De Wetherset was not amused to be singled out for such a question. ‘I would not know.’
‘All yours are accepted, are they?’ Roger turned back to Michael. ‘These felons were bold, entering my convent for this evil work.’
He walked to the table, and poured himself some wine. As he went, Bartholomew saw his boots were muddy. Had he been out in his gardens with bows and daggers, determined to dispatch the man who was investigating the death that had occurred in his domain? Bartholomew thought about Hamo, retiring to bed because he had taken ‘a fall’. Meanwhile, Whatton and others were wet and bedraggled from their search of the grounds, making it impossible to determine whether they had been out before or after the attack. If Prior Roger or his Gilbertines had been responsible, then it was a clever tactic to start a hue and cry – to provide a legitimate excuse for any bruises or inexplicably soiled clothing.
‘You should not have accepted Gynewell’s commission,’ said Suttone to Michael. ‘I could have told you it would lead to trouble. Sin stalks our country, and the Death–’
‘Fetch more wine, Whatton,’ ordered Roger. ‘Then go to the gatehouse and ask why the porter did not answer Michael’s knock. I will relieve him of a week’s pay if he was sleeping.’
‘He may have been locking doors,’ said Whatton. ‘I have ordered regular patrols, since there are so many vagabonds arriving for the Market, and that means he is not always at the gate.’
‘You need to employ more porters, then,’ said Michael. ‘And just closing your back gate at night would be an improvement on your current security.’
‘That is always locked,’ said Roger indignantly. ‘The cook sees to it, and he is very reliable.’
‘Except on those occasions when he is baking pies for the Tavern in the Close,’ muttered Michael.
Within moments, Whatton returned in a state of agitation, reporting that the guard was so deeply asleep, no one could rouse him. On going to examine him Bartholomew detected claret and poppy juice on the man’s breath, and knew they would have no sense from him that night.
‘I doubt he will tell us much in the morning, either,’ said Whatton, holding up a wineskin. ‘This is still half full, which means that he passed out before he could finish it. It must be very strong.’
It occurred to Bartholomew that he should sit with the porter, to make sure he was not ordered to lose his memory as soon as he opened his eyes. ‘He will know who gave it to him,’ he said, to test the Gilbertines’ reactions.
Whatton’s expression was vaguely triumphant. ‘I doubt it. People often leave anonymous gifts at our door – to be distributed to the poor – and it will not be the first time a guard has helped himself. Look at Hamo’s predecessor, Fat William, who ate anything he could lay his hands on, and died from a surfeit of oysters. Any sort of ale or wine left will almost certainly be sampled by our porters.’
‘And folk in the city know it,’ added Roger. He turned to Suttone. ‘It could happen anywhere, Father, so I hope this unfortunate incident will not encourage you to leave us.’
‘Leave you and go where?’ asked Suttone, to Roger’s satisfaction. ‘Every bed in the city is taken.’
‘So, someone wanted us to go to that rear door,’ mused Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone again and in their room. Cynric came to sit with them, anticipating that his expertise might be needed in analysing what had happened. ‘Where an ambush was waiting.’
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by so many questions and no real answers. ‘We had already started looking for another way in when Tetford offered to guide us to that particular gate. Was he part of it, do you think, and was shot by mistake?’
Cynric did not think so. ‘If he knew what was about to happen, he would have stayed in the lane. No man steps willingly into a dark place, knowing there are nocked arrows waiting.’
‘Perhaps they were expecting Matt and me, and were confused by the presence of a third person,’ suggested Michael. ‘Their quarrel killed Tetford, but that still left two of us ready to fight them.’
Cynric nodded. ‘They were obliged to resort to blades, which they had not anticipated. They were unprepared, explaining why two fled before the fighting really began.’
‘We helped them, of course,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Michael screeched up a storm when he fell in the nettles, warning them that we were coming. And while Tetford probably was not part of the ambush, his intentions were not entirely honourable, either. Here is his wineskin.’
Michael took it. The crossbow bolt had gone clean through the middle, and it was empty except for a dribble of liquid in the bottom. Bartholomew indicated he should sniff it.
‘Fish?’ asked Michael, wincing. The scent was powerful and unpleasant.
‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The same substance that saw Nicholas Herl drown in the Braytheford Pool and that gave Flaxfleete his fatal fit.’
‘Tetford offered it to me,’ said Michael aghast. ‘Are you saying he was trying to commit murder?’
‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming he knew the wine was tainted.’
‘He wanted me to drink it first,’ said Michael unsteadily.
‘True, but that may have been simple good manners. A dead canon does not need a Vicar Choral, so I suspect you would have been more useful to him alive.’
‘Perhaps he wanted the Stall of South Scarle itself,’ suggested Cynric, ‘and did not like the notion of spending a year as a deputy. Men have killed for a good deal less. I am more worried about the other four, though, Brother. Tetford is no longer a problem, but these others may try to harm you again.’
‘You seem to think the attack was aimed at me. Why not at Matt?’
‘Because I am not the one charged to find Aylmer’s killer,’ answered Bartholomew.
‘But you are here to search for information that may help you locate Matilde, and I have already told you Spayne does not like it.’
‘None of our attackers was Spayne.’
‘Did you see their faces? No, because they were careful to keep them hidden. The tall swordsman who tackled you could easily have been Spayne. I imagine he was trained to use a blade in his youth.’
‘And do not forget Miller,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘You denied knowing anything about Shirlok’s trial, but there is nothing to say he believed you. He is sensitive about it, and may want to silence you before you say anything. Then you both declined to accept his bribes on Friday. And then you had that set-to with Chapman this morning.’
Bartholomew did not argue, because Cynric was right. ‘So there were two separate attacks on us tonight: the quartet with daggers, bows and sword. And Tetford with poison.’
Michael nodded. ‘I think we can safely say that someone does not want us here.’
CHAPTER 8
The next day was windy, and rattling window shutters woke Michael long before dawn. He tossed and turned for a while, then noticed Cynric sitting by the hearth, prodding life into the dying embers of the fire. He went to sit next to him, stretching chilled hands towards the feeble glow. They were not alone for long. The gathering gale disturbed Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone, too. They clustered around the blaze, talking in low voices, so as not to disturb Bartholomew, although Michael knew it would take more than wind and a discussion to rouse his friend. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and very little woke him once he was asleep – the notable exception being the Gilbertines’ bells.
‘You really heard nothing of our fracas?’ asked Michael, recalling the racket they had made.
‘You know how loudly they sing here,’ replied Suttone. ‘It is enough to wake the dead, and I heard nothing else at all. The only reason Cynric did was because he was in the kitchen.’
‘I was one of the warblers,’ said Simon. ‘So I heard nothing but my own sweet music.’