‘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.’
EPILOGUE
‘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.’