Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘So walk to the far end of the beam and go through the door,’ directed Welfry. ‘I am willing to spare your life, but not at the expense of spoiling my plans. Go, or I will come and stab you.’

‘If you do, you may fall yourself,’ said Bartholomew, not moving.

Welfry sighed. ‘I have been scampering around these beams for days, and I have a good head for heights. You cannot prevent what is about to happen, so do as I say, and save yourself.’

‘What is about to happen?’ pressed Bartholomew, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

‘In a moment, scholars and townsmen will come racing in for their free ale and wine. My little trick will swing into action, and I shall escape in the ensuing chaos. When the commotion eventually dies down, your cries for help will be heard and you will be released – if you walk towards the door. If you continue to be awkward, you will suffer a rather different fate.’

‘But people will see Thelnetham’s body, and–’

‘Not until it is too late to matter.’

‘Please do not do this,’ begged Bartholomew, appalled by the meticulous planning. ‘Our friends will be among those drinking this wine. And how can you leave Horneby to take the blame?’

Welfry winced and looked away. He regretted Horneby’s fate. ‘He will be dead by now. Odelina is nothing if not thorough.’

‘She is in Michael’s custody, and Horneby has escaped.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Welfry took a step along the beam. ‘I gave you your chance, Matthew, and you refused to take it. I dislike killing, but you leave me no choice.’

Bartholomew had no strength left to repel an attack. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going. But bear in mind that even if your plan succeeds, you will never be safe. Michael will find you.’

‘I doubt even his influence extends to the place where I am bound,’ said Welfry softly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Welfry held up his gloved hand. ‘I tell everyone my hand is marred by a childhood palsy, but it is leprosy. I shall end my days shunned by all, dead before I am in my grave. That is why I shall not sell the signacula and St Simon Stock’s scapular – their collective holiness will release me from Purgatory. I started amassing them after a pilgrimage to Canterbury, some eight years ago.’

‘But there has not been a case of leprosy in Cambridge for years!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘It is almost certain to be something else. Let me examine it.’

‘It is too late. Now start walking before–’

At that moment, the door flew open and people began to pour in, yelling and laughing boisterously. Bartholomew did the only thing left to him: he started to bawl a warning. Immediately, Welfry lobbed the knife. It thudded into the wood near Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his involuntary flinch caused him to slip. He grabbed the post, and for a moment was suspended only by his hands. With agonising slowness, he struggled to haul himself up again.

As soon as he was safely on the rafter, fingers locked around the crown-post, he started to shout, but the refectory was now full of people, and his was just one voice among many – he could not make himself heard. And Thelnetham lay in the shadows, so not even the presence of a corpse was going to tell them that something was terribly wrong.

Welfry touched a flame to his fuse.

‘No!’ screamed Bartholomew, although the racket from below drowned out his anguished howl. Then the Michaelhouse Choir began an impromptu rendering of a popular tavern ballad, and he closed his eyes in despair, knowing he would never be heard once they were in action. Welfry was crouching in the shadows of the doorway, watching his fuse burn towards the pulleys and buckets. He ignored Bartholomew now, seeing his presence as irrelevant.

Then Michael entered the refectory, beadles at his heels, looking everywhere but upwards. The monk began to mingle with the crowd, stepping between groups that would have swung punches and clearly far too busy to think about the Dominican and his plot.

Welfry’s flame was burning steadily towards a lever, and Bartholomew knew there were only moments left before something terrible happened. His stomach lurched as he looked at the people below – his sister and her husband, Michael, Gyseburne, Tulyet, most members of his College and others he knew and loved were going to be among the casualties.

But there was one option left open to him: he could jump off the rafter and plummet to his death. That would make people look up, and when they saw the ropes and buckets they would run to safety. Unfortunately, he could not leap from where he was, because Edith was almost directly beneath him and he could not risk injuring her. He took a deep breath, ducked around the crown-post and took his first step along the beam, back towards the door.

A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he thought he was going to fall. But the feeling passed, and he took another step, and then another. He was aware of Welfry glaring and making meaningful pushing gestures with his hands, but it did not matter, because there was nothing he could do to Bartholomew that Bartholomew was not already planning to do to himself. The fuse burned closer to the lever.

Welfry’s jaw dropped when he understood what the physician intended. He started to shout, but Bartholomew could not hear him, and would not have paid any attention if he had. Only a few more steps now. Bartholomew sensed Welfry starting along the rafter towards him, but took no notice. Two more steps would put him over the middle of a table, and no one would be hurt when he jumped. He glanced at the fuse. The flame was almost there: he was going to be too late!

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and when he looked up, Welfry was gone. But something was happening below. The laughter and merriment had changed to cries of horror. He risked a glance downwards, and saw Welfry sprawled unmoving on one of the tables. People were beginning to look up, pointing. In his determination to stop Bartholomew, Welfry had lost his own balance.

‘Everyone out!’ bellowed Michael, when he saw the ropes and the pails. ‘Now!’

‘So the greedy Colleges can have all this free wine?’ demanded Neyll. ‘Not likely!’

He grabbed a cup of ale and toasted his cronies, who responded with a rowdy cheer. There was a resentful growl from Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie.

‘Out!’ hollered Michael. But hostels were bawling insults at Colleges, and those who could hear the monk ignored him. The noise level intensified again, and although Bartholomew yelled until his voice cracked, he knew he was wasting his time. He took another step along the rafter, trying frantically to control the shaking in his legs. Perhaps if he could reach the fuse…

He was aware that Edith and Michael were two of those staring at him. Within moments, their upturned faces were going to be showered with some unspeakable substance, and they would die a terrible death. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength to gain the door.

But there was no time for relief. He forced himself to turn and inspect Welfry’s fuse. It had already burned out of reach. He hauled off his tabard and flailed it at the flame, but flapping only made it glow more fiercely. He leaned out as far as he could, and flung the garment across it, but the material merely smouldered and the fuse hissed on. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Defeated, he felt himself slump, then begin to fall.

His downward progress was halted by an intense pressure around his middle, then strong arms were hauling him to the safety of the doorway.

‘Christ and all his saints, Matt!’ cried Michael. He rarely cursed, and that, coupled with his white face and shaking hands, was testament to his fright. ‘We almost lost you!’