Bartholomew was still grappling to understand what Norbert had done. ‘But some of the Spital’s fugitives were Jacques – rebels. You should not have kept that to yourselves.’
‘We didn’t – we have been spreading the word slowly and carefully through the town. Leger says that instant rumours can be dismissed as falsehoods, but measured hints and whispers are far less easy to ignore. We watched the tale take hold more strongly tonight, and by morning, everyone will know who is in the Spital.’
Bartholomew was glad the peregrini had gone, although he hoped the generous souls who had taken pity on them would not suffer in their stead. ‘Where did you meet this nun?’
‘At St Radegund’s, when I was delivering messages from the King to various abbesses.’
‘What else can you tell me about her?’
‘Just that I could hear her scratching as she spoke. It is not a nice habit in a woman.’
Alice, thought Bartholomew. The Lyminster nuns had guessed the truth about the Spital’s lunatics, so it was no surprise that Alice had done so, too. Yet confiding in Norbert was akin to arranging a massacre. Was she so twisted by hatred that she would bring about the deaths of harmless women and children?
Norbert seemed to sense his thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘She is evil. I could hear the malevolence in her voice as she spoke to me.’
Bartholomew hurried straight home to tell Michael what Norbert had confessed, only to find the Master’s quarters empty. He scribbled a note detailing his findings, and left it on the desk. Then he returned to his own room and fell into an exhausted sleep. Not long after, the bell rang to call everyone to morning prayer. He rose and shuffled wearily into the yard, where Cynric was waiting to talk to him – the book-bearer had visited the Franciscans’ chapel during the night, and had made an alarming discovery among the dead. Bartholomew listened to his tale in horror.
Michael did not appear for the service, so Bartholomew fretted all through it, unsettled by Cynric’s news. The monk was missing for breakfast, too, and Bartholomew only picked at the meaty pottage that was served. William took Michael’s place at the high table, booming the preand post-prandial Graces with great relish and many grammatical mistakes.
When the meal was over, Bartholomew told Aungel which texts to teach that day, oblivious to the young Fellow’s dismay at what he considered to be unrealistic goals, then hurried to his room, where he gathered fresh supplies for the wounded at the friary. Michael arrived just as the physician was about to leave, his face grey with fatigue and his habit bearing signs of the previous night’s skirmish.
‘We declared a total curfew in the end,’ he said. ‘But that did not stop some feisty souls from sneaking out. Dick, Theophilis and I raced about like hares all night, quelling one spat only for another to break out. Dick hanged three of the worst offenders this morning.’
‘They were executed for affray?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘For murder – they were caught red-handed and there is no doubting their guilt. However, he is keen for everyone to think it was for rioting – he made the threat, and must be seen to carry it out, or no one will believe him the next time he is compelled to do it.’
‘What is happening on the streets now?’
‘Nothing – the mischief-makers have gone home at last.’ Michael grimaced. ‘We should be hunting the rogue who stabbed Paris, Bonet and the Girards – and whoever dispatched poor old Wyse – but instead all we do is struggle to keep a lid on this brewing war.’
‘What did the triumvirate do to help last night?’
‘They disappeared into St Mary the Great, where they stayed until dawn. No doubt they were plotting against me while I risked life and limb outside. What was the final death toll?’
‘It will be fourteen by now, although only four were scholars.’
‘Eighteen, then,’ said Michael softly, ‘if we include the three who were hanged and their victim. Eighteen dead for nothing!’
‘Do you want official causes of death?’ asked Bartholomew, and gave his report without waiting for an answer. ‘Nine townsmen died of knife wounds, while the tenth was shot. Of the scholars, two were bludgeoned, one was shot, and Bruges was stabbed.’
‘Stabbed?’ asked Michael. ‘You mean shot – he and the other King’s Hall lad were caught by the first volley of arrows. You said he was dead when you reached the mound.’
‘He was dead, which is why I did not examine him very carefully – I was more concerned with the living at that point. But Cynric went to the Franciscans’ chapel and saw the dagger still in Bruges’s back. He pulled it out and brought it home. It is on the table.’
Michael went to look at it, then gaped his shock. ‘But it is almost identical to the ones that were used on Paris and the Girard family! Are you telling me that the killer struck again – while we were watching?’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘He must have done, because Bruges was dead when I arrived at the targets. Cynric asked the surviving archers if they saw anyone else lurking around, but none of them did. The fact that it was dark did not help – the targets were illuminated, but the area around them was not.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Do you think one of them did it – that there were sour words between the opposing teams while they were deciding who won the contest?’
‘Cynric said they watched each other very carefully, as everyone knew their rivals would try to cheat. Bruges was alive when the arrows were loosed, which means the killer struck after they landed, but before we all reached the targets to see who had been hit.’
‘There goes our theory that Paris, Bonet and the Girards were killed for being French,’ sighed Michael. ‘Bruges is from Flanders.’
‘I am not sure everyone appreciates the difference,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I wager anything you please that the killer is sitting in his lair at this very moment, congratulating himself on ridding the town of another enemy.’
‘Do you think he gave the order to shoot? The killer?’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I explained all this in the message I left in your room. Did you not read it?’
‘What message? My desk was empty.’
Bartholomew outlined what he had written, at the same time wondering who had taken the note. The obvious suspect was Theophilis, who had then carried it to his real masters in St Mary the Great. Or perhaps he was the killer, and was even now working out how to avoid being caught while simultaneously continuing his evil work.
‘So Norbert yelled the order for the archers to prepare, to give King’s Hall a fright, but someone else hollered the command to shoot,’ summarised Michael when Bartholomew had finished. ‘And all the while, our killer loitered boldly, awaiting his next victim.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Norbert thought the second command came from a townsman who acted without considering the consequences. The killer just took advantage of it.’
‘So we can discount Norbert and Leger for the Spital murders, because you believe what Norbert told you regarding their whereabouts?’
‘Yes, and we can discount Tangmer and Eudo, too, which means we are left with the peregrini, Amphelisa, Sister Alice, Magistra Katherine, the triumvirate, Theophilis–’
‘Not Theophilis or de Wetherset,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And not Heltisle either, much as it pains me to admit it. They are more likely to wound with plots than daggers.’
‘But you see Aynton as a stabber?’
‘I do. I told you: there is something about him that I do not trust at all.’ Michael returned to the list. ‘I cannot see nuns committing murder either.’