As Polmorva hauled himself out, Bartholomew expected him to be shot, but nothing happened, so he grabbed Michael, who was floundering nearby, and shoved him to where he could reach the hatch. The monk was strong, despite his lard, and his powerful arms propelled him upward as though he were on fire. Bartholomew saw him glance around quickly before leaning into the cistern to help the others. Duraunt went first, followed by Abergavenny, and Bartholomew last.
Of Joan, there was no sign, and Polmorva had also gone. While Michael hunted for them among the trees, Bartholomew knelt next to Duraunt, who was shivering in a crumpled heap on the ground.
‘I recognised her,’ the old man said in a whisper. ‘As soon as she started talking about her crimes, I recognised her as my brilliant young student who disappeared after a term. She looked different here – her hair is longer and darker. But it was she who stole the teeth from me.’
‘Damn those things!’ said Bartholomew. ‘They have caused problems from the moment they were made.’
‘My predecessor had twenty years of pleasure from them,’ objected Duraunt. ‘Do not be so quick to condemn new ideas, Matthew. One day, many ancients may own devices like those, to make their final years more enjoyable.’
‘Never,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘No one will want foreign objects in his mouth while he eats.’
‘It is a case of what you are used to,’ said Duraunt. ‘Your fat friend will not decline a set when he wears out his own and he wants to continue to devour good red meat.’
‘What happened to the tanner?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting they could argue all day and not agree. He was angry with Duraunt for keeping something that should have been destroyed, and for lying to him about the poppy juice. He felt betrayed, but told himself that Duraunt was just a man, not a saint, and that men had human failings.
‘There,’ said Abergavenny, pointing.
Bartholomew scrambled towards him, but could see Wormynghalle was dead. There was a graze on the side of his head, where something had struck his temple. It was not a fatal wound, though: the tanner had died because the chain of his sheep’s-head pendant had caught on the cistern’s pulley and was tight around his neck. He had been stunned, then had hung unconscious while his jewellery deprived him of air. Bartholomew recalled the sharp crack before he had fallen, and glanced around uneasily, wondering whether his words about Spryngheuse’s soul had been prophetic. He was not normally given to superstition, but whatever had happened to Wormynghalle had been uncannily timed. He looked up as someone knelt next to him. It was Clippesby, with Michael looming behind him.
‘You threw me the teeth as I watched what was happening from the trees,’ Clippesby explained. ‘I knew exactly what you wanted me to do. Unfortunately, I missed Joan and hit her brother instead. You probably did not intend me to throw them quite so hard, and I am sorry I killed him.’
‘Well, I am not,’ said Michael fervently. He clapped Clippesby on the shoulder. ‘You and Matt saved us with your quick thinking.’
‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he should have guessed Clippesby was somewhere close by, doing what he did best as he listened to a conversation undetected.
‘Do not be modest,’ said Clippesby. ‘I would not have known what to do without your prompt. I was beginning to think I might have to watch you die, because I have no idea how to confront people with loaded weapons. Such folk are beyond my understanding.’
‘Well, they are not beyond mine,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And I have a feeling Joan is not finished with us yet. She will not be pleased that you killed her brother, and she knows her life as a scholar is over now. I think she will do something dreadful, to ensure she leaves academia with a flourish.’
‘What can she do?’ asked Abergavenny reasonably. ‘If she has any sense, she will jump on one of her brother’s horses and leave while she can.’
‘Polmorva took them all,’ said Clippesby. ‘I saw him tearing along Merton Lane as if the hounds of Hell were after him. He is not a brave man, and his only thoughts were for his own safety once he was free. But it means Joan cannot go anywhere, because she has no transport.’
‘Why did Polmorva run?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is not in league with Wormynghalle, is he?’
‘Probably because he saw at first hand the trouble murders can bring,’ replied Duraunt enigmatically.
Michael frowned. ‘What are you saying? That he has it in mind to commit one of his own?’
‘I suspect he has been put off by the chaos they cause,’ replied Duraunt, still annoyingly obtuse. He relented when he saw Michael’s stern expression, realising the time for prevarication was over. ‘You are not the only one with whom he has a feud, Matthew. I am fairly sure he had planned to put an end to the Master of Queen’s, so he could be elected in his place.’
‘Is that why you brought him here?’ asked Michael. ‘Not because you had developed a friendship with the man, but because you were hoping to prevent a crime?’
‘It worked,’ said Duraunt with a tired smile. ‘I think he will be so grateful to reach home unscathed after this escapade that he will count his blessings, and think of less permanent ways to rid himself of rivals.’
‘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 col
leagues 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 ar
ms, 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.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 43