‘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 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?’