Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘There is always that nosy child,’ said ‘the witch’. ‘Perhaps his mother will bring him home from the Archbishop’s parade early, but perhaps she will not. At least you have a chance of life down there. You will die for certain if I shoot you.’ She waved her bow to indicate that Bartholomew and Michael were to join the Oxford men.

‘No,’ said Michael. His voice was unsteady and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘I am not going in there again. Loose an arrow at me if you will, but I will not jump in the pit.’

‘I will not shoot you,’ she said softly, swinging her bow round to point at Bartholomew. ‘I will kill your friend. You do not want him to die because you decline to obey a simple instruction, do you?’

‘Why are you doing this, Alyce?’ asked Michael, desperately trying to buy time in the distant hope that Langelee might bring Tulyet to scour Merton Hall’s grounds for the missing Clippesby. But Bartholomew knew Tulyet and Langelee thought the killer intended to strike at the Archbishop, and would never abandon their duties protecting him to engage in a search a mile away from the Visitation. ‘Are you this wolf, who kills with metal teeth?’

‘How is it that you think you know my name?’ she demanded in her turn.

‘Your veil does not hide your eyes,’ replied Michael. ‘What are you hoping to achieve by condemning us to such a dreadful death? To run off with Langelee? I can tell you now that he will not go. He likes being Master of Michaelhouse, and has already annulled one marriage to ensure he can continue. You will never be more than something pleasant to occupy his spare time.’

‘Shut up and get in the well,’ she ordered, beginning to draw on her bow. Her aim was unwavering, and Bartholomew was under no illusions of survival once she had loosed the thing.

He glanced inside the cistern, and saw water lapping not far from the top. Abergavenny was struggling to hold Duraunt high enough for him to breathe, while Eu and Polmorva were gasping and retching. It was an ugly way to go, and he knew Polmorva was right: they could shout and scream all they liked, but no one would hear them, particularly on the day of the Visitation, where every soul was watching the ecclesiastical pageant and cheering at the top of his voice.

Michael edged towards the hatch, and threw Bartholomew an agonised glance. The monk swallowed hard, and Bartholomew saw he was shaking as he sat slowly on the well’s low wall.

‘Where is Wormynghalle?’ the monk asked, lifting one leg so it trailed in the water. He could not prevent a shudder as wetness lapped across his foot. ‘Has he escaped? If so, then he will raise the alarm. Give yourself up, before any more damage is done.’

‘Wormynghalle is fetching horses,’ said Polmorva, shivering partly from the cold, but mostly from fear. He also saw the advantage of talking, to keep the hatch open for as long as possible. ‘For their escape. They are in this together.’

‘Wormynghalle and her ?’ asked Michael in surprise.

Eu spat water from his mouth. ‘The tanner is too recently rich to be trustworthy. I should never have agreed to travel with such a man – such a killer. ’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, making no move to jump. ‘Are you saying Wormynghalle murdered Gonerby, Okehamptone and Hamecotes?’

‘I witnessed Gonerby’s death,’ said Polmorva, coughing as Abergavenny tried to find a better way to hold Duraunt, and the water was churned into waves that slopped into his face. ‘The killer was not Wormynghalle, because I would have recognised his shape. But it could have been that witch. The villain wore a cloak with a hood, but he was the right size and height to have been her.’

‘Then it is good you will not live to tell anyone about it,’ she said coldly. ‘But you knew little to put us at risk. My brother and I never had anything to fear from you.’

‘Your brother?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘You are Wormynghalle’s sister? But he is too fat and pig-like to be related to you.’

‘Insult me again and I shall shoot you myself,’ came another voice from the path. The woman did not look around, but moved to one side as Wormynghalle came to stand by her side. They exchanged a brief glance, and Bartholomew saw with a sinking heart that the tanner also held a bow.

‘I might have known your motives were sinister,’ said Eu in disgust. ‘An upstart family like yours can know no honour. You are two of a kind – ambitious, greedy and cowardly.’

Wormynghalle raised his bow, his face flushed with fury, but his sister poked him with her elbow, and indicated he was to lower his weapon. Bartholomew was astonished that an aggressive, confident man like Wormynghalle should take orders from a woman, but she was most definitely the one in charge. The tanner hesitated for a moment, then trained the bow on Michael. His sister’s, meanwhile, had never wavered from Bartholomew.

‘We leave today,’ she said. ‘I can do no more in Cambridge, and it is time to go home. Now, for the last time, get in the cistern.’

Michael lifted his other leg over the wall. ‘I cannot swim.’

‘Then you will die quickly,’ she replied.

The water was now very near the top of the well, and Eu, appalled by the grim death that awaited him, decided to take matters into his own hands. Claiming that only Wormynghalles should die like rats, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and started to heave himself out, legs flailing as he fought to gain purchase. Michael scrambled out of the way as both Wormynghalle and his sister brought their bows to bear on the escaping merchant.

‘Cover Bartholomew,’ she snapped, when the physician, taking advantage of the diversion, ran several steps forward, intending to disarm at least one of them. Wormynghalle obeyed and Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the determined expression on the tanner’s face.

‘You will not kill me,’ said Eu, continuing to climb. ‘And I am weary of this charade. When I return to Oxford and report this matter to the burgesses, none of your ignoble clan will ever–’

There was a hiss and a thud. Eu gasped as the arrow struck him in the chest. He gazed down at it in disbelief, then looked up at Wormynghalle before toppling backwards. There was a splash as he hit the water and sank out of sight. Neither Abergavenny nor Polmorva made any attempt to retrieve the body, while Duraunt began to pray in a frail, weak voice. Meanwhile, Eu’s executioner snatched another missile from her quiver and set it in the bow before anyone could do more than stare in horror.

‘Who will be next?’ she asked, backing away, so she would have plenty of time to notch another arrow, if necessary. ‘Abergavenny?’

The Welshman said nothing, but clutched harder at Duraunt. Bartholomew had assumed it was to keep the old man’s head above the water, but now he realised Duraunt was being used as a shield. Duraunt, already resigned to his fate, looked as if he did not care.

‘Now move,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘Hurry, or I shall shoot you where you stand, and you will have no chance of life at all.’

‘We have none anyway,’ said Polmorva piteously, as Michael sat, very slowly, on the cistern wall and lifted the first of his large legs over it again. ‘The Archbishop’s parade will go on for hours, and every man, woman and child will be watching it. Even if someone does walk along the towpath, he will not hear us, because of the trumpets and shouting.’

Wormynghalle shrugged. ‘A small chance is better than none.’

‘You said you could do no more in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the cold eyes glittering over the veil. He felt sick when the last piece of the puzzle fell into place: he had finally recognised them. ‘But you are not talking about murder. You are talking about your scholarly work.’