The Sanctuary Murders

Epilogue

It was surprisingly easy for Michael and Tulyet to restore the peace following the events at the Spital. Word spread fast that Satan had appeared in the form of blazing Death, and most people fled to the churches, where their priests urged them to pray for deliverance.

Once they had begged the Almighty for mercy, few felt like risking His wrath by indulging in another skirmish. They emerged subdued when dawn broke the following morning, and most went about their business quietly, lest they attracted the wrong kind of attention. A few hotheads declined to give up, but Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers quickly rounded them up and locked them away until their tempers cooled.

As soon as it was light enough to see, Bartholomew and Michael went to look for Joan, to retrieve her body before anyone guessed the truth and decided to resume the assault on the Spital. They found her by the side of the road, still smouldering, but identifiable by her size and the Lyminster ring-seal on her finger. They also found Dusty. The horse had managed to throw his rider before she had done him any serious harm, after which he found a quiet woodland glade and began to denude it of grass.

Joan’s nuns collected her charred remains, and arranged to take them home. Michael could not imagine how they would explain what had happened to her in their official report – he was not sure what to say in his own. Magistra Katherine assumed command, and seemed much more comfortable in the role than Joan had ever been.

Leger and his two cronies did not get far either. Their plan had been to ride straight to the King and denounce Tulyet as a traitor, but the road south was so badly rutted that they were forced to dismount and walk. The call to arms meant the whole country was alert for suspicious activities, and three warriors slinking along in the dark shocked the villagers of nearby Trumpington into action. The next day, they presented a trio of arrow-studded corpses to Tulyet, and informed him that the French army was now minus three of its spies.

Bartholomew returned to his teaching, determined his lads would learn all they could humanly absorb in the last few weeks of term. At the end of one busy day, he went to the orchard to read his lecture notes ready for the following morning. An apple tree had fallen years before, and provided a comfortable bench for anyone wanting peace and quiet. The sun was low in the sky, sending a warm orange glow over the town, and the air smelled of scythed grass and summer herbs. Michael joined him there.

‘I am keeping Dusty,’ the monk announced. ‘He should have a rider worthy of him.’

‘I suppose he deserves some reward for carrying “Satan” away from the Spital,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Cynric adores him for it, so he will certainly be well looked after here.’

‘Yelling that Joan was the Devil was impressively quick thinking on his part,’ said Michael. ‘Such a ruse would never have occurred to me. It saved our lives.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘It was not a ruse – he believed it. Thank God for superstition!’

‘I had a letter from Father Julien today,’ said Michael, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to feel the setting sun on his cheeks. ‘The nuns of Ickleton were delighted to accommodate him and his flock in exchange for me ridding them of Alice. The peregrini are safe now.’

‘But for how long?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Perhaps another mob, buoyed up by ignorance and misguided patriotism, will assemble, and they will be forced to run again.’

‘Ickleton is well off the beaten track, and no one ever goes there. They will live dull but peaceful lives eking a living from the land. Julien says they are all grateful and very happy.’

‘Even Delacroix? I cannot see him being content to wield a spade for long.’

Michael smiled. ‘He also mistook Joan for Satan and plans to take the cowl – to make amends for all the vile things he did in the Jacquerie. Incidentally, it was conscience that brought him and his friends back to the Spital that night – they realised it was wrong to leave the others alone, so they returned to help them.’

‘The Spital,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘What will happen to it now? It is only a question of time before someone decides to punish Tangmer and his family for hiding Frenchmen.’

‘The Tangmers have made their peace with a public apology and an offer of free treatment for all local lunatics. As no one knows when such a boon might come in useful, both the town and the University have promised to leave them unmolested.’

‘A public apology?’ echoed Bartholomew in disgust. ‘For offering sanctuary to people fleeing persecution? We should commend their compassion, not force them to say sorry.’

‘It was an expedient solution, Matt. Besides, Tangmer’s motives were not entirely altruistic. It transpired that he charged the peregrini a fortune for the privilege of hiding with him, although Amphelisa still labours under the illusion that they paid a pittance.’

They were silent for a while, thinking about Joan and the havoc she had wrought with her warped pursuit of vengeance. Eventually, Bartholomew spoke.

‘So she stabbed Paris, Bonet, the Girard family, Bruges and Sauvage with blades left behind after the raid on Winchelsea, although Bruges was from Flanders and Sauvage just happened to have an unlucky name. Then she dispatched Goda to ensure her silence, and aimed to murder the peregrini and the entire Tangmer clan in the chapel.’

‘And de Wetherset brained Wyse to “prove” that I am incapable of keeping the peace. Orwel guessed it was him from what he learned in the Griffin, so de Wetherset murdered him as well. And I sealed poor Abbess Isabel’s fate by claiming that she could identify the culprit.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘His actions beggar belief! What will happen to him?’

‘I sent him to Ely, to face an ecclesiastical court. Unfortunately, he hit Meadowman over the head with a stone and escaped en route.’

Bartholomew regarded him in dismay. ‘Meadowman is dead?’

‘No, thank God – just very embarrassed. I imagine de Wetherset will flee the country now. It is unfortunate, but at least his exploits will never become public, as they would with a trial. The town would go to war with us in a second if they ever learned the full extent of what he did.’

‘And Heltisle is dead, of course. He bled to death after de Wetherset slashed his arm. I could have saved him, but he refused to let me.’

‘You were right about Aynton, much as it irks me to admit it. Since the crisis, he has worked tirelessly for peace, and has done much to soothe ragged tempers.’

‘Will you summon Suttone back now? His resignation must be invalid, given that Heltisle forced him out by sly means.’

‘I offered to reinstate him, but he wrote to say that he is happier away from the turbulent world of University politics. He told me the nature of Heltisle’s threat, by the way: a promise to fabricate evidence “proving” that Michaelhouse is full of heretics.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why did either of them think people would believe such an outrageous claim?’

‘Because Heltisle intended to base his allegations on your controversial approach to medicine, Clippesby’s mad relationship with animals, William’s worrisome fanaticism, and my association with a bishop of dubious morality. It would have been extremely difficult for us to refute his charges, given how cunningly he aimed to weave truth with lies.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘I see.’

‘But as regards a new Chancellor, Aynton has agreed to take advice from me, so I have arranged for him to be elected next week. I think he and I will do well together.’

Bartholomew was torn between amusement and despair. They had been through hell because some scholars felt Michael had accrued too much power, and now there was to be yet another of his puppets on the throne. Nothing had changed except some new graves in the churchyards. It all seemed so futile.

‘Will you appoint a new Junior Proctor to replace Theophilis?’ he asked.

‘Eventually. I suppose I should have been suspicious of someone with such a glorious name. “Loved by God” indeed!’

‘Aungel thinks he chose it himself,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a conversation held when the Junior Proctor had been writing down other scholars’ opinions about Clippesby’s thesis, almost certainly with a view to passing them off as his own.

‘Aungel is right – Theophilis’ real name is John Clippesby, and – irony of ironies – he changed it because he did not want to be confused with a lunatic. But in his defence, he did not steal the letter you wrote to me outlining Norbert’s confession, and he was innocent of betraying me to the triumvirate.’

‘So who did take the letter?’

‘No one – it had fallen behind my desk. But trying to filch Clippesby’s ideas was a low thing to have done, like snatching sweetmeats from a baby.’

‘Not entirely. It transpires that Theophilis is the one who was taken advantage of – every time Clippesby mentioned a text that he thought might be relevant, Theophilis raced off to read it. Then he reported back on what he had learned, thus saving Clippesby the trouble of ploughing through it himself.’

Michael laughed. ‘And Clippesby certainly bested Heltisle over selling his treatise. Bene’t College insists on honouring the contract, in the hope that we will overlook the fact that their erstwhile Master tried to cheat the University’s favourite genius.’

They were silent for a while, each thinking about the events that had so very nearly destroyed the University and the town that housed it. Then Bartholomew brightened.

‘I had a letter today. Matilde and my sister are coming home tomorrow. I have missed them both.’

Michael smiled contentedly. ‘So all is well at last. You are to be reunited with your loved ones, I shall soon have another malleable Chancellor, all the nuns have gone home, I now own a magnificent horse, and Michaelhouse prospers beyond its wildest dreams.’

‘It does?’

‘The Pope has given the Chicken Debate his seal of approval, so the demand for copies will soar. Not only will we be paid every time one is sold, but we are on the verge of international fame. It is high time – our College is a good place, and I am glad its future is assured. You may be leaving us, but we will survive.’

Bartholomew was delighted to hear it.

* * *

De Wetherset was not really equipped for life as a fugitive in the Fens. He had grown soft and fat from easy living in the University, and hated sleeping in the open like a beggar. But it was better than being paraded as a criminal, as he was sure that Michael had amassed more than enough evidence to see him convicted by the Bishop’s court.

He grimaced. He had been right to try to claw power back from the monk, although he realised now that he should have done it gradually, rather than racing at the problem like a bull at a fence. But he had been impatient for change, and ever since his pilgrimage to Walsingham, he had been imbued with great energy and ambition.

Now all his plans lay in ashes, and he was not sure what to do. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to avenge himself, but he had no idea how to go about it. Should he slip back to reignite the trouble between University and town that he had so carefully stoked up? Or go to Avignon, to give the Pope his own version of events?

He winced as he moved the foot that his so-called friend Heltisle had stabbed. He had refused to let Bartholomew examine it again, preferring instead to hire Doctor Rougham. Bartholomew had warned Rougham that slivers of the pen might still be in the wound, but Rougham had scoffed his disagreement. Unfortunately, Bartholomew had been right, because the wound was festering and it hurt like the Devil.

That night, de Wetherset fell into a fever, and when a Fenland fisherman found him two days later, he was gibbering in delirium. The fisherman had heard that the Spital took local lunatics in for free, so he carried him there on his boat. Tangmer and Amphelisa accepted the new arrival politely, and rewarded the good Samaritan with a bowl of stew and a penny. The fisherman went away, happy in the belief that he had done the right thing.

‘Well?’ asked Tangmer, staring down at the writhing, gabbling ex-Chancellor. ‘Here lies the author of all our troubles. Should we help him or let him die?’

‘We should help him,’ said Amphelisa. ‘But he will never fully recover from the madness that afflicts him now, so we shall instal him in our most secure cell. Later, when his fever abates, he will doubtless claim that he is sane, but all lunatics do that, do they not?’

Tangmer blinked. ‘You mean we should keep him here for ever? Locked up like a dangerous madman?’

‘He is a dangerous madman. Why else would he have killed Wyse, Orwel and Abbess Isabel, or stirred up hatred between his University and the town – hatred that almost saw us destroyed? This is the best place for him, husband, and we shall keep everyone safe from his wicked machinations for as long as he breathes.’

‘Well, then,’ said Tangmer softly. ‘Let us hope he lives for a very long time.’