The Mark of a Murderer (30 page)

‘They think you care for nothing but your studies,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the discussion with his Michaelhouse
colleagues. ‘They attribute any odd behaviour to your fanatical desire to learn.’

‘What odd behaviour?’ demanded Wormynghalle, affronted. ‘I have been careful to blend into this society, and do nothing to
draw attention to myself.’

‘You do not frequent taverns or hire prostitutes.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘In a friar or a monk that is not unusual, but total
abstinence is rare in secular masters with money to spare. Also, you tend not to engage in the usual sort of manly chatter,
and only indulge in discussions of a scholastic nature.’

‘Of course,’ declared Wormynghalle, surprised anyone should expect otherwise. ‘I did not come here to debauch and exchange
intimacies. I am here at considerable personal risk, and I want only one thing: to learn. There are no universities for women,
and convents are too restrictive. I tried one once, but the nuns would only give me texts they thought were suitable and I
felt myself dying inside.’

Bartholomew nodded sympathetically, trying to imagine what it would be like if he could not read what he wanted. He was under
certain restrictions as a medical practitioner, some of which he found inordinately frustrating, and supposed it was far worse
for Wormynghalle.

‘I have so much to offer,’ she said in a wistful voice. ‘I am a clear and insightful thinker, and all I ask is that I be allowed
to use my intellect – just as a man is allowed to use his.’

‘The situation is not fair,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And you
are
an excellent scholar. But is this the best way to go about it? What if it had been Paxtone who had grabbed you? He is an
old-fashioned man, who would have been appalled at the deception you have perpetrated on his College.’

‘But this is the only way I can debate with like-minded
people,’ said Wormynghalle, tears spurting again. ‘I could go to some remote place and surround myself with books, but that
is not what I need. I want to argue my points, and to have people dispute with me and tell me why I am wrong. I want my mind
to be stretched and challenged to its limits. And I want to write a great treatise on natural philosophy that will equal those
of men like Grosseteste.
You
know how I feel, because you are equally passionate about new and complex theories. I can see it in your face when we talk.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘There is little that is more exhilarating than a debate with clever men …I mean clever
people.’

‘You are writing a treatise yourself,’ pressed Wormynghalle, wiping her eyes. ‘Paxtone gave me some of it, and it is novel
and unorthodox. When it is finished it will be read and debated by the best thinkers in the civilised world. But what do you
think will happen to mine, if they discover it was penned by a woman?’

‘Trotula’s theories on medicine and health are widely read – and she was a woman.’

‘But they are not accepted with the same open minds as are works by men,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘Your fellow medics, Rougham
and Lynton, will not entertain her writings at all – not because they are flawed or inferior, but because Trotula was female,
and therefore has nothing worth saying.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘Then, you see I have no choice. I
need
the stimulation this University provides and I am discreet. I am obliged to share a room with Hamecotes, but he is too absorbed
in his own work to take notice of my occasional idiosyncrasies – such as the fact that I like to close the garderobe door
when I pee. If he has even considered the matter at all, it will be to think that I am foolishly modest.’

‘Hamecotes is one of several men who ask Matilde for remedies to help female pains,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are they for you?’

She nodded. ‘He thinks they are for my secret lover, and that I am too embarrassed to ask for them myself. Like many men,
he is taken with Matilde, and is delighted by any excuse to visit her.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew with displeasure.

‘All I have ever wanted is to study at a University and to pit my wits against my intellectual equals and betters,’ said Wormynghalle
beseechingly. ‘Please do not make me give it up.’

‘I would never do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every man – and woman – should be free to exploit the gifts he has been given,
and I understand perfectly why scholarship is appealing. I only warn that if you are discovered there will be no mercy. You
may not even escape with your life. Men can be harsh and unforgiving when their domains are invaded.’

‘I know. I plan to remain here for another term, then return to Oxford, where I will join a different College to the one I
was in before. Then I will come here again, or perhaps visit Paris. As long as I keep moving, and allow no one to know me
well, I can continue this life for years yet.’

‘You do not look like a woman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He realised that might be construed as offensive and struggled to
make amends. ‘I mean, you have a beard and . . .’ This sounded worse, and he saw he was digging himself a deeper pit. He stopped
speaking and gave an apologetic shrug.

Wormynghalle smiled. ‘All woman have a certain amount of facial hair, which they usually remove, but I strengthen mine with
an ointment of white lilies. Many young men do the same to increase their beards, so no one thinks I am odd – they simply
see me as a youth
desperate to shave. I have a naturally bristly chin and dark hairs on my upper lip. They are a nuisance when I wear kirtles
and wimples, but a great advantage when I don a tabard.’

‘What is your real name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not John Wormynghalle.’

‘I chose “Wormynghalle” because they are a clan of Oxford upstarts that I imagined would never come here. You can imagine
my shock when that tanner appeared! I was obliged to visit him, and pretend to see whether we might be kin, all the while
making myself unattractive, so he would not assume a connection we do not have. I did not want him thinking a scholar–relative
might give him more credit with his mercantile rivals. It was all very awkward.’

‘It was lucky you chose Wormynghalle – Eu would have been far more thorough in exploring your origins.’

‘I knew that when I took the name – I deliberately avoided prominent, established families. But Wormynghalle’s relatives never
leave Oxford. It was terrible bad luck that he did – and that he happened to come here, of all places.’ She smiled suddenly,
so her face became softer and less intense. ‘My name is Joan.’

Bartholomew raised his goblet in a salute. ‘Well, Joan. I wish you the best of luck with what I anticipate will be a celebrated
career.’

She grinned, and Bartholomew noticed she had artificially darkened her teeth in an attempt to make herself rougher. She had
obviously worked hard on her disguise, concentrating on the smallest of details. He thought about the way she walked, and
realised she had even perfected a boyish swagger.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Although your knowing my secret puts me at risk, it is actually a relief to confide in someone.
A shared burden is easier to carry.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘What burden?’ asked Paxtone, bustling into the room with an amiable smile. ‘Can I help? After all, a burden shared by three
will be lighter still than one carried by two.’

‘You can,’ replied Joan without a flicker of hesitation, moving quickly to stand on the stained rug. ‘We are talking about
the burden of metaphysics to define the mode of existence and the essence of the separable. It would be very good to hear
your thoughts.’

Paxtone was pleased to be asked to expound on such an erudite matter. ‘Where shall we begin?’ he asked. ‘With Aristotle or
Grosseteste?’

For the first time in more than two weeks, Bartholomew enjoyed a full night of uninterrupted sleep. He had visited Matilde
on his way home from King’s Hall, and had found Rougham sitting up in bed demanding chicken broth. His fever had gone completely,
and Bartholomew knew he could not keep him there for more than a day or two. He was already planning how to reach Gonville
Hall without being seen by the gossiping Weasenham, whose house he would have to pass, and then it would not be long before
he heard rumours about other men with damaged throats – especially the one in the cistern. The dredging was likely to be a
public affair, as it involved soldiers from the Castle, and the news would spread quickly. Okehamptone would not feature in
the talk, of course, because only Bartholomew and Michael – and the killer – knew what had happened to him.

The following day, Michael took Bartholomew with him when he went to talk to the Sheriff about the search for Eudo and Boltone.
Tulyet was frantically busy, organising bands of itinerant labourers to continue scraping the streets clean of ordure, renovate
the Great Bridge so it at least did not look dangerous, and paint the livestock pens in the Market Square. It was not only
scholars who wanted the Archbishop to be impressed: the townsfolk were determined that he should think well of them, too.
As a result, Tulyet had scant resources to search for criminals in the vast wilderness of the Fens, nor had he found time
to drain the well. He promised to do both as soon as he could, and
Bartholomew and Michael escaped from his house when they heard Dickon making his way towards them, the army of servants who
had been detailed to entertain him powerless to prevent the invasion.

Since a heavy spring shower was in full flood, they ducked into St Clement’s Church. They were not the only ones who had been
obliged to take shelter, and Michael’s eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation when he saw that the entire party from Oxford,
on their way to terce at St Mary the Great, had been caught in the deluge, too. On spotting Michael and Bartholomew, Polmorva
promptly aimed for the door, claiming he was going to the Dominican Friary for a theology lecture.

‘I hope you find it as stimulating as the one you attended yesterday,’ said Michael casually.

Polmorva shrugged, knowing he had been caught in a lie, but not really caring. ‘It will be more rewarding than talking to
you, Brother. But then, so is wallowing in pig dung.’

‘That is an example of Oxford subtlety, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding him with disdain. ‘Do not leave, Polmorva. I want
to talk to you.’

‘You have no right to order him around,’ objected Wormynghalle indignantly. ‘What do you want, anyway? More excuses for not
finding Gonerby’s killer?’

‘You have not been successful with that, either,’ snapped Michael in return. ‘And do not pretend you do not know what I am
talking about, Abergavenny. You have been in the King’s Head, asking questions of the locals, when I explicitly told you not
to.’

‘What of it?’ demanded Eu. ‘We have businesses waiting at home, and we need to secure our culprit as soon as possible. Besides,
you cannot stop free merchants from holding innocent conversations in taverns.’

‘I can prevent you from causing trouble,’ said Michael.
‘Because that is what you do when you ask townsfolk to list those scholars they think are murderers. And how can I hope to
find your culprit when you are not honest about his crime? I was obliged to learn for myself that Gonerby was bitten to death.
Why did you not tell me the truth?’

‘It was not necessary,’ replied Eu, unrepentant. ‘All you needed to know was that Gonerby was killed by a man who fled to
Cambridge.’

‘Then what about Polmorva’s role? Why did you keep that from me, when speaking to an eyewitness might have increased my chances
of success?’

‘He saw nothing useful,’ answered Eu. ‘And he asked us not to involve him.’

‘Is that true?’ asked Bartholomew of Spryngheuse, who was peering into the shadows of the aisle with a haunted expression
stamped on his sallow features. No one took any notice of the question: the merchants were defending their actions to Michael,
while Polmorva listened disdainfully and Duraunt closed his eyes in despair as another argument unfolded.

Spryngheuse spoke in a low voice, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Polmorva said Gonerby’s killer might hunt
him
if he learns there is a living witness to the crime, and he only agreed to come here if the merchants promised to tell no
one what he saw. I understand his fear; I am terrified myself.’

‘Here is your cloak,’ said Bartholomew, tugging it from his bag and hoping it was not too badly crumpled. ‘Do you really think
someone might harm you? You have been uneasy ever since you arrived.’

‘You would be uneasy if
you
were accused of starting a riot that left hundreds dead. Some of the victims have powerful friends, and they want revenge.
And there is that damned Benedictine! He will not leave me alone – he
seems to be everywhere I look. He may even be here, in this church, stalking me.’

Bartholomew strode into the shady aisle and looked around him carefully. ‘There is no one here.’

Tears shone in Spryngheuse’s eyes. ‘I cannot tell you what it is like to be terrified every living moment of the day. I do
not sleep; I cannot eat. My only solace is poppy juice, but Duraunt will not give me any more.’

‘So that is why he had it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he is right: soporifics will not solve your problems. Do you think this
Benedictine killed Gonerby? Or is he one of these avenging angels who lost influential friends in the fighting?’

‘I do not know. But my days are numbered, just like poor Chesterfelde’s, although
he
would never believe it. The Black Monk is playing with me, prolonging my agony. I wish he would just get it over with.’ He
stiffened suddenly, and his voice became full of panic. ‘Is that him? Behind the altar?’

‘No, those are John Wormynghalle and Thomas Paxtone, sheltering from the rain because they are carrying library books,’ replied
Bartholomew patiently, wondering whether Spryngheuse was becoming deranged; he looked unbalanced, with his frightened eyes
and unkempt appearance. ‘They will be fined if one is stained with even the smallest drop of water. You know this: it is the
same at Merton.’