The Mark of a Murderer (56 page)

‘I do not think Joan will run away, though,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with her than about a man he felt was beneath
his contempt. ‘Scholarship was her life, and she will never be accepted into a College now. She has nothing left to live for.’

‘What do you think she will do?’ asked Michael anxiously.

‘She will want revenge, and she knows how to get it. She said she did not want the universities suppressed, because she wanted
to enrol in them. But she probably thinks that if she cannot study, then others should not have that privilege, either.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Duraunt sadly. ‘That is exactly what my ambitious student would think. She will attack Cambridge – and she will
succeed. Look what she did in Oxford.’

‘The Visitation!’ Michael cried in horror. ‘I was right all along. She plans to spoil the Visitation!’

‘She has the teeth, too,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘She grabbed them as she fled, and I was too far away to do anything about
it.’

‘We must stop her,’ said Michael, seizing Bartholomew’s sleeve. The physician hesitated, worried about Duraunt’s pale face
and sodden clothes.

‘Go, Matthew,’ said Duraunt weakly. ‘You can visit me later, when you have her safely under lock and key.’

‘I will stay with you,’ said Clippesby, slipping a hand under Duraunt’s arm to help him to his feet. ‘I deplore violence,
and want no more of it. It serves me right for spending so much time with people today – visiting King’s Hall to look for
the teeth, then coming here. Animals are not so vicious.’

‘Wolf,’ said Bartholomew, before following Michael. ‘What did you mean when you insisted the killer was a wolf? It was Joan,
and she is not wolf-like in the slightest.’

‘Joan is not heavy enough to have flattened us both last night: that was her brother,’ replied Clippesby. He grimaced. ‘She
would have been far more efficient, so we are lucky she asked him to do it, and did not come herself. I heard them discussing
it this morning, after I left your room and went to meet the Merton Hall geese. She was furious when he told her he had failed.’

‘So why did you say the killer was “the wolf ”?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘Because the man wears a locket around his neck in the shape of a wolf’s head. I saw it when he attacked Rougham, and again
last night. It fell out of his clothes as he struggled.’

‘That is not a wolf,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is a ram. He is a tanner, and a ram’s head is supposed to represent
his trade of steeping sheepskins, to make leather.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Clippesby carelessly. ‘It looked like a wolf to me.’

Michael raced towards the High Street as fast as his fat legs could carry him, while Bartholomew strode at his side. They
crossed the Great Bridge, where a solitary guard was on duty; his colleagues had been dispatched to deal with the crowds massing
for the Visitation.

‘Where will she go, Matt?’ gasped Michael. His wet
clothes did not make running easy, because his woollen habit was heavy when waterlogged. He stopped to catch his breath, clinging
to the physician like a drowning man. ‘I do not understand her, so I cannot predict what she might do. Do you think she might
attack Islip tonight, thinking we will lower our guard?’

‘There are crowds to hide among today. If she is going to act, then it will be now.’

The folk who had gathered to catch a glimpse of the Archbishop stretched as far back along the High Street as St Michael’s
Church. Bartholomew could tell from the sound of trumpets that the ecclesiastical procession had reached St Mary the Great,
where Islip was expected to stop for a few moments, and allow people to view him.

Michael began to shove his way through the crowd, earning hostile glowers as he went. His Benedictine habit protected him
from retaliation, although Bartholomew was repaid with one or two hard shoves. The physician did not dare look around, afraid
that even a glance might initiate the kind of skirmish that had so damaged Oxford. Every man, woman and child carried a knife
for general use, and any fight that broke out would almost certainly end in deaths and ugly injuries.

‘Slow down, Brother,’ he hissed, as he followed the monk’s flailing elbows. ‘You will start a riot without Joan’s help, if
you are not careful.’

‘We are almost there,’ muttered Michael. ‘I beg your pardon, madam.
Pax vobiscum
.’ He sketched a blessing at the furious woman he had jostled and gave her one of his best smiles. She relented, although
her husband did not, and Bartholomew saw a dagger start to emerge from its sheath. He took a coin from his scrip, hoping it
would appease him. It fell to the ground, and the fellow’s attention was immediately taken with trying to retrieve it from
among the churning feet.

‘Here we are,’ said Michael in relief. ‘St Mary the Great. And there is the Archbishop being greeted formally by Tynkell.’

Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and saw the glorious white robes of the Archbishop, who stood next to the equally splendid Chancellor
in his ceremonial red. He saw Islip duck to Tynkell’s left, presumably to stand upwind of him. They were flanked by town dignitaries
on one side, and the University’s most senior Fellows on the other. Surrounding them was a heaving throng of dark-robed students
and brightly clad townsmen. It was an uneasy combination, and Bartholomew’s only consolation was that they were so tightly
crammed together, there was not much room for swinging punches.

‘There is Lee,’ he said urgently, pointing to one side. ‘Rougham’s student. And he is far more interested in the silversmith’s
apprentices than in Islip.’

‘Stop him, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘A fracas is just what Joan is waiting for. She will kill the Archbishop while everyone’s
attention is on the brawl, just as she has done before. I will warn Islip.’

‘There she is!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘She is talking to Lee!’ He watched helplessly as Lee started in surprise, then regarded
the silversmith’s lads appraisingly. ‘She is encouraging him to argue, just as she induced Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde to
quarrel in Oxford.’

‘Go and grab Lee,’ ordered Michael. ‘I will get her. Damn it! I cannot see the woman! Where did she go?’

‘Next to Father William,’ said Bartholomew, trying to move towards his quarry but finding his path blocked by the sheer crush
of people. ‘Now she is pointing at the Dominicans. She knows what she is doing, Brother: she is aware of how much he hates
them.’

‘He is heading towards them,’ said Michael in alarm.
‘And his face is like thunder. She has made up some tale to get him aroused. Do something, Matt!’

‘I cannot stop him
and
Lee,’ cried Bartholomew, appalled. ‘She is making sure there are too many skirmishes for us to control.’

Michael used every ounce of his strength to forge a way through the hordes, smiling benignly and informing people that he
was the Senior Proctor and that he needed to reach the front. He sketched benedictions in all directions in the hope of mollifying
those he shoved and trod on, but he was leaving a trail of anger behind him nonetheless. Bartholomew heard a merchant telling
Paxtone that the monk was a godless oaf, at the same time that William reached the Dominicans and began to hold forth. Meanwhile,
Lee and the silversmith’s apprentices were already embroiled in a push-and-shove that looked set to spill over into something
violent. Bartholomew saw a flash of steel in Lee’s hand.

‘It is too late!’ he shouted. ‘She has set her fires and we can do nothing to stop her.’

Michael reached Joan, and one of his meaty hands closed around her shoulder. Bartholomew looked behind him, and saw the Dominicans
starting to yell back at William, while Lee’s dagger was in his hand and he was waving it at a loutish looking lad who carried
a cudgel.

‘Help!’ screamed Joan. ‘I am a Cambridge wife, and I am being ravaged by a scholar! Help me!’

Several townsfolk immediately went to her assistance, and Bartholomew saw the monk quickly surrounded by men who looked ready
to show impudent scholars what happened to those who assaulted their women, monastic habits notwithstanding. Meanwhile, one
of the Dominicans pushed William hard in the chest, and the friar responded by lashing out with his fist. Michaelhouse’s students
surged forward to support the Franciscan, while Lee and the
others were suddenly engaged in a furious battle. Small fights were beginning to break out elsewhere, too, and Bartholomew
watched the unfolding chaos with a sense of helpless despair, knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent a massacre.

‘LET US PRAY.’

The voice that cut across the sounds of fighting was so loud and compelling that it stopped a good many brawlers in their
tracks. Lee jumped in alarm and the knife dropped from his hand, while the Dominicans and William were stunned into immobility
by the words that were such a large part of their lives. Several friars grinned sheepishly at the Michaelhouse students as
they placed their hands together in front of them.

‘I said,
LET US PRAY
!’ boomed Islip again, even more thunderously.

The apprentices looked at each other in bemusement, but obediently lowered their weapons. One or two even knelt, while the
students, conditioned by the routine of their daily offices, formed tidy lines and stood with bowed heads. Bartholomew was
astounded to see that everywhere people were assuming attitudes of prayer, either standing devoutly or dropping to their knees.
The silence was absolute, and all signs of hostility gone, like blossom in a spring gale.

‘Help me!’ cried Joan in desperation, when she saw her plan about to be thwarted.

The townsmen who had come to her rescue edged away uncomfortably as she shattered the reverent stillness. Michael released
his grip and folded his arms, smiling in satisfaction.

‘Rape!’ shrieked Joan in final desperation, appealing to her rescuers. ‘He tried to—’

‘Hush!’ hissed Lee angrily. ‘The Archbishop is praying.’

A communal growl of agreement accompanied his
words, as the crowd indicated that they wanted her to shut up until the great man had finished.

Tulyet approached, and spoke softly in her ear. ‘It is over, Joan Gonerby. My men and Michael’s beadles are all around you.
You cannot escape.’

‘Help!’ yelled Joan, not one to give up easily, although her face was frightened. Her furious howl drowned Islip’s next words,
and those around her began to complain, outraged that she should dare to screech over the most venerable churchman in the
land.

‘Be still, woman!’ snapped William. ‘I cannot hear what he is saying.’

Joan, seeing she had lost, ducked away from Michael, and people hastily moved out of her way, not wanting to be associated
with someone who made a racket during an Archbishop’s devotions. Sheriff and Senior Proctor followed. Bartholomew winced when
Tulyet tripped her from behind and Michael, to make sure she did not escape again, sat on her. He hurried forward, genuinely
afraid she would be crushed to death. Two of Tulyet’s sergeants took her arms, and he saw she was limp and unresisting, squashed
in spirit, as well as in body, as they hauled her away.

‘I said “Peace be with you”,’ said the Archbishop, in response to William’s demand that he repeat himself. Bartholomew glanced
at Islip, and saw the faintest of smiles touching his lips as he regarded the confused crowd. ‘The usual response is for you
all to say that it is also with me.’

‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ said William, bowing absurdly deeply. ‘You spoke English, and I only ever make such responses in Latin.
But I shall make an exception for you.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Islip, now unable to suppress the grin. He raised his hands and appealed to the crowd. ‘Well come
on, then.’

There was a disorganised rumble of voices.

‘No,’ said Islip patiently. ‘You all speak
together
. Loudly and clearly, so I can hear you.’

‘And also with you,’ bawled William, all on his own.

‘Well, that is a start, I suppose,’ said Islip. ‘Now how about the rest of you?’

Scholars, clerics and townsmen alike exchanged bewildered glances, but did as they were told. Then they did it a second and
a third time, until Islip was satisfied. By this time, the beadles had interposed themselves between Lee and his adversaries,
and the antagonism between Dominicans and Michaelhouse had been forgotten in the unprecedented phenomenon of making priestly
responses to an Archbishop in English. The townsfolk were delighted, and began to shout their appreciation. The scholars joined
in, and it was not long before the atmosphere had changed from unease to jubilation.

‘That was clever,’ said Michael admiringly. ‘I heard Islip is a genius, and now I see why he has that reputation. But let
us see to Joan. I want her locked up before she tries any more mischief.’

They edged through the cheering crowd until they reached the soldiers who had arrested her. Bartholomew immediately sensed
something was wrong. He started to run towards them, but stopped abruptly when he saw Tulyet. The Sheriff’s hands were sticky
with blood.

‘Help her, Matt,’ he said.

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to confirm what he already knew just by looking. ‘She is already dead.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

‘Those damned teeth,’ said Tulyet unsteadily. ‘She used them to cut her own throat.’

‘It was all very simple in the end,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat together on the old apple tree in Michaelhouse’s
orchard. Clippesby was with them, and Bartholomew was teaching him to juggle with stones. Michael was chewing on a stick in
an attempt to assuage the pangs of hunger that racked his portly frame. The Visitation had lasted a week – Islip had left
that morning – and Bartholomew was impressed by the way the monk had kept to a rigid dietary regime of his own devising. Michael
had been deeply alarmed by his inability to come to his friend’s rescue in the stationer’s shop, and had taken Brother Thomas’s
warning to heart. He was determined to be slender.

‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby, attempting to juggle and talk at the same time. ‘Joan Gonerby wanted to be a scholar, and completed
a term at Merton College in Oxford, but her husband disapproved. So, with the blessing of a cunning brother, she instigated
a riot that would serve as a way to murder him without anyone knowing what had really happened.’