‘No,’ said Jestyn again, exchanging a glance with the two women. ‘We will lock no one in the cellar, and we want none of that tainted gold. We are leaving – alone.’
Frith’s face was a mask of fury. ‘You will do as we say, or you will join this motley crowd choking in the ground.’
Harysone ignored the quarrelling Waits and calmly reached for the chest. Then, before anyone could stop him, he had snatched it up and darted away. Frith abandoned his squabble with Jestyn and followed with a bellow of rage, leaving the others gazing after them in astonishment.
‘I thought he was dazed,’ said Makejoy stupidly. ‘He could barely stand.’
‘That is what he wanted you to think,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘After him!’
The Waits had brought four horses when they had stopped at the friary stables, and Frith and Harysone were already mounted on two of them. They pushed and pulled at each other, as Frith tried to grab the chest from his cousin and Harysone fought to keep possession of it. They galloped across the main road, then down a lane that ran along the side of Peterhouse and towards the river. It was not the direction Bartholomew would have chosen to make a successful getaway, and he saw their attention was wholly focused on each other and Dympna. The people they had been threatening to kill were entirely forgotten.
Bartholomew raced after them, but had no idea what he would do if he caught them. Both were armed and dangerous, and he did not have so much as a surgical blade with him. But he ran, nevertheless, hearing the others pounding after him – the lighter footsteps of Abigny and Philippa, and the heavier ones of Agatha and Michael. The remaining Waits did not follow. They took the opportunity to escape, Jestyn on one pony and the two women on the other.
Bartholomew reached the river, and saw the two men still fighting and shoving each other as they fought to gain possession of the box. Their jerky movements were frightening the horses, which pranced and lurched, uncertain which direction they were supposed to take. In the end, Harysone’s turned right, and started cantering towards the Small Bridges and the Mill Pool. Frith followed hard on its heels, and Bartholomew ran after them, doggedly trying to catch up.
The cousins reached the larger of the Small Bridges, where Frith managed to spur his mount ahead, so he and Harysone were riding neck and neck as they thundered forward. Fortunately, no one else was using the bridge at that point, or he would have been trampled.
Frith finally managed to secure a grip on Dympna, and ripped it from Harysone’s hands. With a scream of fury, Harysone lunged after it, both hands reaching for the box. His flying leap knocked Frith from his saddle, and both men went tumbling over the side of the bridge. There was a thump, followed by a series of cracking and popping sounds.
Bartholomew reached the bridge, gasping for breath, and peered over the edge just in time to see the two men sprawled on the ice, still struggling over the box. Then the ice opened into a great black hole, and men and chest disappeared from view. The water frothed for a moment, then became calm, until all that was left was a dark, jagged hole, a short distance from the one that had claimed Ailred. Bartholomew saw a hand break the surface, before slowly sinking out of sight amid a circle of gentle ripples.
EPILOGUE
Three days later, Bartholomew and Michael sat side by side on the trunk of an old apple tree that had fallen in the orchard. The day was unseasonably mild, and the blizzards of the previous weeks seemed a distant memory. The sun shone, albeit weakly, and Bartholomew could feel its gentle warmth through his winter cloak. Most of the snow had gone, although several of the larger and deeper drifts remained, like the vast mound outside Bene’t College on the High Street.
A gentle breeze blew, rustling the dry grass and bringing the smell of the marshes that lay to the north. Bartholomew felt as though his life was finally returning to normal. The Lord of Misrule had been replaced with Master Langelee, Quenhyth’s ‘stolen’ scrip had been found behind his bed, lectures were under way, and there were disputations to arrange and patients to see. He was sad that Dunstan and Athelbald were not among them, despite learning about their hitherto unknown penchant for peddling stolen goods for itinerant jugglers.
‘Two bodies were found in the river near Chesterton village today,’ said Michael, turning his flabby face to catch some of the sun’s rays. ‘I rode out to view them and they belonged to Frith and Harysone, as I expected. We found Ailred’s corpse in much the same place the day before.’
‘There was no sign of the chest?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael shook his head. ‘I imagine that sank where it fell. The bottom of the Mill Pool is the best place for it. It is safe there.’
‘Until the weather grows warmer. Then people will start to dive for it.’
‘They will not find it,’ said Michael. ‘The pond is lined with deep mud, and the only way to retrieve the coins will be to drain the whole thing. That may happen one day, but I doubt it will happen in our lifetime.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Kenyngham was right: Dympna may have been set up to do good, but it corrupted people. Thick and inaccessible mud will stop it from doing so again.’
‘Speaking of corruption, Morice resigned today. People are angry that he never arranged another game of camp-ball, and claim he delayed just to keep the prize money for himself.’
‘He did,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that anyone should need to voice the obvious.
‘Dick Tulyet has agreed to stand in until someone else can be appointed. I hope it takes a long time for a suitable replacement to be found. We cannot have a better man than Dick.’
They were silent for a while, watching the sun playing through the winter branches of the fruit trees and listening to the distant sounds of the town. A dog yapped in the High Street, and a cart lumbered slowly along the rutted mud of St Michael’s Lane, which lay just over the wall. A man shouted something about a horse, and the gentle grunt of pigs could just be heard as they were driven towards the Market Square.
‘Turke was a nasty man,’ said Bartholomew at last. ‘His failure to help Isabella escape from the frozen River Thames started all this. Fiscurtune and Ailred allowed him to buy their silence when they should have denounced him, and the hatred Turke felt towards the men who could damage him eventually led him to stab Fiscurtune in a brawl.’
‘Do not forget Fiscurtune was not exactly an angel, either. He developed his salting method, but it did not work – as we saw with Norbert’s tench – and Turke was probably right to prevent him from inflicting it on his customers. Also, Fiscurtune was quite happy to be paid for his silence over Isabella, and so was Ailred. The records I examined with Godric yesterday indicate that Turke’s money has kept Ovyng afloat for years.’
‘I still do not understand why Turke was willing to dispense with his saintly finger,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why did he not keep it for himself? He was a man who liked material wealth.’
‘It was stolen property,’ said Michael. ‘I asked the Dominicans to investigate it, and they learned that St Zeno’s finger was taken from a Carmelite chapel in London some years ago. A likely thief was caught and relieved of a thumb, but the relic itself was never recovered.’
‘Gosslinge took it?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment.
‘So it would seem. I imagine he stole it on Turke’s instructions, and the resulting punishment put Turke under a certain obligation to him. But the net was closing, and the Carmelites were already on the relic’s trail. By handing it to Michaelhouse, Turke paid Gosslinge’s expenses with something he was going to lose anyway. I suppose if anyone had demanded to know how it came to be in his possession, he would have said it belonged to Gosslinge, and that he knew nothing about its origins.’