Bartholomew kicked out as hard as he could – not at Lora, whom he could not reach, but at Langar, causing the lawyer to crumple across him. Langar shrieked in pain and shock as Lora’s sword bit into his shoulder. He released Bartholomew’s cloak, and the physician rolled away, cursing when the snow stopped him from gaining his feet as fast as he would have liked. Lora ignored her groaning colleague, and came after Bartholomew with a series of hacking blows, swearing when her blade hit the wall of a house and sent pain shooting up her arm. She dropped the weapon and clutched her wrist. Bartholomew clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could, trusting he would soon be invisible in the swirling snow. He heard Langar and Lora yelling at each other as he disappeared.
He was near Spayne’s home, so he located the narrow alley that separated it from Kelby’s house, and ducked inside, praying no one would follow the footprints he had left. Moments later, Lora lumbered past, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Langar was a considerable distance behind, hand to his injured shoulder, and the lapsed time was enough for wind and snow to have masked the tracks to some extent. Cynric would not have been deceived, but Langar was not the book-bearer, and he staggered past without noticing. Then they were gone, and Bartholomew heaved a shaky sigh of relief.
He moved farther down the alley when he heard shouting, afraid Langar had met with reinforcements, and found himself in the yard at the back of Spayne’s house. The remains of the blackened storerooms were smothered in snow, and he supposed Spayne would be alarmed for his roof. More yelling told him that he would be wise to stay out of sight for a while, so he huddled against the back of the house, near one of the window shutters. He wondered how long it would be before the trouble eased, and con sidered taking refuge with Spayne. But their last encounter had been uneasy, and he was not sure his welcome would be a warm one. Indeed, Spayne might even betray him, so he would not be asked to reveal what he knew about Matilde. He decided to stay in the yard, wrapping his cloak more closely around him, and pulling his hat down to cover his ears.
But the hollering was becoming more agitated, not less, and he saw he was going to be in for a long wait. Eventually, he heard the bells chime for a cathedral ceremony he knew was due to take place at two o’clock, and ventured out to assess the road. It was fortunate he had moved stealthily, because Miller himself was standing near the end of the alley, in conversation with Spayne. The two men nodded agreement and separated, Spayne to go back inside his home and Miller to address a group of weavers. Bartholomew retraced his steps and hunkered down in his chilly refuge again.
It began to grow dark, dusk coming early because of the low clouds. He felt the cold seep into him, and hoped the weather would drive both sides back into their houses for the night. Then there was a hissing sound from above, and he leapt up in alarm when he recalled how the tile had almost killed Michael earlier. But it was only snow, sloughing off to land in a slippery pile near Spayne’s rear door. Heart thumping, he decided to abandon the yard. The falling flakes and encroaching night might be enough to hide him, but if not, then Lora’s sword was a better end than being buried alive. He was just rubbing life into his frozen legs in anticipation of escape, when he heard a familiar voice. Spayne had guests.
‘ … is the pity of it,’ came Christiana’s clipped tones. ‘I do not know what else to say.’
‘It was an accident, I swear,’ replied Ursula, her voice unsteady. ‘I did not mean to harm her.’
Bartholomew frowned, wondering why Christiana should be visiting the sister of a man she so obviously despised. He put his eye to the gap under the shutter, to see inside the house.
‘You did harm her, though,’ Christiana was saying flatly. ‘Matilde was right.’
‘She was not,’ shouted Ursula. ‘She was misguided and spread vicious rumours about me.’
‘You have been telling everyone that your mother asked Ursula for cuckoo-pint deliberately,’ came Spayne’s voice. He sounded confused. ‘You believe she wanted to die.’
Christiana’s voice was colder than Bartholomew had ever heard anyone speak. ‘My mother had everything to live for. She would never have entertained suicide. I spread that tale so no one will look to me when Ursula dies.’
A dark chill gripped Bartholomew as he knelt in the snow. He had hoped for proof that Christiana was the killer, but he had not expected it to come in the form of another death. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Spayne would not allow his sister to be dispatched – or would he? He recalled what Simon had told him: that Spayne had been an abbey oblate, and knew nothing about arms and fighting. Perhaps he would be powerless to prevent it.
‘Your mother and I were friends,’ said Ursula wheedlingly. ‘Why would I harm her?’
‘Because she was going to marry Kelby,’ said Christiana in the same icy voice. ‘And her dowry would have made him stronger and richer than your brother. You could not stand the thought of that, so you intervened in a spectacular way. You killed her.’
Bartholomew poked the window shutter with his knife, grateful to find it rotten. Quickly, he bored a hole, so he could better see what was happening within. He winced when the hinge protested at the pressure, but the room’s occupants were more interested in each other than in strange sounds from outside. When he put his eye to the hole, he was astonished to see not three people, but four. Spayne and Ursula sat side by side on a bench on the far side of the hall, while Christiana stood near the hearth. Hugh was with her, and Bartholomew saw he held a small bow – the kind children used when they learned archery. His face was alight with curiosity, and Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised the boy would be out when mischief was in the air.
‘The sadness is that it was unnecessary,’ said Christiana quietly. ‘My mother did not love Kelby and would never have wedded him. She was going to ask Prior Roger to marry her secretly to the man who had captured her heart – the man whose babe she carried.’
‘Did she tell you?’ asked Spayne, and the expression on his face was both stricken and guilty.
‘I am her daughter,’ said Christiana. ‘Of course she told me.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts reeled as he tried to understand what they were saying. Then he looked at Spayne, and had his answer in the way the mayor’s eyes flicked around the room: a man who enjoyed prostitutes, but who had declared himself celibate. Bartholomew found his hands were shaking, and wondered whether Matilde had known that Spayne had lain with her closest friend.
‘My mother was pregnant with your child,’ said Christiana softly. ‘But Matilde held your heart. You were in a quandary. Should you do the dutiful thing and allow Prior Roger to marry you to my mother? Or should you put your own happiness first, and wed Matilde?’
‘It was not like that,’ said Spayne miserably. ‘Not so … sordid. And I did not want to hurt either–’
Christiana’s voice was loaded with disgust. ‘My mother’s death left you free to take Matilde, as well as preventing Kelby from getting her dowry. You were even vulgar enough to propose on the day of the funeral. I am not surprised Matilde refused you. She fled the city, and I lost a valued friend.’
Suddenly, there was a rap on the door. In his agitated state, Bartholomew jumped violently enough to rattle the window shutter, but the occupants of the room did not notice.