An Unholy Alliance (37 page)

Tulyet nodded miserably. ‘But please be careful for the child,’ he said. ‘Many people are guilty of vile crimes in this business, but he is wholly innocent.’

Tulyet stood, white faced, and Michael clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Do not go home. Your anxiety might alert your son, and he may interfere and do harm. Wait with Master Kenyngham until we return.

Tell him what you have told us, and we will inform you of what we have learned as soon as we can.’

Tulyet nodded again. Bartholomew called for Cynric to escort the merchant to Kenyngham’s room.

‘What made you come to us now?’ asked Michael as he left.

Tulyet gave a weak smile. ‘The town has failed since the Sheriff is helpless, and my own information has revealed nothing. The Church will not help me now I have sold my soul to the Devil. What else is there but the University? I came close to telling you the other day.

Now I feel you are our only hope.’

They watched him walk across the yard, his shoulders stooped.

‘What shall we do first?’ asked Michael.

“I have an idea,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael PUFFED ALONG Next to

Bartholomew on their way to Milne Street,

while on his other side, Cynric glided

through the shadows like a cat.

Bartholomew hoped Stanmore had not already gone

home, and he was relieved when he saw lights burning in one of the storerooms. He led the way through Stanmore’s yard, and found his brotherin-law supervising two exhausted labourers with the last bales of

cloth from a consignment that had arrived from the Low Countries. Stanmore smiled at his unexpected visitors, waved his men home for the night, and wiped his hands on his gown.

‘Dyed cloth from Flanders,’ he said, patting one of the bales in satisfaction.’ Excellent quality. It goes to show that it is better to use the barges than the roads these days.’

‘Do you have anything in black?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around.

‘I have black wool. What do you want it for?’ asked Stanmore.

‘A Benedictine habit,’ said Bartholomew.

Stanmore frowned and looked at Michael’s habit. “I have nothing in stock that would be appropriate. I would need to have something dyed. When do you need it?’

‘Two days,’ said Bartholomew. Michael looked from one to the other in confusion.

‘I do not need another habit,’ he said. ‘I have two already.’

Bartholomew wandered to where Stanmore kept his

tools and a small bucket of red dye used for marking bales of cloth as they arrived. He took a brush from the bucket and flicked it at Michael, who gazed in disbelief at the trail of red drops down the front of his black robe.

Stanmore looked at Bartholomew as if he had gone mad, and edged nearer the door.

‘Now you have only one,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is not good enough for you to attend your students’ disputations in two days’ time. The Bishop will be there, and you know how vain Benedictines like to look their best. It is a shame you were careless in Oswald’s workshop when he had just told you he had no black cloth in stock.’

Michael looked up slowly, his green eyes gleaming as he understood Bartholomew’s plan. ‘It is essential we get the cloth tonight,’ he said, ‘or the habit will not be ready in time.’

It was Stanmore’s turn to look from one to the other in bewilderment. “I can buy some from Reginald de Belem,’

he said. ‘He always has plenty of black cloth dyed ready to sell me.’

“I bet he does,’ said Bartholomew, drily. ‘What do you think he would do if we wanted him to give us some tonight?’

‘Like any good merchant, I imagine he would try to accommodate a customer.’ Stanmore looked at him

suspiciously. ‘This is about the guild business, isn’t it?’

he said.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘De Belem appears to be playing a bigger part in this than we thought. We need to enter his house. Once in, we will distract him while Cynric looks around.’

Cynric’s dark face was alight with excitement, but Bartholomew felt a twinge of guilt for once again involving his book-bearer in something dangerous. He hoped Tulyet’s information was accurate. It was only Isobel’s claim that she had heard a baby that drove him on - since Isobel had been killed only a few days ago, the baby might yet be alive. That he had not been heard since might merely mean that he had been moved to a different room in de Belem’s sizeable house. But at the back of his mind doubts nagged where facts did not fit together: de Belem’s daughter had been murdered; the nerve-calming medicine the high priest of the Guild of the Coming had given to Hesselwell was Buckley’s; and de Belem had been desperate that Bartholomew should investigate the murders. Yet other facts pointed clearly to de Belem’s guilt: the birds and bats in his home; Isobel murdered after she had discovered them, albeit too late to ensure her silence; the baby crying in his house; and the dye staining the blackmail note. It was clear de Belem had some role in the affair, but Bartholomew remained uncertain whether it was that of high priest.

‘This is not illegal, is it?’ said Stanmore nervously.

‘De Belem has already broken the law,’ said Michael.

‘We are trying to ensure that he does not do so again.’

He explained briefly what they had learned from

Tulyet, and added one or two speculations of his own.

Stanmore picked up his cloak from where it lay on a bale of cloth. ‘Well, let us see if Master de Belem will sell us what we need,’ he said. He saw Bartholomew hesitate.

‘Your excuse will appear more convincing if I am there also. And another man present will do no harm.’

They left Stanmore’s premises and knocked at the door of de Belem’s house. The house was in silent darkness, and all the window shutters were closed. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he may have ruined Michael’s habit for nothing and that de Belem was not home, but eventually there were footsteps and de Belem himself opened the door. When he saw Bartholomew, Michael, and Stanmore, hope flared in his eyes.

‘You know?’ he said. ‘You know who killed Frances?’

Stanmore shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We have come on another matter.’

He stood back to indicate Michael with his hand. De Belem’s puzzled frown faded into a smile when he saw the red stains on the front of Michael’s habit.

He leaned forward and inspected it. “I can re-dye this and those marks will not show,’ he said. ‘That way, you can avoid buying new cloth from Master Stanmore and the cost of a tailor to sew it. Bring it to me tomorrow.’

He ignored Stanmore’s indignant look, and prepared to close the door.

“I need it dyed tonight,’ said Michael quickly. ‘This is my best habit and I want to wear it to my students’

disputations.’

“I cannot dye it tonight, Brother,’ said de Belem reasonably.

‘All the apprentices have gone home, and the

fires under the dyeing vats have been doused. Come back tomorrow at dawn. I will make it my first priority.’

an UNftoLv ALLi^Nce

“I will light the fires myself,’ said Michael, inserting a foot into the door, ‘if you dye it tonight.’

De Belem, despite his reluctance to refuse a customer, was beginning to lose patience. ‘Sir Oswald, tell the Brother that it is not an easy matter to light the fires under the vats, and that if we were to start the process now, we would be here all night. I cannot help you, Brother.’

‘Do you have any black cloth, then?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew was impressed at the monk’s tenacity.

De Belem sighed in resignation. ‘Yes. I have black cloth dyed for the abbey at Ely. It will be a more expensive option for you, but if it will satisfy your desire to have something done tonight, I will sell you some now.’

They followed him into his house.

‘He is exceeding himself in this!’ Stanmore hissed to Bartholomew. ‘He is not authorised to sell cloth, only to dye it. And he even has the gall to sell it with me present!’

Bartholomew shrugged off his arm impatiently and followed Michael inside, careful not to shut the door so that Cynric could slip in. Stanmore followed, still grumbling.

‘If there were other dyers in the town this would never happen. The man thinks he can do what he likes now he has this monopoly. No wonder the cloth trade is poor if we are constantly being undercut by de Belem.’

Bartholomew silenced him with a glance, and

Stanmore, still bristling with indignation, said no more.

They followed de Belem down a long corridor where a door led directly into the yard. Two wooden buildings had been raised there. The smaller one, judging from the smell and the stained ground outside, was the dyeing shed, while the other was for drying and storage. De Belem took some keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the storeroom. A torch stood ready near the door, and he kindled it so he could find the correct cloth. The room smelled so strongly of the plants and compounds used for dyes that it was overpowering.

Bartholomew stayed outside, looking over at the house on the other side of the yard. It was in darkness except for lights flickering at one window, and Bartholomew saw a figure walk across it. He wondered who it might be. De Belem lived alone now his daughter was dead. Perhaps de Belem had found himself another prostitute. He felt his stomach churn. He hoped not, for that might mean that she was in very serious danger.

Bartholomew edged away from the storeroom when

he heard Stanmore begin an argument with de Belem, first about the price and then about which cloth was best for the purpose. De Belem was becoming exasperated with his late customers and Bartholomew knew he would not tolerate them much longer. He had a sudden fear that they would not be able to distract him long enough for Cynric to conduct his search of the house, or worse, that Cynric would still be inside when they left.

Taking a hasty decision, he ran back across the courtyard to the house and began to climb up some large crates that were piled up against the outside wall. The house was not as well built at the back as it was in the front, and he was able to climb higher on ill-fitting timbers that jutted from the plaster. He made his way towards the lighted window, wincing as his feet slipped and scraped against the wall. Grasping the window-sill, he hauled himself up and peered through the open window just as Janetta of Lincoln looked out to see what had made the noise.

For a second, they regarded each other in silence, and then Janetta tipped her head back and yelled as loudly as she could. Someone who had been sitting with his back to the window leapt to his feet and spun around, and Bartholomew had his second shock as he recognised the missing Evrard Buckley. Bartholomew heard a shout from the storeroom and glanced back to see de Belem race out, pulling the door closed behind him. Something crashed against it from the other side just as de Belem got a stout bar into place.

De Belem saw Bartholomew and began to run

towards him. Bartholomew cursed in frustration. How had Michael and Stanmore managed to let de Belem lock them in the storeroom? Janetta tried to prise his fingers from the window-frame, and at the same time, he felt de Belem make a grab for his feet.

‘Michael!’ he yelled, kicking out so hard he almost dislodged himself from the wall. Janetta picked up a heavy jug from the table and began clumsily to swing it at Bartholomew’s head. As Bartholomew ducked, and tried to keep his feet out of de Belem’s reach, he was vaguely aware of Buckley grabbing something from the bed. He heard a small whimper and knew Buckley had Tulyet’s baby. Janetta gave a yell of anger and hurled the jug at Bartholomew, spinning round to follow Buckley to the door. Even as Buckley reached for the lock, the door flew open, and Cynric stood there, breathing hard.

‘Cynric! The baby!’ Bartholomew gasped.

De Belem had a good grip on Bartholomew’s leg and was pulling with all his might, and Bartholomew found he could hold on no longer. As his fingers began to slip, he saw Janetta and Cynric engaged in their own furious struggle. And then he finally lost his grip on the window-sill, and was tumbling through the air.

His fall was broken by de Belem. For a moment,

they both lay dazed until Janetta cried out, They have the baby!’

Abandoning Bartholomew, de Belem struggled to his feet and began to run towards the door of the house.

Bartholomew dived after him and, grabbing him around the knees, brought him down again. De Belem twisted onto his back and lashed out, catching Bartholomew hard on the side of the head with his clenched fist.

Stunned, Bartholomew released him, and heard de

Belem scramble away. Vaguely he heard Stanmore

and Michael shouting in the storeroom and de Belem yelling orders. He tried to stand to release Michael and Stanmore, but he was dizzy, and his legs would not hold him up.

The clatter of hooves brought him to his senses, and he saw horses being taken from the stable. He pulled himself into a sitting position and saw de Belem haul open the gates, leap onto a horse, and urge it into the street.

Janetta followed and Bartholomew heard the thudding of hooves fading away. Someone slumped down beside him, and Bartholomew saw it was Buckley, awkwardly holding Tulyet’s baby.

‘Thank God!’ Buckley said unsteadily. As Bartholomew took the baby from him, he saw the Vice-Chancellor’s gloved hands were tied in front of him. “I thought it would never end.’

Bartholomew turned his attention to the baby. It was feverish, but alive. He suspected it had not been given enough to drink and it was weak. That probably explained why it had not been heard crying. It was dirty too. He felt it carefully to ascertain that it was not more seriously hurt, while Cynric emerged from the house unsteadily and made his way to the storeroom. He heaved the bar up, and Michael and Stanmore exploded into the yard, looking about them.

‘Master Buckley!’ exclaimed Michael, hurrying across to them. ‘And you have the baby!’

Cynric took a knife and sawed through the ropes on Buckley’s hands.

‘He had my cloth!’ shouted Stanmore, beside himself with anger. ‘Those were no random attacks on my cart.