole in the window again, Michael and Eleanor were inside the hall. The monk beamed at Christiana, and Bartholomew saw Hugh had hidden his weapon. He considered bursting through the shutter, but a bar had been placed across the inside that would seriously hamper any attempt to enter quickly. He had also lost his bag with its arsenal of surgical blades, and there was a limit to what an unarmed man could do against a bow.

‘I am glad you are here, Michael,’ said Christiana, indicating he should sit on the bench opposite Spayne and Ursula. ‘We have been discussing murder.’

‘Have you?’ asked Michael. Something in the tone of her voice had alerted him to the fact that all was not well. He was an astute man, and immediately became wary. ‘Well, in that case I shall leave you, and resume my hunt for Matt—’

Hugh moved quickly to block the door. ‘You must stay here.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. He had noticed that the Spaynes were trussed up like chickens.

‘Because Hugh will shoot you if you try to leave,’ said Christiana, as the boy snatched up his bow. ‘And he is very good, as Simon and Tetford can attest. Now, sit down.’

‘Christiana?’ asked Eleanor, startled. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ursula confessed,’ blurted Christiana, suddenly tearful. ‘She is proud of herself for eluding justice, and her brother feels no guilt at all for his role in my mother’s murder.’

‘That is not true,’ cried Spayne. ‘I am wracked with self-reproach. Why do you think I have never married? It is nothing to do with Matilde, but because I have a nagging sense that I will be damned in the sight of God if I find wedded bliss with another woman.’

‘I do not know what is happening, but I am sure it can be resolved peacefully,’ said Michael, edging towards the door. ‘And I cannot stay here. I need to find Matt before—’

Hugh aimed his bow, and Michael flopped hastily on the bench when he saw the determined gleam in the child’s eye. Christiana moved forward, and Bartholomew was impressed by the speed with which she secured the monk’s hands. She left his feet free, though, and Bartholomew was under the impression she did not intend to wait long before making her move. He looked at Dame Eleanor, willing the old lady to bring the confrontation to an end, trusting her quiet saintliness would make Christiana see reason.

‘What is happening here?’ asked Michael with quiet calm. ‘If it involves violence, I beg you to reconsider. Too many men have lost their lives already.’

‘We are working to the glory of God,’ replied Christiana, moving away from him. ‘And it is time to avenge my mother’s murder at last.’

‘Hugh,’ said Dame Eleanor, turning to the boy. ‘You know what to do.’

Bartholomew watched aghast, as the boy raised his bow and shot Ursula in the chest. She made no sound as she slumped to one side. Christiana and Eleanor glanced at each other, and smiled.

* * *

‘I doubt St Hugh will be very impressed by that,’ said Michael in the shocked silence that followed. ‘Your actions will have him weeping in Heaven.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Dame Eleanor. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw the old lady’s eyes fill with the light of religious fervour. ‘I have served him for sixty years, and I know what he wants.’

‘He wants this?’ asked Michael, nodding towards Ursula.

‘He wants justice,’ said Eleanor coldly. ‘And he sent Christiana and Hugh to help me in my quest. That is how I know I am doing what he desires.’

‘You have corrupted them,’ said Michael. ‘A child and a vulnerable, grieving woman. You have murmured your deranged ethics into their ears, and turned them evil.’

Eleanor grimaced. ‘Rot! They know I am right, and they are only too happy to help me.’

‘She is a saint,’ said Hugh simply, while Christiana nodded agreement. ‘One day she will have a shrine in the cathedral, and we will be recorded by the chroniclers as her helpmeets. People will revere us for taking a stand against sin.’

Bartholomew moved away from the window, and put his hands over his face. He had been wrong: Christiana was just a foot soldier, and the real power behind the murders that had so mystified them was the saintly Eleanor, with her wise eyes and kindly smile. He was in an agony of indecision. Should he burst into the hall and attempt to disarm Hugh? Should he run to the Gilbertine Priory or the cathedral for help, or would that take too long? He staggered back along the lane into the main street, trying to decide which option would give Michael the best chance, then stopped abruptly when a figure loomed out of the swirling snow, just visible in the faint light from the lamp above Spayne’s door. It was Lora, who greeted him by
hurling her dagger. He threw himself to one side, and it landed quivering in one of Spayne’s windowsills.

‘Fetch Miller!’ he called urgently, staggering to his feet with his hands full of snow. ‘Spayne is being held captive in his house by the people who killed Aylmer and Herl.’

‘I do not believe you.’ She moved towards him with her sword.

Bartholomew had not imagined she would. He lobbed snow at her as hard as he could, first with one hand, then the other. Both landed square in her face, making her gasp in shock. While she was reeling, he landed two quick punches that knocked her flat on her back.

‘Summon help,’ he ordered, when she gazed at him in stunned surprise. ‘At once.’

He did not wait to see what she would do. He grabbed her dagger from the sill, knowing that Michael’s rescue – he did not care what happened to Spayne – was down to him alone. He tried peering under the shutters at the front of the house, but they fitted better than the ones at the back, and all he could see was Hugh and his bow. There was no time for rationalisation. He waded to Spayne’s front door and kicked it hard. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and he marched inside.

‘Sheriff Lungspee is on his way,’ he declared. ‘He will be here any moment, so put up your weapons and bring an end to this before anyone else is hurt.’

‘Do not treat me like a fool,’ said Eleanor coldly, neither surprised to see him nor unsettled by his announcement. ‘Lungspee is hiding in his castle, waiting for the city to grow peaceful again.’

Bartholomew raised the dagger, intending to hurl it at Hugh and force him to drop the bow, but Eleanor moved fast, and he saw something flash through the air. There was a resounding thump under his arm, and he jerked
backwards, staggering against the brace near the hearth. It groaned alarmingly, and there was a short silence. Then Hugh laughed and Michael groaned in despair.

‘Did you mean to do that?’ asked Christiana of Eleanor, going to close the door. When Bartholomew recovered his wits sufficiently to understand what had happened, he found himself pinned to the pillar with a knife. It had passed under his elbow and caught the material of his tunic.

Eleanor grimaced. ‘I was aiming for his heart, but he moved. Still, he is rendered harmless, because my knife has nailed his arm to the wood, so the outcome is the same.’

Bartholomew flexed his hand to make sure she was wrong. It would not be difficult to rip himself free, but then she would hurl a second blade at him, and this time she might damage more than his clothes. He sagged slightly, trying to give the impression that he was injured, while his mind worked feverishly for a way out of the predicament. He could see none.

Michael’s face was white, and his voice was barely audible over Spayne’s heartbroken sobs. ‘Matt worked out what you had done, but I did not believe you capable of such wickedness.’

Eleanor glanced at Bartholomew. ‘What did you work out, exactly? You may as well tell us. We will not kill you as long as you are talking, and you are vain enough to think the delay may provide you with an opportunity to escape. What do you have to lose?’

‘Do not humour them, Matt,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Let them continue to wonder what you know and who else we have told about it.’

Hugh aimed his bow at the monk. ‘I will kill him if you do not answer, physician. Dame Eleanor says shooting evil men is good for my soul, so I am not afraid to do it.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to accept the challenge. Lora might do what he had asked, and the longer he talked, the greater the chance of her arriving in time. ‘You shot Tetford, because he closed his tavern – you earned pennies as a pot-boy and did not want to lose the income. Since then, you have learned there is always a need for pot-boys, and that murder was unnecessary.’

‘He is a child,’ said Michael, joining in reluctantly. ‘And it did not occur to his unformed mind that the tavern would be taken over by another landlord. Then, of course, he realised he might do better under his brother than with Ravenser: John is always talking about looking after the family, and Hugh has high expectations. Did he tell you he shot Ravenser today?’

‘Did you?’ asked Eleanor, regarding the boy admonishingly. ‘You cannot go around killing for personal gain – only for greater purposes.’

Hugh was sullen. ‘Ravenser paid me less than his whores.’

‘You ordered Hugh to shoot Michael – after you had rendered the guard insensible so our knocks at the gate would go unheard,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘but Tetford happened to be with us, and the temptation was too much. You have created a monster.’

‘A soldier,’ corrected Hugh. ‘Not a monster. And I did not mean to shoot Tetford: he just got in the way. It was dark, and I could not see very well.’

‘And then you ran away,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘You are happy to kill with bows, but too cowardly to fight with blades. No wonder no one has given you a sword. You do not deserve one.’

Hugh was outraged and his weapon started to come up. Eleanor pushed it down again. ‘Not yet. I want them to tell us what they know about Tetford.’

‘You were going to kill him anyway,’ said Bartholomew.
‘You had put poison in his wineskin – we found the secret supply Christiana keeps at Little Hugh’s tomb. You could have saved yourself the bother of the orchard ambush. Tetford offered that wine to Michael, and he would have swallowed it, if Hugh and Claypole had not loosed their arrows.’

Christiana frowned. ‘That was what Dame Eleanor originally intended: the two of them poisoned while toasting Tetford’s latest insincere attempt to be a good man.’

‘I was annoyed when Claypole and Hugh acted too soon,’ said Eleanor. ‘Tetford was a wicked young man, and I intended to prevent him from becoming a Vicar Choral in my cathedral. And I did not want you interfering with the saint’s will by exposing me, Brother, so you had to die, too.’