‘You have corrupted them,’ said Michael. ‘A child and a vulnerable, grieving woman. You have murmured your deranged ethics into their ears, and turned them evil.’
Eleanor grimaced. ‘Rot! They know I am right, and they are only too happy to help me.’
‘She is a saint,’ said Hugh simply, while Christiana nodded agreement. ‘One day she will have a shrine in the cathedral, and we will be recorded by the chroniclers as her helpmeets. People will revere us for taking a stand against sin.’
Bartholomew moved away from the window, and put his hands over his face. He had been wrong: Christiana was just a foot soldier, and the real power behind the murders that had so mystified them was the saintly Eleanor, with her wise eyes and kindly smile. He was in an agony of indecision. Should he burst into the hall and attempt to disarm Hugh? Should he run to the Gilbertine Priory or the cathedral for help, or would that take too long? He staggered back along the lane into the main street, trying to decide which option would give Michael the best chance, then stopped abruptly when a figure loomed out of the swirling snow, just visible in the faint light from the lamp above Spayne’s door. It was Lora, who greeted him by hurling her dagger. He threw himself to one side, and it landed quivering in one of Spayne’s windowsills.
‘Fetch Miller!’ he called urgently, staggering to his feet with his hands full of snow. ‘Spayne is being held captive in his house by the people who killed Aylmer and Herl.’
‘I do not believe you.’ She moved towards him with her sword.
Bartholomew had not imagined she would. He lobbed snow at her as hard as he could, first with one hand, then the other. Both landed square in her face, making her gasp in shock. While she was reeling, he landed two quick punches that knocked her flat on her back.
‘Summon help,’ he ordered, when she gazed at him in stunned surprise. ‘At once.’
He did not wait to see what she would do. He grabbed her dagger from the sill, knowing that Michael’s rescue – he did not care what happened to Spayne – was down to him alone. He tried peering under the shutters at the front of the house, but they fitted better than the ones at the back, and all he could see was Hugh and his bow. There was no time for rationalisation. He waded to Spayne’s front door and kicked it hard. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and he marched inside.
‘Sheriff Lungspee is on his way,’ he declared. ‘He will be here any moment, so put up your weapons and bring an end to this before anyone else is hurt.’
‘Do not treat me like a fool,’ said Eleanor coldly, neither surprised to see him nor unsettled by his announcement. ‘Lungspee is hiding in his castle, waiting for the city to grow peaceful again.’
Bartholomew raised the dagger, intending to hurl it at Hugh and force him to drop the bow, but Eleanor moved fast, and he saw something flash through the air. There was a resounding thump under his arm, and he jerked backwards, staggering against the brace near the hearth. It groaned alarmingly, and there was a short silence. Then Hugh laughed and Michael groaned in despair.
‘Did you mean to do that?’ asked Christiana of Eleanor, going to close the door. When Bartholomew recovered his wits sufficiently to understand what had happened, he found himself pinned to the pillar with a knife. It had passed under his elbow and caught the material of his tunic.
Eleanor grimaced. ‘I was aiming for his heart, but he moved. Still, he is rendered harmless, because my knife has nailed his arm to the wood, so the outcome is the same.’
Bartholomew flexed his hand to make sure she was wrong. It would not be difficult to rip himself free, but then she would hurl a second blade at him, and this time she might damage more than his clothes. He sagged slightly, trying to give the impression that he was injured, while his mind worked feverishly for a way out of the predicament. He could see none.
Michael’s face was white, and his voice was barely audible over Spayne’s heartbroken sobs. ‘Matt worked out what you had done, but I did not believe you capable of such wickedness.’
Eleanor glanced at Bartholomew. ‘What did you work out, exactly? You may as well tell us. We will not kill you as long as you are talking, and you are vain enough to think the delay may provide you with an opportunity to escape. What do you have to lose?’
‘Do not humour them, Matt,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Let them continue to wonder what you know and who else we have told about it.’
Hugh aimed his bow at the monk. ‘I will kill him if you do not answer, physician. Dame Eleanor says shooting evil men is good for my soul, so I am not afraid to do it.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to accept the challenge. Lora might do what he had asked, and the longer he talked, the greater the chance of her arriving in time. ‘You shot Tetford, because he closed his tavern – you earned pennies as a pot-boy and did not want to lose the income. Since then, you have learned there is always a need for pot-boys, and that murder was unnecessary.’
‘He is a child,’ said Michael, joining in reluctantly. ‘And it did not occur to his unformed mind that the tavern would be taken over by another landlord. Then, of course, he realised he might do better under his brother than with Ravenser: John is always talking about looking after the family, and Hugh has high expectations. Did he tell you he shot Ravenser today?’
‘Did you?’ asked Eleanor, regarding the boy admonishingly. ‘You cannot go around killing for personal gain – only for greater purposes.’
Hugh was sullen. ‘Ravenser paid me less than his whores.’
‘You ordered Hugh to shoot Michael – after you had rendered the guard insensible so our knocks at the gate would go unheard,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘but Tetford happened to be with us, and the temptation was too much. You have created a monster.’
‘A soldier,’ corrected Hugh. ‘Not a monster. And I did not mean to shoot Tetford: he just got in the way. It was dark, and I could not see very well.’
‘And then you ran away,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘You are happy to kill with bows, but too cowardly to fight with blades. No wonder no one has given you a sword. You do not deserve one.’
Hugh was outraged and his weapon started to come up. Eleanor pushed it down again. ‘Not yet. I want them to tell us what they know about Tetford.’
‘You were going to kill him anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You had put poison in his wineskin – we found the secret supply Christiana keeps at Little Hugh’s tomb. You could have saved yourself the bother of the orchard ambush. Tetford offered that wine to Michael, and he would have swallowed it, if Hugh and Claypole had not loosed their arrows.’
Christiana frowned. ‘That was what Dame Eleanor originally intended: the two of them poisoned while toasting Tetford’s latest insincere attempt to be a good man.’
‘I was annoyed when Claypole and Hugh acted too soon,’ said Eleanor. ‘Tetford was a wicked young man, and I intended to prevent him from becoming a Vicar Choral in my cathedral. And I did not want you interfering with the saint’s will by exposing me, Brother, so you had to die, too.’
‘If you attacked us in the orchard, then you were also responsible for the episode at Holy Cross,’ said Michael. ‘The pattern was the same: two bowmen, someone with a sword and someone with a dagger. You three and Claypole. No wonder you did not best us. So, we know why you killed Tetford and attempted to dispatch me, but what about Father Simon? What had he done to incur your wrath?’
‘He engaged in skulduggery,’ said Eleanor angrily. ‘And I am tired of it. Hugh showed me the note he wrote, inviting Chapman to discuss the Hugh Chalice, so I decided to make an end of them both.’
‘I see why you deplore Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘I dislike relic-sellers myself. But Simon–’
‘Chapman is not a relic-seller,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is a felon who sells stolen goods for Miller. Worse yet, he dared lay his sinful hands on the Hugh Chalice! When my henbane salve did not work, Christiana arranged for John to take him some wine instead. There has been nothing but theft and wickedness ever since the cup made its appearance, and it is demeaning. St Hugh does not approve.’