‘And all to stir up hatred between the town and the castle?’
Bartholomew raised his right hand a third time, waving it frantically. He risked a glance at Michael, but the monk was nowhere to be seen. What was going on?
‘It worked,’ said Anne smugly, ‘and after today, there will never be peace again. How dare they misuse me! I saved countless girls and their families from disgrace, but how was I rewarded? With a fate worse than death – it took me less than a week to know that life as an anchoress would be a living Hell.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, watching her fingers tighten around the mallet. ‘It is not–’
‘Do you hear?’ she asked, cocking her head suddenly. ‘Everyone is about to be asked to shout God save the Queen. It is time. Now, Nicholas! Now!’
There was nothing Bartholomew could do but watch as Anne gave the scaffolding a tremendous clout with the mallet. At the same time, there was a flicker of movement further down the roof. His stomach lurched in horror. It was Nicholas, swinging at the second weak spot. Langelee had failed! He lunged towards Anne, but it was too late. There was a sinister creak, and a lump of ceiling simply dropped away.
Appalled, he watched it fall. It landed with a tremendous crash, and dust billowed everywhere. He glanced at Anne, and saw rage and disappointment in her face – a much smaller piece than she had anticipated had come adrift, and it had landed on the rood screen, where no one was standing. Meanwhile, nothing at all had happened to Nicholas’s section.
Furiously, Anne stood and prepared to jump on the unstable dome, to collapse it with her own weight. Bartholomew sprang towards her but she jigged away, and as she did, she lost her footing. She screamed as she disappeared through the hole. The harness prevented her from falling to her death, but she had been overly generous with the amount of line she thought she would need, and she plummeted twenty feet before she was jerked savagely to a halt.
‘It is Margery Marishal!’ yelled Richard the watchman, seeing the rose-coloured costume and drawing his own conclusions. ‘Come to haunt us for quarrelling. She hated discord.’
The harness was poorly designed, and the jolt had broken some of Anne’s ribs. She was in pain, moaning pitifully for Nicholas to help her.
‘She is calling for the priest,’ blurted Ereswell. ‘Someone fetch him, quickly! I cannot bear to hear that saintly lady wailing in such torment.’
At that point, Langelee joined Bartholomew on the beam, wiping a bloodstained blade on his sleeve: Nicholas was no longer a problem. The Master put the letter-opener away carefully, then reached down to help Bartholomew pull Anne to safety. As he did so, Albon’s cloak slipped forward in all its scarlet glory.
‘And that is the ghost of Sir William,’ shouted Nuport, whipping out his sword. ‘Wearing his battle gear, which means he wants us to fight.’
Even as Langelee tugged the offending garment out of sight, Michael swung into action. He pulled the piece of purple silk from his scrip and stuffed it through one of the cracks. The material was so light that it took an age to waft downwards, drawing every eye in the church towards it. It provided ample time for him to scramble towards Langelee and hiss an urgent instruction.
‘I am the spirit of Godeston,’ the Master boomed, in the very plausible imitation of the Mayor that had so amused Bartholomew a few days earlier. ‘I command you to go home. To stay is to die.’
There was a murmur of consternation and the definite beginnings of a move towards the doors. Immediately, the Austins hastened to open them and usher folk outside. Unfortunately, Nuport had other ideas.
‘No – we should fight,’ he yelled. ‘Death to all who–’
The words died in his throat when Anne’s harness burst open, leaving Bartholomew and Langelee hauling on an empty rope. Both toppled backwards, while she dropped down to the rood screen below. There was a terrible scream, and when Bartholomew could bring himself to look, he saw she was impaled on one of the pinnacles. She hung there, her head covered by the rose-coloured hood, directly above the carving of the Blessed Virgin with Margery’s face.
Anne had just enough dying strength to raise one arm and point. It was impossible to know what she was trying to convey, and it was almost certainly chance that caused her finger to wag in Nuport’s direction, but the gesture achieved what words could not.
‘Oh, Christ!’ the squire gulped. ‘She has me in her sights. Out of the way! Let me past!’
‘Go home and lock your doors,’ bellowed John, as the squire’s panicky flight caused others to follow. ‘And keep them locked, on peril of your souls. There are a great many restless ghosts abroad tonight.’
‘Well, that is one way to clear a church,’ remarked Langelee, watching as the place emptied quicker than he would have thought possible. ‘Thank God for gullible minds!’
Epilogue
Three days later
Although it meant missing the beginning of term, Bartholomew refused to leave Grym – back from Kedyngton now the danger was over – alone to deal with the aftermath of Anne’s grand plan to avenge herself on Clare. He stayed, working day and night to help those who had been wounded, both in the fight and in the stampede to escape from the church afterwards. All the while, Michael, Langelee and the Austins comforted the dying and buried the dead. Eventually, the physician felt he had done all he could, and traipsed to the priory to tell his friends that he was ready to go home.
He found them in the refectory, counting the donations that they had managed to scrape together. The largest was from Ereswell, and was a reward for ridding him of Lichet. Michael had wanted to refuse it, but it was a very generous sum. The second-largest was five marks from the Lady, as Katrina had deemed the paroquets cured. The total was not enough to save Michaelhouse permanently, but it would keep the wolf from the door for a few more weeks.
Bartholomew slumped on the bench next to them and accepted a cup of ale. For a while, all was silent except for the clink of coins. Then Prior John and Weste joined them, the latter wearing the cloak that denoted his new post – vicar of the parish church.
‘I still cannot believe that the people of Clare were so credulous,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts returning again to the plot that had so nearly succeeded. ‘How could they believe that the ghosts of Albon, Godeston and Margery had come to punish the unrighteous?’
‘Because the light was poor, bits of the ceiling had just fallen down, and most were still unsettled by the skirmish,’ replied John. He smiled. ‘At least, that is the practical explanation. I am more inclined to thank God for a miracle.’
Bartholomew glanced at Langelee. ‘What does the hermit think?’
‘Oh, that there was indeed a miracle,’ replied Langelee, ‘and that his prayers brought it about. He claims all the credit for keeping the ceiling intact until everyone had escaped, and he is now more popular than Anne ever was. Moreover, there has been no trouble since, which is another miracle as far as I am concerned.’
‘It is a pity the rest of the ceiling collapsed the following day, though,’ sighed John, ‘because it took the new clerestory with it. The top half of the church will have to be rebuilt – again.’
‘And it will,’ said Vicar Weste, ‘although not with fan vaulting designed by Cambrug. The town cannot afford it, and the castle has agreed to stay out of parish affairs from now on. Of course, it was Anne who encouraged the Lady to meddle, and to build that unpopular south aisle.’
‘The south aisle that will provide the town with a temporary place of worship while the nave is out of action,’ said John. ‘It will serve a valuable function for many months to come – much better than having to use the churchyard.’