‘Here is Dick,’ said Michael, as there was a rattle of hoofs on cobbles and the Sheriff cantered up. Both he and his horse showed signs of being in skirmishes, and the knights who rode with him were grim-faced and anxious.
‘For God’s sake, tell no one else about de Wetherset,’ he said curtly. ‘If word gets out that a scholar orchestrated all this mayhem …’
‘We have many bridges to repair,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But it can be done.’
‘I hope you are right. But do you really want Aynton to “help” me while you jaunt off to the Spital?’
‘Not really, so keep him close, and do not turn your back on him for any reason.’
Tulyet regarded him askance. ‘Do not tell me that he is the killer!’
‘I do not know what to think,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Just be careful. And do not forget that the Jacques might take advantage of the unrest to harm the town that killed their friends. They will be used to this sort of turmoil, given their penchant for insurrection.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘And you be careful at the Spital. The peregrini will still be there, because Leger cannot have led them to safety with so many indignant “patriots” milling about outside. I wish I could help you, but my duty lies here.’
‘So does mine,’ said Michael wretchedly. ‘Perhaps I should stay and let Matt–’
‘Go,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘But please come back soon. It will take every good man we can muster if we aim to prevent University and town from wiping each other out permanently.’
Michael dared not take beadles to the Spital, knowing he would be deposed for certain if it emerged that he had left the University vulnerable in order to rescue foreigners. He hurried to the proctors’ cells and gave Heltisle’s Horde a choice: to prove themselves worthy of the uniform they wore or to be charged with affray. Most sneered their contempt for the offer, obviously expecting Heltisle or de Wetherset to pardon them, but half a dozen accepted, one of whom was Perkyn.
‘How do you know they will not turn on us?’ asked Bartholomew, uneasy with such a pack trotting at his heels. ‘Or refuse to obey your orders?’
‘I do not,’ replied the monk. ‘But the sight of an angry Senior Proctor with six “trusty” beadles may make some scholars see sense. It is a forlorn hope, but it is better than nothing.’
They hurried through the Trumpington Gate, Michael wheezing like a winded nag. Then a familiar figure materialised out of the darkness: Cynric. Bartholomew was glad to see him, because Heltisle’s Horde was growing increasingly agitated as they began to understand the dangers that lay ahead of them. Cynric was more likely to prevent them from bolting than him or Michael.
‘You cannot stop what will happen there,’ the book-bearer said, nodding to where the Spital was a pale gold smear in the distance, illuminated eerily by the torches of the besieging force. ‘It will only end with a spillage of French blood.’
‘I am not giving up,’ rasped Michael. ‘Not yet.’
They set off along the Trumpington road, cursing as they stumbled and lurched on its rutted surface. At the Gilbertine Priory, lights blazed from every window and the canons gathered at their gate, distressed by the tumult in a part of the town that was usually peaceful.
‘Brother!’ called Prior John urgently, his huge mouth set in an anxious grimace. ‘I have some things you should see.’
‘Not now,’ gasped Michael. ‘There is trouble at the Spital.’
‘I know,’ said John drily. ‘At least two hundred scholars have stormed past, and we lost count of the number of townsfolk. All were howling about killing Frenchmen.’
‘Please,’ begged Michael, trying to jig around him. ‘We do not have time to–’
‘It concerns Abbess Isabel,’ persisted John, grabbing his arm and shoving a letter at him. ‘She compiled a report for the Bishop, and left it with me two days ago. She told me to read it if anything happened to her. Well, I heard she was dead, so …’
Michael looked from the missive to the Spital, then back again, agonising over what to do. His eyesight was poor in dim light, and it would take him an age to decipher what was written. Seeing his dilemma, Bartholomew took the letter and scanned it quickly.
‘The first part is about Alice,’ he summarised briskly, ‘and contains hard evidence that will see her on trial for theft and witchery. The second half is about the killer.’
‘Which killer?’ demanded Michael. ‘De Wetherset or the one who stabbed Paris and the others?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Who may be Aynton.’
‘Isabel says the key to the mystery is a comb, which was lying next to Paris’s body when she happened across it.’
‘There was no comb at the scene of the crime,’ said Michael. ‘I would have seen it.’
Bartholomew read on. ‘It was familiar, and when she realised where she had seen it before, she fainted in horror. When she came to, the comb had gone. She wanted proof before making accusations, so she charged Alice to steal it so she could look at it more closely. In return, she promised to get Alice reinstated as Prioress of Ickleton.’
‘A promise she had no intention of keeping,’ noted Michael, ‘given the first half of her letter.’
‘Which she justifies with the claim that Alice broke the terms of the agreement by sending her tainted gifts. But that is irrelevant. What matters now is that she says the killer is the owner of the comb.’ Bartholomew looked up. ‘She accuses Prioress Joan.’
‘Then she is wrong,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Perhaps the comb was at the scene of Paris’s murder, and someone did retrieve it while Isabel swooned. However, there is nothing to suggest that Joan is the culprit. It is more likely that someone left it there to incriminate her – someone like Alice, in fact.’
‘That is what Isabel thought at first,’ said Prior John, waving a second letter. ‘Especially when she heard you say that Joan had an alibi for the Spital murders and has promptly promised to identify the murder weapon for you. So Isabel spent two days praying and reflecting in a church, and sent this addendum to her report today.’
Bartholomew read it quickly. ‘She begs the Bishop’s forgiveness for not speaking out at once, but she is now certain that Joan killed Paris and the others. She claims that Joan’s alibi will not stand up to serious scrutiny and urges him to probe it rigorously.’
‘What nonsense!’ snapped Michael. ‘We do not have time for–’
‘I think Isabel might be right,’ interrupted Bartholomew urgently. ‘Goda and Katherine both said that Joan was horrified when she discovered the comb was stolen – more than either would have expected from a woman who cares nothing for trinkets …’
‘She explained why,’ barked Michael. ‘Her horse liked to be groomed with it. Isabel was wrong. Why would Joan hurt Paris? Or any of the victims?’
‘Perhaps she does not like Frenchies,’ suggested Cynric, who had been listening agog. ‘Like lots of right-thinking folk. However, I can tell you that she collected Dusty from our stables about an hour ago, and was very agitated while she did it. I got the impression that something was badly wrong.’
‘It is,’ said Michael tersely. ‘She is in a town that is set to destroy itself and anyone in it. Of course she was agitated – she has her nuns to keep safe.’
‘I saw her not long after that,’ put in Prior John. ‘She told me that she was off to Lyminster, and when I remarked that dusk was an odd time to begin such a long journey, she suggested I mind my own business. Then she galloped away like a whirlwind.’