Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘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.