Epic Historial Collection (297 page)

“Obviously they decided that was too much trouble.”

“Perhaps.”

She was not convinced. Nor was Merthin: his own explanation did not quite fit. The robbery had been carefully planned, that was evident. So why would the thieves not have made up their minds in advance about the ornaments? Either to take them or leave them behind?

Caris and Merthin went down the steps and into the chamber, Merthin's stomach clenching in fear as he was grimly reminded of last night's ordeal. More novices were cleaning the walls and floor with mops and buckets.

Caris sent the novices away to take a break. When she and Merthin were alone, she picked up a length of wood from a shelf and used it to prize up one of the flagstones underfoot. Merthin had not previously noticed that the stone was not fitted as tightly as most, having a narrow gap all around it. Now he saw that underneath was a spacious vault containing a wooden box. Caris reached into the hole and pulled out the box. She opened it with a key from her belt. It was full of gold coins.

Merthin was surprised. “They missed that!”

“There are three more concealed vaults,” Caris told him. “Another in the floor and two in the walls. They missed them all.”

“They can't have looked very hard. Most treasuries have hiding places. People know that.”

“Especially robbers.”

“So maybe the cash wasn't their first priority.”

“Exactly.” Caris locked the chest and put it back in its vault.

“If they didn't want the ornaments, and they weren't sufficiently interested in cash to search the treasury thoroughly for hidden vaults, why did they come here at all?”

“To kill Tilly. The robbery was a cover.”

Merthin thought about that. “They didn't need an elaborate cover story,” he said after a pause. “If all they wanted was to kill Tilly, they could have done it in the dormitory and been far away from here by the time the nuns got back from Matins. If they had done it carefully—suffocated her with a feather pillow, say—we would not even have been sure she had been murdered. It would have looked as if she had died in her sleep.”

“Then there's no explanation for the attack. They ended up with next to nothing—a few gold coins.”

Merthin looked around the underground chamber. “Where are the charters?” he said.

“They must have burned. It doesn't much matter. I've got copies of everything.”

“Parchment doesn't burn very well.”

“I've never tried to light it.”

“It smolders, shrinks and distorts, but it doesn't catch fire.”

“Perhaps the charters have been retrieved from the debris.”

“Let's check.”

They climbed back up the steps and left the vault. Outside in the cloisters, Caris asked Joan: “Have you found any parchment among the ashes?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”

“Could you have missed it?”

“I don't think so—not unless it has burned to cinders.”

“Merthin says it doesn't burn.” She turned to him. “Who would want our charters? They're no use to anyone else.”

Merthin followed the thread of his own logic, just to see where it might lead. “Suppose there's a document that you've got—or you
might
have, or they
think
you might have—and they want it.”

“What could it be?”

Merthin frowned. “Documents are intended to be public. The whole point of writing something down is so that people can look at it in the future. A secret document is a strange thing…” Then he thought of something.

He drew Caris away from Joan, and walked casually around the cloisters with her until he was sure they could not be overheard. Then he said: “But, of course, we do know of one secret document.”

“The letter Thomas buried in the forest.”

“Yes.”

“But why would anyone imagine it might be in the nunnery's treasury?”

“Well, think. Has anything happened lately that might arouse such a suspicion?”

A look of dismay came over Caris's face. “Oh, my soul,” she exclaimed.

“There is something.”

“I told you about Lynn Grange being given to us by Queen Isabella for accepting Thomas, all those years ago.”

“Did you speak to anyone else about it?”

“Yes—the bailiff of Lynn. And Thomas was angry that I had done so, and said there would be dire consequences.”

“So someone is afraid you might have got hold of Thomas's secret letter.”

“Ralph?”

“I don't think Ralph is aware of the letter. I was the only one of us children who saw Thomas burying it. He's certainly never mentioned it. Ralph must be acting on behalf of someone else.”

Caris looked scared. “Queen Isabella?”

“Or the king himself.”

“Is it possible that the king ordered Ralph to invade a nunnery?”

“Not personally, no. He would have used an intermediary, someone loyal, ambitious, and with absolutely no scruples. I came across such men in Florence, hanging around the doge's palace. They're the scum of the earth.”

“I wonder who it was.”

“I think I can guess,” said Merthin.

 

Gregory Longfellow met Ralph and Alan two days later at Wigleigh, in the small timber manor house. Wigleigh was more discreet than Tench. At Tench Hall there were too many people watching Ralph's every move: servants, followers, his parents. Here in Wigleigh the peasants had their own backbreaking business to do, and no one would question Ralph about the contents of the sack Alan was carrying.

“I gather it went off as planned,” Gregory said. News of the invasion of the nunnery had spread all over the county in no time.

“No great difficulty,” Ralph said. He was a bit let down by Gregory's muted reaction. After all the trouble that had been taken to get the charters, Gregory might have shown some elation.

“The sheriff has announced an inquest, of course,” Gregory said dourly.

“They'll blame it on outlaws.”

“You were not recognized?”

“We wore hoods.”

Gregory looked at Ralph strangely. “I did not know that your wife was at the nunnery.”

“A useful coincidence,” Ralph said. “It enabled me to kill two birds with one stone.”

The strange look intensified. What was the lawyer thinking? Was he going to pretend to be shocked that Ralph had killed his wife? If so, Ralph was ready to point out that Gregory was complicit in everything that had happened at the nunnery—he had been the instigator. He had no right to judge. Ralph waited for Gregory to speak. But, after a long pause, all he said was: “Let's have a look at these charters.”

They sent the housekeeper, Vira, on a lengthy errand, and Ralph made Alan stand at the door to keep out casual callers. Then Gregory tipped the charters out of the sack onto the table. He made himself comfortable and began to examine them. Some were rolled and tied with string, others bundled flat, a few sewn together in booklets. He opened one, read a few lines in the strong sunlight coming through the open windows, then threw the charter back into the sack and picked up another.

Ralph had no idea what Gregory was looking for. He had only said that it might embarrass the king. Ralph could not imagine what kind of document Caris might possess that would embarrass a king.

He got bored watching Gregory read, but he was not going to leave. He had delivered what Gregory wanted, and he was going to sit here until Gregory confirmed his half of the deal.

The tall lawyer worked his way patiently through the documents. One caught his attention, and he read it all the way through, but then he threw it in the sack with the others.

Ralph and Alan had spent most of the last week in Bristol. It was not likely that they would be asked to account for their movements, but they had taken precautions anyway. They had caroused at taverns every evening except the night they went to Kingsbridge. Their companions would remember the free drinks, but probably would not recall that on one night of the week Ralph and Alan had been absent—or, if they did, they certainly would not know whether it was the fourth Wednesday after Easter or the Thursday but two before Whitsun.

At last the table was clear and the sack was full again. Ralph said: “Did you not find what you were looking for?”

Gregory did not answer the question. “You brought everything?”

“Everything.”

“Good.”

“So you haven't found it?”

Gregory chose his words carefully, as always. “The specific item is not here. However, I did come across a deed that may explain why this…issue…has arisen in recent months.”

“So you're satisfied,” Ralph persisted.

“Yes.”

“And the king need no longer be anxious.”

Gregory looked impatient. “You should not concern yourself with the king's anxieties. I'll do that.”

“Then I can expect my reward immediately.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gregory. “You shall be the earl of Shiring by harvesttime.”

Ralph felt a glow of satisfaction. The earl of Shiring—at last. He had won the prize he had always longed for, and his father was still alive to hear the news. “Thank you,” he said.

“If I were you,” said Gregory, “I should go and woo Lady Philippa.”

“Woo her?” Ralph was astonished.

Gregory shrugged. “She has no real choice in the matter, of course. But still, the formalities should be observed. Tell her that the king has given you permission to ask for her hand in marriage, and say you hope she will learn to love you as much as you love her.”

“Oh,” said Ralph. “All right.”

“Take her a present,” said Gregory.

73

O
n the morning of Tilly's burial, Caris and Merthin met on the roof of the cathedral at dawn.

The roof was a world apart. Calculating the acreage of slates was a perennial geometry exercise in the advanced mathematics class at the priory school. Workmen needed constant access for repairs and maintenance, so a network of walkways and ladders linked the slopes and ridges, corners and gulleys, turrets and pinnacles, gutters and gargoyles. The crossing tower had not yet been rebuilt, but the view from the top of the west facade was impressive.

The priory was already busy. This would be a big funeral. Tilly had been a nobody in life, but now she was the victim of a notorious murder, a noblewoman killed in a nunnery, and she would be mourned by people who had never spoken three words to her. Caris would have liked to discourage mourners, because of the risk of spreading the plague, but there was nothing she could do.

The bishop was already here, in the best room of the prior's palace—which was why Caris and Merthin had spent the night apart, she in the nuns' dormitory and he and Lolla at the Holly Bush. The grieving widower, Ralph, was in a private room upstairs at the hospital. His baby, Gerry, was being taken care of by the nuns. Lady Philippa and her daughter, Odila, the only other surviving relatives of the dead girl, were also staying at the hospital.

Neither Merthin nor Caris had spoken to Ralph when he arrived yesterday. There was nothing they could do, no way to get justice for Tilly, for they could prove nothing; but all the same they knew the truth. So far they had told no one what they believed: there was no point. During today's obsequies they would have to pretend something like normalcy with Ralph. It was going to be difficult.

While the important personages slept, the nuns and the priory employees were hard at work preparing the funeral dinner. Smoke was rising from the bakery, where dozens of long four-pound loaves of wheat bread were already in the oven. Two men were rolling a new barrel of wine across to the prior's house. Several novice nuns were setting up benches and a trestle table on the green for the common mourners.

As the sun rose beyond the river, throwing a slanting yellow light on the rooftops of Kingsbridge, Caris studied the marks made on the town by nine months of plague. From this height she could see gaps in the rows of houses, like bad teeth. Timber buildings collapsed all the time, of course—because of fire, rain damage, incompetent construction, or just old age. What was different now was that no one bothered to repair them. If your house fell down, you just moved into one of the empty homes in the same street. The only person building anything was Merthin, and he was seen as a mad optimist with too much money.

Across the river, the gravediggers were already at work in another newly consecrated cemetery. The plague showed no signs of relenting. Where would it end? Would the houses just continue to fall down, one at a time, until there was nothing left, and the town was a wasteland of broken tiles and scorched timbers, with a deserted cathedral in the middle and a hundred-acre graveyard at its edge?