The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 12

‘Horneby is Odelina’s accomplice?’ echoed Michael, gaping at Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Impossible! He is a theologian.’

‘And theologians are incapable of murder?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity, because I admire him. However, he is certainly clever enough to have masterminded all this mayhem – he has one of the best minds in the University.’

‘I barely recognised him when he attacked me,’ said Meryfeld, looking from one to the other as he tried to understand what they were talking about. ‘His face was twisted, and I am surprised he did not kill me. In fact, I think he might have done, had he not been in such a hurry.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and he quickly organised his beadles into two groups: those who would march Heslarton and his henchmen to the gaol, and those who would police the camp-ball. Bartholomew used the brief respite to rest. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the agitated churning in his stomach.

The day was bitterly cold, with grey clouds scudding overhead and a brisk northerly breeze that cut straight through his clothes. Would it cut through the spectators’ clothes, too, he wondered, and encourage them to leave the game and head for the warmth of home? He jumped when he became aware that someone was behind him. It was Gyseburne, and Thelnetham was with him.

‘You look terrible,’ said Gyseburne, peering into his face. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was not going to demand a urine sample. ‘What ails you?’

‘Yet another sleepless night, I expect,’ said Thelnetham, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘They seem to be an occupational hazard at Michaelhouse – none of us have had proper rest in days.’

‘There is no reason for you to have been disturbed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Thelnetham was not a physician or a senior proctor, so should have been sleeping like a baby.

Thelnetham regarded him oddly. ‘It is hard to relax when half the College has no roof and our protective gates have been missing. And I am–’

He broke off when Welfry approached at a run. The Dominican’s face was pale.

‘Have you seen Horneby?’ he asked urgently. ‘He raced out of his friary as though the Devil was on his tail earlier. Moreover, he has burned his notes for the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. It is inexplicable behaviour, and I fear he may not be completely recovered from his recent illness.’

Meryfeld explained briefly what had been done to him, but before Welfry could respond, Michael shouted that he was ready and that he needed volunteers to help him at the camp-ball game. Welfry, Thelnetham and Gyseburne were among those who rallied to his call, but Meryfeld muttered something about visiting a patient and slunk off in the opposite direction.

‘What are we hoping to prevent, exactly?’ asked Thelnetham, after Michael had given a short account of all that had happened, and they were marching along the High Street towards the Gilbertine Priory.

‘Trouble,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We do not know what form it might take, so you must all be vigilant for the unusual. All I know is that it must be stopped.’

‘Had I known Cambridge was going to be this turbulent, I would never have left York,’ muttered Gyseburne to himself.

‘I do not believe any of this,’ whispered Welfry, his amiable face grey with shock and grief. ‘You are mistaken. Horneby would never do anything so terrible.’

‘Yet he has,’ said Michael roughly. ‘The evidence is overwhelming.’

‘It is circumstantial,’ argued Welfry loyally. ‘And he would never…’ He trailed off uneasily.

‘What?’ demanded Michael.

For a moment, Bartholomew thought the Dominican would refuse to answer, but then Welfry began to speak.

‘Odelina,’ he said in a choked whisper. He would not look at Michael. ‘He told me he thought her a fine woman. She harboured a fancy for me, you see, and I asked his advice on how best to repel her. I thought he was in jest when he said he admired her, to make me feel better…’

‘But he was in earnest,’ finished Michael. ‘What else can you tell me, Welfry? And please do not hold back. I know you and Horneby are friends, but lives are at stake here. Do you have any notion of what he might be planning?’

Welfry’s face was an agony of conflict. ‘He has been reading a lot of books on alchemy of late, and I think his throat trouble began after an experiment with powerful substances…’

‘We must hurry, said Michael grimly. ‘Whatever he is plotting, we cannot let him succeed.’

Welfry was stunned, shaking his head as he walked. ‘There will be an explanation for all this, and Horneby will be exonerated. Then we will feel terrible for thinking such dreadful things about a man whose decency and goodness are beyond question.’

While he continued in this vein to anyone who would listen, Thelnetham fell into step beside Bartholomew, and offered a hand when the physician stumbled over an uneven cobble. He removed a phial from his pouch.

‘Drink this. You will need your strength if we are to avert a catastrophe.’

‘What is it?’

‘A tonic for vitality that Gyseburne gave me. Go on. It will do you good.’

It was a measure of Bartholomew’s debility that he took the concoction without thinking twice about it. It tasted foul, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But the sensation passed, and he was left feeling no worse than he had been before.

‘I was summoned to tend Dickon this morning, because you were unavailable,’ said Gyseburne, striding on his other side. ‘He tried to burgle Celia Drax’s house, and cut his knee on the window.’

‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as a sudden, awful thought began to take shape in his head. ‘And Horneby has been reading books on alchemy! Oh, no! Surely…’

‘What?’ asked Thelnetham uneasily. ‘What have you reasoned?’

‘Dickon must have talked about the compound we created,’ said Bartholomew, as his stomach began to churn in horror. ‘The one that burns, but that cannot be extinguished.’

‘Yes, he has,’ agreed Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘I have heard him myself. What of it?’

‘Did Meryfeld mention anything missing after Horneby had burst into his home?’ demanded Bartholomew urgently.

‘He said the cauldron we used to make our lamp-fuel was gone, along with some pitch, quicklime and brimstone.’ Gyseburne paled when he understood what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘You believe Horneby intends to use that vile abomination at the camp-ball? No! It is too terrible, and he is a friar! He would never…’

‘I think he might,’ said Bartholomew soberly. Was it his imagination, or had Thelnetham’s tonic given him a sudden burst of energy? Or was it simply the challenge of preventing such a terrible atrocity that filled him with strength and determination?

It was not long before they reached the camp-ball field, and Bartholomew was horrified by the size of the crowd that had gathered – it was far larger than the one for the game between the Carmelites and the Gilbertines. Those who were scholars had formed themselves into blocks, some sporting red banners that declared them members of hostels, and others carrying blue for the Colleges or convents. Red was by far the dominant colour, although it did not deter the blue from bellowing insults and abuse.

Bartholomew’s heart sank further still when he saw the factions were separated by groups of the kind of townsman who enjoyed rough sport. If there was any off-the-field skirmishing, they would join in, and the trouble would escalate to the point where Tulyet’s soldiers and Michael’s beadles would be unable to control it. Then the peace they had enjoyed for the past few weeks would be shattered, and town and University would be back at each other’s throats again.

There was an enthusiastic roar from the crowd as the teams trotted on to the field. Bartholomew was appalled when he saw how many students had elected to play. There were at least sixty on each side, and many were lads who had already been involved in the rivalry – Essex, Maud’s, Batayl and Cosyn’s hostels, along with King’s Hall, Gonville and Valence Marie for the Colleges.

‘No one from Michaelhouse, thank God,’ said Michael, following the direction of his gaze. ‘Although our students are among the supporters, and will join in any fight that starts.’

Bartholomew watched Kendale, smug and arrogant in his capacity of organiser, stroll on to the field after the players amid a chorus of cheers from the hostels. This was immediately countered by boos and hisses from the Colleges, and Bartholomew saw the smile slip a little.

‘Mingle,’ Michael ordered his beadles and volunteers, as Kendale beckoned the competitors forward and began to outline the rules. ‘Look for Horneby, and listen for any fighting talk. And if you succeed in either, come to me – do not attempt to tackle it on your own. You will almost certainly fail, and then Horneby will have his riot.’

They hurried away to do as they were told. Bartholomew aimed for a large contingent of Carmelites, huddled in their cloaks and shivering in the cold. Their hoods were up, shielding their faces, and it occurred to him that it was the perfect place for Horneby to hide. But when he arrived, and they turned to greet him, he saw the young friar was not among them. Etone was, though, looking old, drawn and tired.

‘Have you seen Horneby?’ Bartholomew demanded.

As one, the Carmelites shook their heads. ‘Not since dawn,’ said one. ‘When Prior Etone announced that he was well enough to resume his duties.’

Etone regarded the physician with a bleak expression, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would ever recover from the loss of his relic.

There was another cheer as the two teams separated and the Indifferent Man took up position. The honour had been awarded to Chancellor Tynkell, who was puffed up with pride – until he realised what the appointment entailed, at which point he began to look frightened. Panicked into resourcefulness, he effected a powerful dropkick, which propelled the ball away from him. The players veered after it, leaving him to depart the field with his dignity intact.

Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle and looked around desperately, wondering where Horneby might be. He spotted Rougham, appointed Official Physician for the day. The Gonville medicus looked stately and confident in his academic robes, although his hubris faded when the first two players limped from the field with deep cuts.

‘Help me, Bartholomew,’ he commanded, regarding the wounds in distaste. ‘Kendale said this game was not to be savage-camp, so there would be no serious injuries. I would not have accepted the commission had I known there would be blood involved.’

‘Have you seen Horneby?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the order.

‘Yes – haring towards Edmund House just a few moments ago,’ replied Rougham, gesturing to the derelict building on the far side of the pitch. ‘But never mind him. I need your expertise, because these wounds need stitching.’

‘Then stitch,’ suggested Bartholomew shortly, forgetting Michael’s warning about not tackling the villain alone as he began to run around the edge of the field.

Progress was not easy. Bartholomew wore no red or blue ribbon to declare his allegiance, but this attracted aggravation from both sides. He was shoved, jostled, tripped and prodded the whole way around, and each time he stumbled, he felt more of his energy leach away. It felt like an age before he reached the house and staggered around it until he found the door. He opened it gingerly, and stepped inside, immediately aware of the stale, earthy aroma of neglect. He listened intently, trying to hear where Horneby might be, but the shouts and cheers from the field drowned out any sounds the friar might be making.

The ground floor looked as though no one had been in it since the plague, with its curtains of cobwebs, crumbling plaster and mildew-encrusted walls. A flight of stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew was astonished to find furnished. Grimly, he supposed Celia had declined to romp in a ruin, and had obliged Heslarton to provide her with some basic comforts.

He pushed open the first door, alert for any sign that Horneby was waiting to ambush him, but the room was empty. Heart pounding, he did the same to the second, and saw someone lying on the floor.

It was Horneby, blood seeping into his hair from a wound on the side of his head. Bewildered, Bartholomew eased him on to his back, watching his eyes flutter open as he was moved. The injury was nasty, but not life threatening. However, someone had hit him extremely hard.

‘Bartholomew,’ Horneby breathed. ‘You have to stop him!’

‘Stop who?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘The loss of life will be terrible,’ Horneby went on weakly, ‘and I tried to persuade him to abandon it, but he outwitted me. Odelina must be his lover.’

‘His lover?’ echoed Bartholomew stupidly, wishing his wits were sharper.

‘Yes, although it is hard to believe he would break his vows for such a woman.’ Horneby shot Bartholomew a sheepish glance. ‘Being such close friends, we sometimes discussed ladies. I said Odelina was too venal for my tastes, and he agreed. He lied to me!’

‘You mean Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew, his mind a dazed whirl. ‘But he rejected her advances. I saw it myself.’

Horneby swallowed hard. ‘He did not reject them earlier today. He has captured her heart, and she is like clay in his hands. He knows enough of romantic ballads to understand what will tie her to him. How could I have been so blind?’

‘Odelina is Welfry’s accomplice? But…’

But it was certainly possible, Bartholomew thought, as he trailed off. Welfry was handsome and witty, and Odelina was not the sort of woman to let priestly vows stand in the way of what she wanted. Moreover, Welfry might well have been the fleet-footed thief in the yellow wig whom Bartholomew had chased along the High Street – far more likely than the heavier, slower Horneby.

‘St Simon Stock’s scapular,’ he said, answers coming in blinding flashes. ‘The three thieves I saw making off with it must have been Welfry, Heslarton and Odelina. Welfry often visits you there, so knows better than most how to escape through your grounds. Clearly, he failed with his first attempt to snatch a piece of it, so he recruited them to help him make off with the whole thing.’

‘No!’ cried Horneby in a strangled voice that eerily echoed Welfry’s distress earlier. ‘He would not have taken my priory’s most valuable possession.’

‘Meryfeld’s cauldron,’ said Bartholomew, moving to a more urgent matter. ‘Did Welfry order you to lay hold of it?’

‘Yes! Dickon had mentioned it to him. He told me that if I grabbed it we could prevent it from being used on innocent people. I did as he suggested, eager to help avert an outrage. But when I presented it to him, he promptly passed it to Heslarton. I suspected then that something was wrong.’

‘Why did you not report it to Michael or his beadles?’

‘Because Welfry is the University’s Seneschal,’ explained Horneby in despair. ‘The man who calmed a potentially bloody situation outside King’s Hall this morning. Who would believe me? I decided to follow him instead, in an affort to learn exactly what he thinks he is doing. He came here, and shortly afterwards, Odelina arrived.’

‘Then what?’

‘She told him you knew almost everything about their plan. He merely smiled, and said he had acquired enough signacula at last, although he did not say for what. Then I must have made a sound, because she came and hit me. I cannot believe any of this. Surely, I am dreaming?’

‘Welfry is strong, fast and agile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Capable of snatching Poynton’s badge, of donning a disguise and stealing Edith’s, of breaking into Gyseburne’s home to take his…’

‘Odelina is furious that he made her grandmother and Celia his victims,’ said Horneby. ‘But he has promised to make it up to her. He mentioned something about already giving her father a nice red cloak as compensation. Welfry! He is my friend!’

‘Have you burned the notes for your lecture?’

Horneby regarded him askance. ‘No, of course not! I have been working on them for months.’

‘Then have you been reading books on alchemy, and conducting experiments?’

‘No! I have not had time, not with my lecture looming, although Welfry has always been interested in such matters. But how can you ask such irrelevant questions when there is an atrocity to prevent? You must act, Bartholomew! Now, before it is too late!’

Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet when he heard a sound behind him, but his legs were still too unsteady. Odelina was already swinging a heavy sword towards his neck.

Bartholomew’s life might have come to an end there and then, if it had not been for Horneby. The theologian reached up and hauled Bartholomew down on top of him, so Odelina’s wild swipe passed harmlessly over both their heads. While she regained her balance, Bartholomew scrambled upright, and Horneby eased himself up on to one elbow, his face ashen with shock and pain. Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt.

‘Welfry has deceived us all,’ the Carmelite said in a low, strained voice. ‘Please, Odelina. You must see this is wrong. People will die, and it will be on your conscience.’

‘I do not have a conscience,’ declared Odelina. ‘At least, that is what my father always says. And if it should happen to twinge, then Welfry has enough pilgrim tokens to buy me a clean slate.’

‘Put down the sword,’ ordered Bartholomew, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. But he had to stop Welfry, and there was no time to fool around with Odelina. ‘You are not going to escape this time, and whatever Welfry has planned is going to fail. The Sheriff, Senior Proctor and all manner of other people are working to thwart him.’

Odelina laughed unpleasantly. ‘But they will not succeed, because no one knows he is the one they should be hunting. He will outwit them, just as he has outwitted them before. In fact, his plan is already a success, because he wanted Horneby to be seen as the villain, and that is exactly what folk believe.’

Bartholomew took a tentative step towards the door, but she waved the weapon menacingly. Could he disarm her? Unfortunately, he knew he was not yet strong enough to try, not even with Thelnetham’s miraculous tonic coursing in his veins. She would kill him, and then she would kill Horneby, and there would be no one left to tell Michael the truth.

‘He was jealous of you, Horneby,’ Odelina was saying. ‘Of your intellect, although I do not think wits are an especially enviable commodity. As far as I am concerned, they make men arrogant, and unwilling to appreciate pretty ladies in search of husbands.’

‘Even if Welfry succeeds, it will not help you,’ said Bartholomew harshly. ‘Because you will be in prison, awaiting execution for the murder of Drax, Gib and your mother.’

‘Not me,’ said Odelina smugly. ‘And I did not kill Drax, as I keep telling you. But none of it matters, because Welfry is taking me to France on Isnard’s barge. I shall marry him, and we will live happily ever after.’

‘He is a priest,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He cannot marry.’

‘He is going to retract his vows,’ asserted Odelina. ‘Why do you think he has been amassing so many pilgrim badges? It is to buy himself freedom from the silly promises he made to God.’

Horneby looked as though he felt sorry for her. ‘He will not settle down with you, Odelina. Marriage will deprive him of everything he loves – books, learning, jokes with the novices–’

‘He loves me,’ declared Odelina stubbornly, raising the sword. ‘And we will wed. But you will not be alive to see the happy day.’

‘Think, Odelina,’ urged Horneby. He struggled to his knees. ‘Do you not see what he is doing? You will be blamed for killing Matthew and me, leaving him to walk free.’

‘He will meet me by Isnard’s barge,’ insisted Odelina. ‘He promised.’

‘He will not be there,’ said Horneby, compassion in his voice, while Bartholomew listened to the discussion in an agony of tension. Every moment wasted with Odelina was time for Welfry to realise his diabolical plans, and he itched to dive at her and wrest the sword from her grip. Surely it was worth the risk, to prevent something so evil? He took another step towards the door.

‘He will,’ insisted Odelina. She feinted at Bartholomew, causing him to flinch, but this time there was uncertainty in the manoeuvre. Perhaps he could disarm her…

‘Let us go, so we can prevent more mayhem,’ urged Horneby with quiet reason. ‘I will speak for you at your trial. He has clearly lied to you, as he has to me.’

‘I will never betray him,’ declared Odelina. Tears began to form in her eyes. ‘And I am not listening to any more of your clever words. You are only trying to confuse me.’

‘Why is he so intent on causing such mischief?’ asked Horneby quickly, when her fingers tightened around the hilt and the great blade began to wobble towards Bartholomew again. ‘You could at least tell us that before we die.’

For a moment, Bartholomew thought she was going to attack them without answering the question, but then she began to speak.

‘He does not want Kendale in Cambridge, because he has aggravated the rivalry between the hostels and Colleges. He wants him ousted, by having him blamed for all the murders and thefts. He says the University will be better off without such men in it.’

Bartholomew regarded her in disbelief. ‘Kendale has caused trouble? What about Welfry?’

‘Enough talking!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘I should be at Isnard’s barge, not chattering here with you. Say your prayers, both of you. I will try to be merciful.’

She advanced on Bartholomew, but she had been holding the weapon aloft too long, and her arms were fatigued. She struggled to lift it, and the fractional delay gave him just enough time to lunge forward and grab her arm. The situation had resolved, he realised with sudden clarity, exactly as Horneby had engineered it to, and explained why the friar had been to such pains to keep her talking for so long.

Unfortunately, Odelina was still strong, while the aftereffects of Bartholomew’s concussion had rendered him more feeble than he had appreciated. Instead of defeating her immediately, a furious tussle ensued, during which he felt himself losing ground.

When he saw what was happening, Horneby went into action again. He rolled into a ball, and this time Bartholomew grasped his plan a good deal more quickly. He shoved Odelina towards him, so she tripped over backwards, to land with a crash that drove the air from her lungs. While she fought to catch her breath, Horneby removed the rope belt from around his waist.

‘Go,’ he said urgently. ‘I will secure her, and stay here until you send help. I am too weak to dash out and help you confront Welfry, but I can do this. Go!’

With grim resolve, Bartholomew began to stagger to where he could see Michael moving through the spectators. He was obliged to jig away sharply when the camp-ball game surged towards him, and then was slowed by the same gamut of shoves, pokes and jostles that had delayed him on his way out. He was alarmed to note that scuffles had broken out in several places, and the beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were hard pressed to quell them.

By the time he reached Michael, he was dishevelled, breathless and his legs threatened to deposit him on the ground. He gasped out his explanation, leaning on the monk’s shoulder for support as he did so.

‘Welfry,’ said the monk heavily, dispatching two beadles to rescue Horneby. ‘But why did he order Horneby to steal your brimstone concoction? What does he intend to do with it?’

‘He is ingenious, as his practical jokes have shown,’ said Bartholomew, fighting off another wave of dizziness. ‘He will find a way.’

‘Horneby must be inside the priory,’ gabbled Thelnetham, dashing up to them. ‘It is cold today, so our new Seneschal has persuaded Leccheworth to serve the free wine and ale in the refectory. Horneby and his diabolical substances will be in there.’

‘The culprit is not Horneby,’ said Michael. ‘It is Welfry himself.’

Thelnetham gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! He is a lovely man, all smiles, compassion and goodness. Well, and a little malice, too, if the truth be known. His trick with the eggs made Agatha a laughing stock–’

‘There is no time for chatter,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Come, both of you. We must stop him.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, gesturing to the field. ‘There are skirmishes breaking out everywhere, and the Senior Proctor needs to be seen doing his duty here. It will not matter if Welfry blows up the refectory, if there is a massive bloodbath among the spectators first.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Michael in agitation.

‘That you stay outside, and keep the peace. Thelnetham and I will hunt for Welfry in the priory. You can come to help us as soon as you have the situation here under control.’

Michael screwed up his face, disliking the choice he was being offered, but he knew the importance of the Senior Proctor’s visible presence when scholars were of a mind to fight.

‘Can you do it?’ he asked, looking doubtfully at his friend. ‘You will not collapse on us?’

‘I will help him if he does,’ said Thelnetham. ‘We will stop this villain together.’

‘Very well. But be careful. The University needs its Corpse Examiner.’

‘And one of its most talented lawyers,’ added Thelnetham dryly. ‘However, remember that it is only conjecture that Welfry is inside. We may not be able to find him.’

‘You must,’ urged Michael. ‘The game will not last much longer, and then everyone will charge towards their free drinks. You must apprehend him before that happens.’

‘But if we cannot, you must insist that everyone disarms before entering the refectory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That should cut down the potential for violence.’

‘My beadles will see to it.’ Michael sketched a blessing at them. ‘Now, go.’

Bartholomew took considerable care as he eased through the crowd, anxious not to provide the spark that would ignite a full-blown brawl. The lads from Batayl Hostel jostled him as he passed, but he ignored them, even when one shove was hard enough to send him sprawling on to his hands and knees. Thelnetham hauled him to his feet, and dragged him on, looking neither to left nor right.

‘If they do that to a Michaelhouse student, there will be a riot for certain,’ he muttered. ‘Langelee ordered all the Fellows to stay with them today, to keep them away from provocation, but our colleagues will not find it easy.’

‘Then perhaps you had better go and help them,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the Gilbertines’ buildings and experiencing a flutter of dread in his stomach. ‘This is not your fight.’

‘Of course it is my fight!’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘It is my University, is it not? And the confrontation with this deranged monster is going to take place in the refectory of my own Order! I am terrified out of my very considerable wits, but I am not leaving you to do it alone. Father William is always talking about College loyalty, so here is my chance to prove myself.’

‘Why should you need to prove yourself?’

Thelnetham looked away. ‘Because it was me who told Celia Drax that you were a warlock. I was being flippant, but she took it to heart, and you lost a wealthy client because of it. I have tried to make amends with small gestures of friendship, but you have been suspicious of them. So I shall have to put my life at your disposal instead.’

‘Be careful, then,’ said Bartholomew, supposing a guilty conscience might well explain Thelnetham’s recent curious behaviour towards him.

‘I am always careful,’ said Thelnetham with a rueful grin. ‘And I am wearing a new habit – I do not want it damaged by whatever diabolical substance you and your medical colleagues invented.’

Bartholomew pushed open the refectory door and stepped inside. It was a massive room, with great, thick rafters, dark paintings on the walls and a flagstone floor. One or two lamps had been lit, although they did little to illuminate the place: it was dim and shadowy, a combination of an overcast day and narrow windows. Long tables had been set out, and there were buckets of ale and jugs of wine on them, along with baskets of bread and cakes. There was no sign of Welfry.

‘He is not here,’ said Thelnetham. He sounded relieved.

‘He must be,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I can smell brimstone. He must have brought it here.’

‘Then where is he? He is not under any of the tables, and this is a single room with no pillars to hide behind, or chests in which to seek shelter.’

Bartholomew saw he was right. Perhaps Welfry had given up when Odelina had been caught, and had fled, taking his pilgrim badges with him to pay for a new life. Bartholomew sagged, feeling that the Dominican had beaten him. Then he saw a small, sticky stain on the floor.

He stepped towards it and crouched down. It was definitely the potion he had helped to create in Meryfeld’s garden. Very slowly, he looked upwards, to the rafters.

‘He is here,’ he said softly to Thelnetham.

The Gilbertine peered to where he was pointing. ‘Ropes and pulleys!’ he exclaimed. ‘Half hidden among the shadows and the darkness. But what are they for?’

‘Another practical joke,’ guessed Bartholomew. ‘Except this one will not be amusing, and will end in death and mutilation. I believe he intends to shower the people who come for their free drinks with a burning substance that cannot be extinguished – a ruthlessly vicious variation on the trick at the Dominican Priory, which saw him brained with a basket.’

Thelnetham turned white, and crossed himself. ‘Horrible! Can you see him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Tell Michael what we have found, and do not let anyone come in. I will try to disarm whatever device he has constructed.’

Thelnetham pointed to a door. ‘There are the stairs that lead to the roof. God forgive me, but Welfry asked me where they went the other day, and I told him. I thought he was making polite conversation, and he is such a charming fellow…’

‘It is not your fault – he deceived us all. Now go.’

Bartholomew opened the door and began to climb. The steps were narrow, pitch black and very uneven, and he could not go as fast as he would have liked. It seemed an age before he reached another door, which he opened to reveal a small ledge and a dizzying drop. But there was something else, too.

In the gloom of the ancient, dusty rafters, he could see buckets attached to ropes. They were linked by twine that had been smeared with the substance he and his medical colleagues had created, and he understood immediately what was intended to happen: a flame would be touched to the twine, allowing the perpetrator time to escape while it burned. He recalled Welfry admiring the ‘fuse’ Kendale had invented when he had illuminated St Mary the Great: he had stolen the idea.

Bartholomew tried to pull the twine away from the pails, but it had been tacked very securely to the wood, and he could not do it – he would have to disable the receptacles themselves. But these had been positioned far along the rafters, so they would be directly over the tables below. Cautiously, he stepped off the door ledge, and took several wobbly steps along the nearest beam. Immediately, the door closed behind him.

‘Keep walking,’ came Welfry’s voice. ‘I have a knife, and I am not afraid to use it. And even if I only injure you, you will still fall to your death. Walk away from me, and do not turn back.’

Bartholomew could not have turned back, even if he had wanted to, because the beam was too narrow. With no choice but to obey, he did as Welfry ordered.

His legs trembled, and he tried not to look down, although it was difficult, because he had to watch where he was putting his feet: the rafter was uneven, and there was a very real risk of him losing his balance and falling to his death without the Seneschal’s knife helping him along. Eventually, he reached the crown-post in the middle of the rafter, and grabbed it gratefully.

‘Do not stop,’ called Welfry. ‘There is another door at the far end. Walk to it, and close it after you. The latch sticks, so you will be trapped until someone rescues you, but you will live. However, if you stop, I will be forced to kill you.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. The next section of rafter was much more uneven, and he was in no state for acrobatics. ‘Lob your knife if you will, but I am not moving.’

Immediately, a blade thudded into the wood by his face, making him jump so violently that he almost lost his footing.

‘Damn!’ muttered Welfry. ‘But I have another, so do not think of starting back.’

‘This is over, Welfry.’ Bartholomew sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

‘Almost,’ agreed Welfry. ‘My work will soon be completed.’

‘How could you do this?’ Bartholomew eased around the post in an effort to put himself out of knife range. ‘You are one of the University’s most popular members – and its latest Seneschal. How could you betray it all for a future with Odelina and a handful of signacula?’

‘I am not going anywhere with Odelina. First, Isnard’s barge is unseaworthy. But second, and more importantly, you should credit me with a little integrity – I have never broken my vows of chastity.’ Welfry sighed when he saw Bartholomew no longer represented a clear target. ‘I said keep moving.’

‘Michael knows about your crimes,’ warned Bartholomew, not holding much hope of talking the Dominican into giving up, but desperate enough to try. ‘You may not have killed Drax, Alice, Gib, Yffi and Poynton yourself, but you are certainly implicated. And we know it was you who stole the signacula and St Simon Stock’s scapular.’

‘Perhaps, but he will never be able to prove it. Please start walking. I do not want to hurt you.’

‘He will prove it.’ Bartholomew could see Welfry in the gloom, holding a blade in his gloved hand. He was safe from lobbed knives behind the crown-post, but as long as he was pinned down, he could not stop the Dominican from activating his pulleys. He knew he had to do something quickly, but what? ‘He even knows why you have done these terrible things.’

Welfry gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I doubt it.’

‘You hate Kendale, so you needled him with gentle tricks, knowing he would respond with vicious ones. But when that failed to see him expelled, you ordered Heslarton to leave Yffi and a box of “evidence” in his hostel, so he would be blamed for the crimes you and your helpmeets had committed. You ordered Drax left in Michaelhouse for the same reason.’

‘Unfortunately, it was too subtle for Brother Michael. He failed to make the connection.’ Welfry sounded exasperated. ‘Enough of this! Start walking again, or I will–’

‘He failed to make the connection because he does not allow himself to be misled by villains,’ retorted Bartholomew, struggling to keep the unsteadiness from his voice. ‘But why do you–’

‘It started when I saw Chestre murder Jolye,’ snapped Welfry. ‘Shoving him in the icy river and then refusing to let him out. It was monstrous!’

‘If you witnessed a murder, you should have told Michael. He represents justice, not you.’

‘My word against an entire hostel, including the wily-tongued Kendale? No one would have believed me. But they will pay for their crime.’

‘What happened to you, Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew softly. ‘What brought you to this?’

‘You ask me such a question?’ asked Welfry with a short, mirthless laugh. ‘A man abandoned by God because of his heretical ideas and fondness for sorcery?’

Bartholomew winced, but pressed on. ‘How could you throw in your lot with Odelina?’

‘Odelina,’ sighed Welfry. ‘That was the worst part: enduring her attentions to secure her help. However, she dispatched Gib, Alice – and probably Drax, too, although she denies it – of her own volition. And her father was responsible for Yffi and Poynton. I had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘No, but you took advantage,’ countered Bartholomew, watching Welfry finger the dagger restlessly. ‘Leaving corpses in Michaelhouse and Chestre, and tying a yellow wig on Gib to make everyone think the badge thief was dead. The thief was you, although Heslarton did not know it at the time.’

Welfry inclined his head. ‘And neither did Odelina – both would have killed me for targeting Emma and Celia, so I kept it from them until I had her completely in my thrall. But enough chatter, Matthew! Start walking towards the door.’

The benefits of Thelnetham’s tonic had finally worn off, and Bartholomew felt sick and dizzy. He knew he would fall if he moved along the beam as ordered. And how could he thwart Welfry, if he was trapped behind a door that would not open, anyway? He began speaking again, hoping the delay would allow him time to devise a plan – although nothing had come to mind so far.

‘I do not understand why you stole so many pilgrim badges. Do you intend to sell them, to make yourself a fortune?’

‘No, of course not. I know why you are struggling to keep me talking, by the way. You expect Thelnetham to fetch Michael and save you. Unfortunately, Thelnetham met with an accident.’

He jabbed his thumb downwards, and Bartholomew risked a quick glance. The Gilbertine was lying on the floor: there was blood next to his head.

‘So walk to the far end of the beam and go through the door,’ directed Welfry. ‘I am willing to spare your life, but not at the expense of spoiling my plans. Go, or I will come and stab you.’

‘If you do, you may fall yourself,’ said Bartholomew, not moving.

Welfry sighed. ‘I have been scampering around these beams for days, and I have a good head for heights. You cannot prevent what is about to happen, so do as I say, and save yourself.’

‘What is about to happen?’ pressed Bartholomew, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

‘In a moment, scholars and townsmen will come racing in for their free ale and wine. My little trick will swing into action, and I shall escape in the ensuing chaos. When the commotion eventually dies down, your cries for help will be heard and you will be released – if you walk towards the door. If you continue to be awkward, you will suffer a rather different fate.’

‘But people will see Thelnetham’s body, and–’

‘Not until it is too late to matter.’

‘Please do not do this,’ begged Bartholomew, appalled by the meticulous planning. ‘Our friends will be among those drinking this wine. And how can you leave Horneby to take the blame?’

Welfry winced and looked away. He regretted Horneby’s fate. ‘He will be dead by now. Odelina is nothing if not thorough.’

‘She is in Michael’s custody, and Horneby has escaped.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Welfry took a step along the beam. ‘I gave you your chance, Matthew, and you refused to take it. I dislike killing, but you leave me no choice.’

Bartholomew had no strength left to repel an attack. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going. But bear in mind that even if your plan succeeds, you will never be safe. Michael will find you.’

‘I doubt even his influence extends to the place where I am bound,’ said Welfry softly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Welfry held up his gloved hand. ‘I tell everyone my hand is marred by a childhood palsy, but it is leprosy. I shall end my days shunned by all, dead before I am in my grave. That is why I shall not sell the signacula and St Simon Stock’s scapular – their collective holiness will release me from Purgatory. I started amassing them after a pilgrimage to Canterbury, some eight years ago.’

‘But there has not been a case of leprosy in Cambridge for years!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘It is almost certain to be something else. Let me examine it.’

‘It is too late. Now start walking before–’

At that moment, the door flew open and people began to pour in, yelling and laughing boisterously. Bartholomew did the only thing left to him: he started to bawl a warning. Immediately, Welfry lobbed the knife. It thudded into the wood near Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his involuntary flinch caused him to slip. He grabbed the post, and for a moment was suspended only by his hands. With agonising slowness, he struggled to haul himself up again.

As soon as he was safely on the rafter, fingers locked around the crown-post, he started to shout, but the refectory was now full of people, and his was just one voice among many – he could not make himself heard. And Thelnetham lay in the shadows, so not even the presence of a corpse was going to tell them that something was terribly wrong.

Welfry touched a flame to his fuse.

‘No!’ screamed Bartholomew, although the racket from below drowned out his anguished howl. Then the Michaelhouse Choir began an impromptu rendering of a popular tavern ballad, and he closed his eyes in despair, knowing he would never be heard once they were in action. Welfry was crouching in the shadows of the doorway, watching his fuse burn towards the pulleys and buckets. He ignored Bartholomew now, seeing his presence as irrelevant.

Then Michael entered the refectory, beadles at his heels, looking everywhere but upwards. The monk began to mingle with the crowd, stepping between groups that would have swung punches and clearly far too busy to think about the Dominican and his plot.

Welfry’s flame was burning steadily towards a lever, and Bartholomew knew there were only moments left before something terrible happened. His stomach lurched as he looked at the people below – his sister and her husband, Michael, Gyseburne, Tulyet, most members of his College and others he knew and loved were going to be among the casualties.

But there was one option left open to him: he could jump off the rafter and plummet to his death. That would make people look up, and when they saw the ropes and buckets they would run to safety. Unfortunately, he could not leap from where he was, because Edith was almost directly beneath him and he could not risk injuring her. He took a deep breath, ducked around the crown-post and took his first step along the beam, back towards the door.

A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he thought he was going to fall. But the feeling passed, and he took another step, and then another. He was aware of Welfry glaring and making meaningful pushing gestures with his hands, but it did not matter, because there was nothing he could do to Bartholomew that Bartholomew was not already planning to do to himself. The fuse burned closer to the lever.

Welfry’s jaw dropped when he understood what the physician intended. He started to shout, but Bartholomew could not hear him, and would not have paid any attention if he had. Only a few more steps now. Bartholomew sensed Welfry starting along the rafter towards him, but took no notice. Two more steps would put him over the middle of a table, and no one would be hurt when he jumped. He glanced at the fuse. The flame was almost there: he was going to be too late!

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and when he looked up, Welfry was gone. But something was happening below. The laughter and merriment had changed to cries of horror. He risked a glance downwards, and saw Welfry sprawled unmoving on one of the tables. People were beginning to look up, pointing. In his determination to stop Bartholomew, Welfry had lost his own balance.

‘Everyone out!’ bellowed Michael, when he saw the ropes and the pails. ‘Now!’

‘So the greedy Colleges can have all this free wine?’ demanded Neyll. ‘Not likely!’

He grabbed a cup of ale and toasted his cronies, who responded with a rowdy cheer. There was a resentful growl from Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie.

‘Out!’ hollered Michael. But hostels were bawling insults at Colleges, and those who could hear the monk ignored him. The noise level intensified again, and although Bartholomew yelled until his voice cracked, he knew he was wasting his time. He took another step along the rafter, trying frantically to control the shaking in his legs. Perhaps if he could reach the fuse…

He was aware that Edith and Michael were two of those staring at him. Within moments, their upturned faces were going to be showered with some unspeakable substance, and they would die a terrible death. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength to gain the door.

But there was no time for relief. He forced himself to turn and inspect Welfry’s fuse. It had already burned out of reach. He hauled off his tabard and flailed it at the flame, but flapping only made it glow more fiercely. He leaned out as far as he could, and flung the garment across it, but the material merely smouldered and the fuse hissed on. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Defeated, he felt himself slump, then begin to fall.

His downward progress was halted by an intense pressure around his middle, then strong arms were hauling him to the safety of the doorway.

‘Christ and all his saints, Matt!’ cried Michael. He rarely cursed, and that, coupled with his white face and shaking hands, was testament to his fright. ‘We almost lost you!’

‘My sister,’ gasped Bartholomew, thinking only of Welfry’s trick. ‘The wildfire…’

‘No one will leave,’ shouted Michael in despair. ‘And the place is too crowded for me to force them. There will be carnage, and there is nothing we can do but watch.’

Bartholomew saw the flame reach a bucket, which began to upend. It initiated a chain reaction, and the rafters started to vibrate as pulleys swung into action. The first pail tipped, emptying its contents on to the crowd below. It was followed by a second container, and a third, and then there were more than he could count. Howls followed.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But then it occurred to him that he and his colleagues had not created that much of the deadly substance. He pulled away from Michael and sat up. The yells were not of agony, but of shocked indignation. And there was laughter, too.

‘Water!’ he breathed. ‘Welfry’s trick was water!’

Michael was inspecting a sheet that had been attached to one pulley. He grimaced. ‘Water that was set to culminate in a rather inflammatory banner being hoisted – one that claims this to be the victory of bold hostels over the stupid Colleges. It would have caused a fight for certain.’

But people were beginning to flee the room, unwilling to stand around and be drenched. Outside, Michael’s beadles were waiting, to ensure they dispersed.

‘Welfry miscalculated,’ said Michael, gazing at the spectacle with saucer-like eyes. ‘The water was meant to infuriate, and cause a great battle. But instead, it doused the skirmishes already in action, and drove the participants away.’

Bartholomew was too numb to feel elation. ‘He failed in a spectacular manner.’

‘And he wanted your substance not to spray over hapless victims, but to create a fuse,’ said Michael in relief. ‘It is over, Matt. My beadles will ensure there is no more fighting.’

‘He killed Thelnetham,’ said Bartholomew brokenly.

‘Thelnetham is not dead. He is not very happy about being knocked over the head, but he will survive. Gyseburne and Meryfeld are tending him.’

‘Welfry tried to make me go through that other door,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, waving a vague hand towards it. ‘He did not want to kill me, either.’

Michael snorted his incredulity. ‘The stairs have collapsed behind that. Had you stepped through it, you would have fallen to your death. You are a fool if you believe Welfry would have let you live after the kind of conversation I imagine you had.’

Bartholomew would not have been able to walk down the stairs had it not been for Michael’s helping hand, and when they finally reached the ground, he leaned against a wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. There was a brazier on the wall above his head, and its illumination showed how unsteady his hands were. It had been a terrible experience, and he felt as though he had been to Hell and back.

The refectory had not cleared completely, because those very interested in drink had lingered, prepared to risk a soaking for free ale and wine. Bartholomew saw with relief that his sister was not among them, and nor were his Michaelhouse colleagues. Langelee was, though, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kendale and the students of Chestre. Cynric was with him, also glowering, and Bartholomew wondered whether they intended to pick a fight over the stolen gates.

‘I feel a little cheated,’ said Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I was expecting something truly diabolical, but…’

‘It would have been diabolical had it worked,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A bloodbath as Colleges and hostels clashed in a fairly confined space, and townsmen joined in. Are you sure Welfry is dead? The reason I ask is because he did not use all the substance he stole from Meryfeld for his fuse – there is still a lot missing.’

‘Quite dead,’ replied Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Neyll and Ihon are coming towards us. Stand up. You do not want them to think you a weakling.’

‘I do not care what they think,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to comply.

Ihon removed his cap as he approached. ‘We want to apologise for taking your gates,’ he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of a number of people, who came to see what was happening. ‘There, I have said it. Are you satisfied?’

‘It was only a joke,’ said Neyll. He held a camp-ball, and was rolling it from hand to hand. It looked heavy. ‘You should have been able to take a joke.’

Casually, he hefted the ball in his right hand and took aim, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Bartholomew twisted around to see what he was looking at. The brazier. He glanced back to Neyll, and noticed a black, sticky substance oozing through the ball’s seams.

But there was a sudden thump, and Neyll gripped his chest with a grimace of agony. A blade protruded from it, and Bartholomew recognised the letter-opener he had given Langelee. Neyll pitched forward, but not before the ball had flown from his hand. It landed on the edge of the brazier, and teetered there. Bartholomew surged to his feet, aiming to punch it away from the flame, but Ihon dived forward to stop him, knocking him off balance.

There was a muffled explosion. Bartholomew was already falling, so it was the hapless Ihon who took the brunt of the blast. The student crashed backwards in a billow of smoke. The wall behind him was splattered with gobbets of the substance that burned with a devilish glow, and one or two onlookers began to bat at smouldering clothes.

‘I thought the beadles had searched everyone for knives,’ said Cynric to Langelee. There was admiration in his voice.

‘That is not a knife,’ replied Langelee smoothly. ‘It is a letter-opener. And thank God they let me keep it. You were right to warn me there was something suspicious about that pair, Cynric. If their plan had succeeded, it would have deprived me of my two favourite Fellows.’

‘And many innocent bystanders,’ added Cynric, inspecting the sticky substance with a grimace of disapproval. ‘I love a weapon as much as the next man, but there is something unspeakable about this one.’

Michael shuddered when he saw what had happened to Ihon. He turned to Neyll, whose eyes were already turning glassy. ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’

‘We had a letter from Emma de Colvyll,’ whispered Neyll. ‘She told us to do it, because it would score a great victory for the hostels. She wrote it this morning.’

‘Welfry,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Emma could not have written anything today, because she was too ill. Will the man’s tricks never end?’

‘You will just have to wait and see,’ breathed Neyll with a ghastly grin. And then he died.