Susanna Gregory

Historical crime fiction. Medieval murder mysteries.
    Restoration intrigue and treachery.

A Wicked Deed

A Wicked DeedThe Fifth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew

‘How could we have been so foolish as to imagine that we had left murder and intrigue back in Cambridge?’

It is spring 1353, and Matthew Bartholomew is a reluctant member of a deputation of scholars, priests and students making its way to the village of Grundisburgh. As fine weather lures hordes of outlaws on to the hazardous roads, riding to Suffolk is a treacherous undertaking. But the lord of the manor has offered to give Grundisburgh’s parish church to the College of Michaelhouse, and the Master has decided that such a princely gift is well worth the danger.

But when the benefactor begins to rush the deed that will legalise the transfer of ownership, Bartholomew senses that rural Suffolk is not the idyllic retreat he had been led to imagine. And when a young student-priest from Michaelhouse is found murdered in the church that was to become his living, Bartholomew realises that he and his party are threatened by dark forces abroad in the village. Compelled to investigate, he descends into a nightmarish world of superstition, conflict and heresy from which the tainted find no return …

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Extract

Suffolk, April 1353

Twigs slashed at Alice Quy’s face and arms as she raced through the undergrowth, certain that the dog that chased her would bring her down at any moment. She tripped over a tree root, tumbling head over heels down a leaf-strewn slope, until coming up hard against the trunk of an old beech. She could not see the dog, but she knew it was behind her. She scrambled to her feet, sobbing in terror, and ran towards the river.

She knew she should never have come to the woods that night. It was true that she had been well paid, and that the money would help to buy the new cow her family needed, but money would be no use to her if the huge dog that snapped and slathered at the top of the slope were to catch her: she could not spend the gold coins that jangled in her purse if she were dead. She glanced behind, aware that the animal was beginning to gain on her, loping through the woods in a deceptively unhurried gait that was faster than anything two legs could achieve.

She had heard stories in the village about the massive white dog that haunted the abandoned plague village of Barchester. It was known to be a ferocious beast, given to tearing out the throats of its victims, and it was said that even to set eyes on the thing was sufficient to set a person on the road to doom and disaster. She tried not to think about it. She reached the River Lark, and waded across it, falling headlong into the cold water that surged around her legs. Gasping for breath and dashing the droplets from her eyes, she splashed through the shallows on the other side, and began to force her way through the trees on the opposite bank.

Suddenly, she was out of the woods that surrounded Barchester, and was at the edge of the neat strip-fields that belonged to Roland Deblunville, the lord of the manor whose land lay next to her village. She knew what would happen if he caught her trampling his barley, but she did not care. Her only concern was to escape the white dog, the hot breath of which she could almost feel on the back of her neck as she left the trees and began sprinting across the ploughed earth.

It was a dark night, and the moon was obscured by a thick covering of cloud. She stumbled over a particularly deep furrow and fell, grazing her elbows and knees on the stony soil. She clambered upright and plunged on, too frightened to look behind to see if the dog was still there. The ground was becoming more uneven, and she fell again almost immediately. This time, she did not rise, but lay on the ground, weeping with fear and exhaustion.

Gradually, as she lay motionless on the cold earth, her breathing returned to normal, the thudding of her heart subsided, and the blind terror began to recede. She had escaped! Scarcely daring to believe her luck, she relaxed her tense muscles, and sat up to peer around. She could see nothing in the dark, but it seemed as though her prayers had been answered, and that the dog had abandoned the chase and allowed her to live. Almost dizzy with relief, she climbed unsteadily to her feet, and started to stumble away before Master Deblunville or his men caught her.

She had not taken more than a few faltering steps, when she heard a noise behind her. Heart pounding again, she looked around her wildly, trying to penetrate the velvety blackness. She could see nothing, but the sound was there sure enough – soft, slithering footfalls as someone or something inched its way towards her, slowly and carefully like a wolf stalking its prey.

Was it the dog that approached so stealthily? Or was it one of Deblunville’s guards, slinking up behind a trespasser on his lord’s lands? Alice was almost to the point where she did not care. She started to run, but her legs were too weak to carry her, and she fell on to her knees. The slithering was closer now. Desperately, she tried to crawl, oblivious to the sharp stones that cut into her hands and legs.

It was hopeless. She could hear breathing, slow and even. She was almost paralysed with terror, and collapsed in a heap on the ground, shuddering and aware that the footsteps were coming ever closer. And then something reached out and touched her shoulder.

Alice Quy found she was unable to do so much as flinch: fright had finally paralysed her, like a deer caught in the light of a hunter’s flaring torch. She felt herself rolled onto her back. She did not look at her captor, but gazed up at the black sky with eyes that were fixed and dilated with fear.

A Deadly Brew

A Deadly BrewThe Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew

Pestilence, poison and priests can be a deadly brew …

The winter of 1353 brings new confusion to the people of Cambridge. Torrential rains spread fever to the poor, and make travelling hazardous along the town’s outlaw-infested roads. Then three members of the University die by drinking poisoned wine. Is this an attack by one College against another, or a new period of hostility between town and gown?

The flasks of poisoned wine are circulating through both knowing and innocent hands. Matthew Bartholomew would rather not get involved in the investigation, but when his own life is threatened, he realises he has become a target for people who have more than robbery on their minds. As he is drawn deeper in to his enquiries, he stumbles upon criminal activities that not only implicate his relatives, friends and colleagues, but also mix commercial greed and academic intrigue into a deadly brew of evil intent …

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Extract

October 1352

The afternoon had been growing gradually darker as storm clouds massed overhead. The scholar glanced up at them and realised he would not be able to reach the abbey at Ely, still some nine miles distant, without getting drenched. In his saddle bags, he carried several finely illustrated manuscripts that had been given to him by the grateful parents of successful students: if they became wet, the ink would run and they would be ruined.

He cursed softly. The summer and autumn had been unusually dry, so why did the heavens have to choose now, while he was forced to travel, to soak the parched earth with rain? With an irritable sigh, he urged his horse into a trot along the raised causeway that snaked through the desolate marshes. Since the storm would break long before he could hope to claim refuge with the monks at Ely, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to take shelter at the Franciscan convent of Denny Abbey, the ramshackle rooftops of which he could already see poking above the scrubby Fenland vegetation.

From a dense tangle of bushes at the side of the road, three men watched his progress impatiently and heaved a sigh of relief when the sound of hooves finally faded away. They had no wish to be caught unsheltered in the storm that was brewing either. They clambered down the slippery bank of the causeway to the barge that was moored at the side of the canal, and seized the ropes by which it was drawn along. It was more usual for horses to tow barges, but there was always a risk that the beasts might give away the presence of the boat to travellers on the road. And that would be unfortunate for everyone concerned.

The three men hauled on the ropes and the barge was on the move, slipping soundlessly along the black, glassy waters of the channel that eventually meandered behind Denny Abbey’s walled gardens. They heard voices as the scholar was admitted into the nuns’ guesthouse, and then all was silent again except for the gurgle of water under the keel and the occasional sound of dead, dry reeds snapping under their feet as they walked. When the barge-men reached their destination, they coiled the tow ropes and began to unload their cargo – a number of roughly sewn sacks, the contents of which clanked together mysteriously as they were moved.

One of the men, younger than the others and curious, started to untie the cord that fastened the top of one particularly heavy sack. His friends, seeing what he was about to do, leapt forward to stop him.

‘Fool! We were told to deliver these without asking questions. They will kill us if they think we have been prying into their business!’

The young man scowled angrily. ‘If the cargo is so valuable, why did you charge them so little to bring it here? And why did you agree to deliver it at all if you are frightened of them?’

‘Because it was impossible to refuse,’ explained the other, lowering his voice, and glancing around him uneasily. ‘But when we have finished here, we will lay low for a while to make sure we are not hired for this again.’

The younger man treated his friends to a look of scorn for their timidity and returned to the heavy labour of removing the sacks from the barge to their hiding place. After a moment, the other two followed suit, straining and sweating under the weight of the irregularly shaped bundles.

Their voices, however, had carried across the otherwise silent Fens. Had they looked behind them, they would have seen the veiled head of a nun observing them from one of the upper windows of the convent. She stood unmoving, watching them struggle with their bundles until, with evident relief and a few final furtive glances around them, they finished and slipped away as silently as they had arrived. Within moments, the first drops of rain began to fall, lightly at first, but then harder until the lonely marshes were enveloped in a misty white pall as far as the eye could see. The nun tapped a forefinger on the window sill thoughtfully before going to pay her respects to the scholar waiting in the guesthouse.

A Bone of Contention

A Bone of Contention

The Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew

Murder, hysteria, superstition …

In 1325, the terrible legacy of the Black Death still hangs over Cambridge. Fears of a future outbreak drive people to seek protection in the power of holy relics, while the University is once more the scene for violent clashes between students and townsfolk. Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse teacher and public physician, has a professional interest in order returning to the streets – his enormous practice of paupers means he does not have time to deal with a lot of injuries resulting from riots and mayhem.

With rumours spreading about the discovery of a skeleton reputed to belong to a local martyr, a skeleton that even the physician confirms as human, a young student’s brutal murder plunges the town into chaos, and Bartholomew must ask himself if the two corpses – and the rioting – are linked to something deeper than local enmities.

When suspicion falls on a respected University Principal and his scholars, Bartholomew’s investigation becomes the source of conflict within the academic community. And there are personal rivalries and painful memories of his own to be exhumed before a chilling conspiracy can emerge, a nightmare of murder and revenge so terrifying that the whole town could be tainted with complicity.

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Extract

Cambridge, October 1327

Breath coming in agonised gasps, d’Ambrey ran even harder. His lungs felt as though they would explode, and his legs burned with the agony of running. He reached an oak tree, and clutched at its thick trunk as he fought to catch his breath. A yell, not too far away, indicated that the soldiers had found his trail, and were chasing him once again. Weariness gave way to panic, and he forced himself to run.

But how long could he continue before he dropped? And where could he go? He pushed questions from his mind, and plunged on into the growing shadows of dusk. His cloak caught on a branch, and, for a few terrifying seconds, he could not free it. But the cloak tore loose, and he continued his mindless running.

He burst out from the line of trees and came on to the High Street, skidding to a halt. At sunset the road was busy with people returning home after a day of trading in the Market Square. People stopped as they saw him. His green cloak with the gold crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back was distinctive, and everyone knew him.

He elbowed his way through them towards the town gate, but saw soldiers there. He could not go back the way he had come, and so the only option for him was to make his way along the raised banks of the King’s Ditch. The King’s Ditch was part fortification and part sewer. It swung in a great arch around the eastern side of the town, a foul, slow-moving strip of water, crammed with the town’s waste and a thick, sucking mud washed from the Fens. There had been heavy rains with the onset of autumn, and the Ditch was a swirling torrent of brown water that lapped dangerously close to its levied banks.

D’Ambrey scrambled up the bank, mud clinging to his hands and knees and spoiling his fine cloak. He saw the soldiers break through the trees on to the road, pushing through the people towards him, and turned to run along the top of the bank away from them. But it was slippery, and running was difficult. He was aware that the soldiers had spotted him, and were moving across the strip of grass below, beginning to overtake him.

It was hopeless. He stopped running, and stood still. His cloak billowed around him in the evening breeze, whipping his copper-coloured hair around his face. The soldiers, grinning now their quarry was run to ground, began to climb up the bank towards him. He knew he was going to die, and drew his short dagger, intending to drive it into his chest, to take his own life before others could. But his gesture was misunderstood.

He heard a singing noise, and something hit him in the neck. He dropped the dagger and raised his hands to his neck. He did not feel pain, but he could not breathe. His fingers grasped at the arrow shaft that was lodged at the base of his throat. The world began to darken, and he felt himself begin to fall backwards. The last thing he knew was the cold waters of the Ditch closing over him as he died.

An Unholy Alliance

Unholy Alliance The Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew

In 1350, the people of Cambridge are struggling to overcome the effects of the Black Death …

Bands of outlaws roam the land, and the high death-rate among priests and monks has left the people vulnerable to the sinister cults that have grown up in the wake of the plague.

At Michaelhouse, Matthew Bartholomew is training new physicians to replace those who died of the pestilence. When the body of a friar is found in the massive chest where the University stores its most precious documents, Bartholomew is dragged away from his teaching to investigate. But the friar is not the only one to have died unexpectedly in the town.

Almost by chance, Bartholomew stumbles across a derelict church, abandoned since its congregation was eliminated by the plague. It is now the meeting place for a mysterious sect that holds its followers in terror, and which Bartholomew believes to be at the very heart of an astonishing web of blackmail and deceit aimed to overthrow the established religion.

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Extract

Cambridge 1350

Isobel Watkins glanced fearfully behind her for at least the fourth time since leaving the home of the wealthy merchant on Milne Street. She was sure she was being followed, but each time she stopped to look behind her, she could hear and see nothing amiss. She slipped into a doorway and held her breath to control her trembling as she peered down the dark street. There was nothing, not even a rat scurrying from the mounds of rubbish that lined both sides of the High Street.

She took a deep breath and leaned her head against the door. She was imagining things, and the recent murder of two of her colleagues had unnerved her. She had never been afraid of walking alone in the dark before: indeed, it was usually when she met her best customers. She poked her head out and looked down the street yet again. All was silence and darkness. In the distance she heard someone tolling the hour in St Michael’s Church: midnight.

Dismissing her fears, she slipped out of the doorway and began walking quickly up the High Street towards her home near the town gate. It was only a short walk, and the night-watchmen on duty at the Gate would be within hailing distance soon. She grimaced. It would not be the first time she had been forced to give them her night’s earnings in order not to be arrested for breaking the curfew. She caught her breath again as she heard the faintest of sounds behind her, and decided she would be happy to part with an entire week’s earnings just to be safely in her own bed.

She saw the pinprick of light coming from the gate, and broke into a run, almost crying in relief. She was totally unprepared for the attack that came from the side. She felt herself hurled to the ground as someone dived out of the small trees around St Botolph’s Church. She tried to scream as she felt herself dragged into the churchyard, but no sound would come. She felt a sudden burning pain in her throat and then a hot, sticky sensation on her chest. As her world slowly went black, she cursed herself for being so convinced that she was being followed that she had failed to consider whether it was safe ahead.

A short distance away, a man wearing the habit of a Dominican friar knelt in the silence of the tower of St Mary’s Church. In front of him stood the great iron-bound box that held the University’s most precious documents – deeds of property, records of accounts, and scrolls containing promises of money and goods.

The University chest. The friar rubbed his hands, and balancing the merest stub of a candle on the chest, began to work on one of the three great locks that kept the University’s business from prying eyes. He felt safe. He had spent several days in the church, playing the part of a pilgrim, so he could become familiar with its layout and routine. That night he had hidden behind one of the pillars when the lay-brother had walked around dousing candles and checking windows. When he had left, the friar had stood stock still behind his pillar for the best part of an hour to make certain no one had followed him. Then he had spent another hour checking the church to make doubly sure. He had climbed on benches to rattle the locks on the windows, and he had taken the precaution of slipping a thick bar across the door before climbing the spiral stairs to the tower.

He hummed as he worked. The singing that evening had been spectacular, with boys’ voices soaring like angels over the drone of the bass and tenor of the men. The friar had been unfamiliar with the music, and had been told it had been written by a Franciscan called Simon Tunstede who was earning something of a reputation as a composer. He paused and stared into the darkness as he tried to recall how the Sanctus had gone. As it came back to him, he resumed his fiddling with the lock, and sang a little louder.

The first lock snapped open, and he shuffled on his knees to the next one. Eventually, the second lock popped open and he moved on to the third. He stopped singing and small beads of sweat broke out on his head. He paused to rub an arm over his face, then continued scraping and poking with his slivers of metal. Suddenly, the last lock snapped open.

He flexed his shoulders, cramped from hunching over his work, and carefully lifted the lid. It groaned softly, the leather hinges protesting at the weight. He knelt again and began to sort through the documents that lay within. He had only been working for a few moments when a sound behind him made him leap to his feet. He held his breath in terror and then relaxed when he realised it was only a bird in the bell chamber above. He turned back to the chest again, and continued to rifle through the scrolls and papers.

He suddenly felt a great lurching pain. He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He put both hands to his chest and moaned softly, leaning against the great box as he did so. He was aware that the light from the candle was growing dimmer as the pain in his chest increased. With the tiniest of sighs, he collapsed over the open chest and died.

A Plague on Both Your Houses

A Plague on Both Your Houses

The First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew

In the tradition of Ellis Peters, A Plague on Both Your Houses introduces the physician Matthew Bartholomew.

Bartholomew’s unorthodox but effective treatment of his patients frequently draws accusations of heresy from his more traditional colleagues. Besides his practice, he is a teacher of medicine at Michaelhouse, part of the fledgling University of Cambridge.

In 1348, the inhabitants of Cambridge live under the shadow of a terrible pestilence that has ravaged Europe and is travelling relentlessly eastwards towards England. Bartholomew, however, is distracted by the sudden and inexplicable death of the Master of Michaelhouse – a death the University authorities do not want investigated. His pursuit of the truth leads him into a complex tangle of lies and intrigue that cause him to question the innocence of his closest friends – and even his family.

And then the Black Death finally arrives …

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Extract

Cambridge 1348

The scholar waited in the black shadows of the churchyard trees for the Sheriff’s night patrol to pass by, trying to control his breathing. Two of the men stopped so close that he could have reached out and touched them. They stood for several minutes, leaning against the wall surrounding the churchyard, looking up and down the deserted road. The scholar held his breath until he thought he would choke. He could not be discovered now: there was so much to lose!

Eventually, the Sheriff’s men left, and the scholar took several unsteady breaths, forcing himself to remain in the safety of the shadows until he was certain that they had gone. He jumped violently, as a large cat stalked past his hiding place, glancing at him briefly with alert yellow eyes. He watched it sit for a moment in the middle of the road, before it disappeared up a dark alleyway.

The scholar gripped the voluminous folds of his cloak, so that he would not stumble on them, and slipped out of the trees into the road. The moon was almost full, and shed an eerie white light along the main street. He peered carefully both ways, and, satisfied that there was no one to see him, he made his way stealthily down the street towards his home.

The main gates of the College were locked, but the scholar had ensured that the little-used back door was left open. He turned from the road into St Michael’s Lane. He was almost there.

He froze in horror as he saw someone was already in the lane: another scholar, also disobeying College rules by being out at night, was walking towards him. Heart thumping, he ducked into a patch of tall nettles and weeds at the side of the road, in the hope that his stillness and dark cloak would keep him hidden. He heard the footsteps come closer and closer. Blood pounded in his ears, and he found he was trembling uncontrollably. The footsteps were almost level with him. Now he would be uncovered and dragged from his hiding place!

He almost cried in relief as the footfalls passed him by, and faded as his colleague turned the corner into the High Street. He stood shakily, oblivious to the stinging of the nettles on his bare skin, and ran to the back gate. Once inside, he barred it with shaking hands, and made his way to the kitchens. Faint with relief, he sank down next to the embers of the cooking fire and waited until his trembling had ceased. As he prepared to return to his room to sleep away what little remained of the night, he wondered how many more such trips he might make before he was seen.

Several hours later, the Bishop’s Mill miller dragged himself from his bed, tugged on his boots, and set off for work. The sky was beginning to turn from dark blue to silver in the east, and he shivered in the crispness of the early morning. He unlocked the door to the mill and then went to feed the fat pony that he kept to carry flour to the town.

A short distance away, he could hear the rhythmic whine and swish of the waterwheel, powered by a fast-running channel diverted from the river. The miller had grown so familiar with its sound, that he never noticed it unless there was something wrong. And there was something wrong this morning, as there was an additional thump in the rhythm.

The miller sighed irritably. Only the previous week he had had to ask his neighbours to help him free the branch of a tree that had entangled itself in the spokes, and he was loathe to impose on their good graces again. He tossed some oats to the pony, and, wiping his hands on his tunic, he went to investigate. As he drew nearer, he frowned in puzzlement. It did not sound like a branch had been caught, but something soggier and less rigid.

He felt his knees turn to jelly when he saw the wheel and what was caught in it, and sank onto the grass, unable to tear his eyes away. The body of a man was impaled there, black robes flapping wetly around him as the wheel dragged him under the water again and again. As it lifted the body, one arm flopped loose in a ghostly parody of a wave, which continued until the corpse dived feet first back into the water for another cycle. The horrified miller watched it salute him three times before he was able to scramble to his feet and race towards the town screaming for help.