‘Yes, probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘The University thought it was a case of self-defence, and was willing to look the other way when you escaped into the Fens. Why did you come back?’
‘I fled to London, where I joined the Carmelites to atone for my crime,’ replied Willelmus miserably. ‘But they transferred me to Cambridge five years ago, to help in the scriptorium here. Fortunately, no one recognised me, and I took care to stay inside the friary as much as possible. But then Sheriff Tulyet demanded a scribe for the taxes …’
‘Which necessitated coming to the castle,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Where someone did recognise you. No wonder you have been driving Dick so hard! You itch to be safe back inside your sanctuary again.’
‘I was accosted as I walked home one night,’ said Willelmus, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘By a fellow who had been on the jury. He said he would tell Prior Etone my real name unless I did as I was ordered. Yet I have tried to make amends for John Ayce’s death! People will see the letters I drew, and will admire the chickens. They are my way of honouring the man I …’
‘I want the juror’s name,’ said Michael. He sighed irritably when Willelmus looked frightened again. ‘Your secret is out now, and you have confessed to it. The worst has already happened, so what more do you have to lose?’
‘I did not know what the raiders intended,’ bleated Willelmus. ‘I swear it! They just asked questions, and I answered. Besides, this is a big fortress – I assumed it could defend itself.’
‘The juror’s name,’ repeated Michael between gritted teeth.
‘Ayera terrifies me,’ replied Willelmus, more tears sprouting.
‘I am sure he does, but he was not on the jury. Now tell me the truth.’
‘You are right,’ said Willelmus with sudden resolve. ‘I have no more to lose, and it is time I faced up to my past. I will tell you the name, but I want to speak to Ayce first, to explain …’
‘He will not listen,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He believes his son was brutally murdered, and you are unlikely to convince him otherwise. Moreover, he is a warrior who is eager to die. It will be dangerous for you.’
‘I will be dead when I tell you what I know anyway,’ said Willelmus with quiet dignity. ‘But I want to make my peace with Ayce first.’
Bartholomew thought it was a bad idea to bring Ayce face to face with his son’s killer, but Willelmus was adamant, and Michael was eager to have the information he held. So was Tulyet, when the situation was explained to him.
‘It is irregular, but I suppose we can oblige,’ he said. ‘But answer me one thing first, Willelmus: how did you come by your limp? You claimed you fell down the stairs in the dark. Is it true, or did you grab a sword and fight for these damned marauders?’
That notion coaxed a reluctant smile to Willelmus’s pale face, and he pulled up his robe to reveal a badly swollen ankle. ‘I did fall down the stairs, but not in the dark. My eyesight …’
‘He is going blind,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet. ‘Etone intends to make him Girton’s parish priest soon, so that he will have to give up scribing in the hope of saving what little vision he has left.’
‘And I would have been miserable,’ said Willelmus softly. ‘Perhaps it is better this way.’
Tulyet led the way to the dungeon, Willelmus walking between Michael and Sergeant Helbye, dwarfed by both. Bartholomew brought up the rear, convinced they were making a mistake. Ayce was unstable, and he could not see him or Willelmus benefiting from the confrontation.
Ayce stood when the door to his cell was opened, mystified by the arrival of visitors, none of whom spoke as they parted to let Willelmus through. He stared in confusion at the scribe, but then recognition dawned, and his face registered a gamut of emotions – shock, horror and finally rage.
‘You mean to torment me by bringing my son’s killer here?’ he snarled. Bartholomew braced himself to intervene, but Tulyet grabbed his arm and held him back.
‘He wants to talk to you,’ explained Michael. ‘To tell you what happened.’
‘I already know what happened,’ shouted Ayce, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Take him away. I do not want to look at him.’
‘I have been living in terror of recognition every day for the past five years,’ whispered Willelmus. ‘I rarely leave my priory …’
‘I do not care,’ yelled Ayce. ‘You may be a friar now, but you are still a killer.’
‘Wait, Matt!’ hissed Tulyet, when the physician tried a second time to reach for the scribe. ‘The sooner Willelmus says his piece, the sooner we can have the information he–’
‘John deserved to die!’ screamed Willelmus suddenly, lunging forward. ‘He was a mindless, bullying, self-serving brute. I could have lived happily here, were it not for your bitter ramblings. The pair of you destroyed my life.’
Bartholomew fought free of Tulyet’s restraining grip, but it was too late. Willelmus had a knife, and had thrust it into Ayce’s chest before the astonished onlookers could stop him. Helbye reacted instinctively. His sword flashed and Willelmus dropped to the ground, even as Tulyet yelled for him to stop. Bartholomew shoved past the sergeant, and went to kneel next to Ayce – he did not need to examine Willelmus to know that he was beyond help.
‘You see?’ Ayce whispered weakly. ‘Hildersham was a killer, and felt no remorse. He would have claimed benefit of clergy a second time, had your soldier not acted.’
‘He spent his life drawing your son’s initials in books,’ said Bartholomew, confused and uncertain. ‘And chickens. He said it was to honour John’s memory.’
‘I doubt his motives were pure,’ breathed Ayce. ‘Still, at least fear of exposure seems to have tainted the freedom he should never have had. Some justice was served, at least.’
‘This should not have happened.’ Bartholomew tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound in Ayce’s chest, but it was hopeless.
‘You were kind to me, so I shall tell you something,’ whispered Ayce, almost inaudible. ‘You should look to your own house if you want to identify the raiders. Ayera was with us.’
It was not long before his laboured breathing faltered into silence. Bartholomew stood, sickened and angry by what had been allowed to happen.
‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Tulyet helplessly. ‘I thought the danger would come from Ayce, and it never occurred to me to search Willelmus for weapons. But why did he do it? Surely, only a fool or a madman would commit murder in front of the Sheriff?’
‘Because he had nothing to lose,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly. ‘His days at the scriptorium were numbered because of his failing eyesight, and Prior Etone intended to send him to Girton. But who lives in Girton? The Ayce family.’
‘I feel as though I have been used,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘By Willelmus and by Ayce – two men who would rather their blood was on my hands than face what their own futures held.’
‘Willelmus pretended to be meek, but he was anything but,’ said Helbye in the silence that followed. ‘Some of the lads were fooling about the other day, teasing him, and he grabbed a sword and drove them back like a lion. It is why I did not hesitate when I saw he had a dagger.’
‘You did the right thing,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘He might have turned on us after dispatching Ayce. Unfortunately, we are now deprived of two men who had valuable information.’
‘You can find the name of the juror from court records,’ said Bartholomew. He was thoughtful. ‘However, I suspect the man who really terrified him into a swoon was Ayce. In other words, he fainted from shock when he saw his victim’s father.’