The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 6

Michael scowled as they left the Guildhall, annoyed that he should have to deal with student pranks when he was busy with more important matters. But he began to smirk when Bartholomew described the experiment he had conducted with his fellow physicians in Meryfeld’s garden. And he laughed aloud when he heard how they had all been knocked off their feet, an unrestrained guffaw that was infectious and had people who heard it smiling in their turn.

‘I wish I had been there,’ he declared, when he had his mirth under control. ‘Not standing by the pot, obviously, but with Dickon, spying over the wall.’

‘The tale will be all over the town soon,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘And it will do nothing to convince people that I do not dabble in sorcery.’

‘But you were dabbling in sorcery,’ Michael pointed out, beginning to laugh again. ‘Or alchemy at least, which is much the same thing. And you corrupted your colleagues into doing likewise. What is wrong with just buying a decent lamp?’

‘Because there is no such thing. At least, not one that projects a steady light for delicate procedures such as…’

‘Such as surgery,’ finished Michael, when Bartholomew faltered. ‘Well, if you do not want this story to be blown out of all proportion, I recommend you keep your motives to yourself. And next time you experiment, make sure Dickon is out.’

When they reached Celia’s house, a maid informed them that her mistress had gone riding, and was not expected back until the afternoon.

‘Riding?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Is that any kind of activity for a recent widow?’

The maid refused to meet his eyes. ‘Come back later,’ she said, closing the door.

‘Celia’s behaviour is reckless,’ said Michael, turning to leave. ‘She might as well wear a placard around her neck, claiming she is glad her husband is dead. Does it mean she did have a hand in his murder, as we have speculated?’

‘Or does it mean she is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If she were guilty, surely she would have put on a convincing show of grief, just to make sure people do not suspect her of foul play?’

‘The Lord only knows,’ sighed Michael, as they retraced their steps down Bridge Street. ‘I thought I would enjoy working on this case – an opportunity to tax my wits. But the hostel–College spat means I cannot give it my full attention. Did I tell you I spent half the night on patrol?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Ensuring York Hostel did not incinerate a College in revenge for the blaze that destroyed their stable yesterday. The fire was almost certainly an accident, but York brays it was an act of arson. It is all very annoying.’

‘There is Gyseburne,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where his grim-faced colleague was striding towards them, long, grey hair flying. ‘Why is he glaring at me?’

‘Is it true, Bartholomew?’ Gyseburne asked without preamble. ‘You stole a great war machine from the castle and used some form of sorcery to spirit it through the Guildhall’s door?’

Bartholomew groaned, and it was Michael who answered. ‘A student prank, but there was no magic involved, just simple ingenuity. There was no Matt involved, either.’

‘Are you sure?’ Gyseburne asked. ‘Because I heard he dropped various identifiable belongings.’

‘That was part of the deception,’ interrupted Michael. ‘No doubt Chestre Hostel thinks it highly amusing to have a senior member of a College blamed for their mischief.’

Gyseburne made an expression that might have been a smile. ‘I suppose it is the sort of thing students might do. I was one once, and masterminded all manner of hilarious tricks.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine the dour Gyseburne as a young and carefree prankster. The image would not come.

‘I do not like Chestre Hostel,’ Gyseburne confided. ‘They summoned me last night, but I refused to oblige. It goes against the grain to ignore pleas for help, especially from men who can pay, but they unnerve me, so I decided to have nothing to do with them.’

Bartholomew wished he had done the same. But Gyseburne was right: it was a physician’s duty to help those in need, and he had sworn sacred oaths to say he would always do so.

‘I heard about the jape in the Dominican Priory too,’ said Gyseburne, ranging off on another matter. ‘But Seneschal Welfry is better now, and came to inspect the Guildhall first thing this morning. He professed himself very impressed by your … by the trick.’

‘Oh no!’ moaned Michael. ‘He is going to devise some other prank to answer the challenge.’

‘He might, but his motive will be fun, not malice,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Like me, he is a God-fearing, peaceful man who has been on a pilgrimage, although his was only to some shrine where the Devil was trapped in a shoe. Mine was to Canterbury. I walked all the way, and felt I had done a great thing when the towers of the cathedral came into sight. I was unwell at the time, and the journey went a long way to curing me.’

‘Yet you do not wear a badge to proclaim what you have done,’ observed Michael.

Gyseburne’s expression was pained. ‘You have touched on a sore point, Brother, because it has been stolen from me. I am distressed, because it was a pretty thing, and cost me a fortune.’

‘Did you see the thief?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Or have any idea who he might be?’

‘He broke into my house when I was asleep. I have been racking my brains to think of suspects, and while I do not like to cast aspersions…’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael, when Gyseburne faltered.

Gyseburne looked away when he spoke, uncomfortable telling tales. ‘Well, Alice Heslarton remarked on it, and pointed it out to her family. Then those horrible Chestre men asked if it was authentic, and so did Yffi the builder. Horneby and Etone of the Carmelites eyed it covetously, and so, I am sorry to say, did Michaelhouse’s Thelnetham. And then there was Seneschal Welfry…’

‘None of them have yellow hair,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the thief was–’

‘Have you ever heard of wigs?’ asked Gyseburne acidly. ‘The presence or absence of yellow hair means nothing, as far as I am concerned.’

Michael watched him go, his expression perturbed. ‘He has a point about the wig. However, I think we can cross Etone, Horneby, Welfry and Thelnetham off his list.’

‘Can we?’ Michael’s startled glance made Bartholomew feel treacherous, but he pressed on anyway. ‘I do not know Thelnetham well, despite us living in the same College for six months.’

Michael started to object, but then looked thoughtful. ‘I have not gained his measure, either, and he has been behaving very oddly of late. But even so, I do not see him as a relic-thief.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew, although he remained unconvinced.

‘Do you think Gyseburne is telling the truth about his pilgrimage?’ asked Michael, after a short and rather uncomfortable silence. ‘I mean, do you think he actually went?’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Of course he went! Why would he lie about that?’

‘To make us think him a pious man.’ Michael shot a furtive glance behind him before Bartholomew could counter the accusation. ‘Come this way, Matt. We are going to Michaelhouse to interview Yffi and his cronies.’

‘Dick said he was going to do that.’

‘I know, but I would sooner ask my own questions. Hurry up! We do not want him to catch us.’

With grave misgivings about going against the wishes of the Sheriff, Bartholomew followed him home. But when they arrived, it was to find Walter standing in the street, howling a litany of vile curses. It took a moment for Bartholomew to see the reason for his curious behaviour, but when he did, he stared in astonishment. Michaelhouse’s front gates were missing.

‘I went to the latrines, and when I came back they were gone,’ wailed Walter, addressing a furious Master. All the Fellows and a large number of students had gathered, and were standing in the yard.

‘It is not your fault,’ said Clippesby, resting a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘But if you did not see anything suspicious, then what about your peacock? He would have been here, even if you–’

‘We do not have time for this nonsense,’ snapped Thelnetham, pushing the Dominican roughly out of the way. ‘Let me question Walter.’

‘Hey!’ objected Bartholomew angrily, seeing Clippesby stagger. ‘There is no need for that.’

Thelnetham rounded on him with such vigour that he took a step back. ‘Do not tell me what to do, you damned heretic! Your College is under attack, and this is no time to pander to lunatics.’

William interposed his unsavoury bulk between them. ‘Do not call Matthew a heretic,’ he snarled. ‘I am the only one allowed to do that, and only then because he knows I do not mean it.’

Bartholomew knew nothing of the sort. ‘Stealing our gates must be one of these practical jokes,’ he said to Langelee. ‘It is not as clever as assembling a trebuchet in the Guildhall, but it still took ingenuity and planning. They are heavy, and it would not have been easy to spirit them away in broad daylight with no one seeing.’

‘Did they do it with no one seeing?’ asked Langelee, looking around at his assembled scholars. ‘Did any of you notice anything that might be construed as suspicious?’

‘It was Chestre,’ said Valence resentfully. ‘They live nearby, and must have waited until Walter was in the latrines and the rest of us were listening to Master Thelnetham’s lecture on whores.’

‘On what?’ blurted Bartholomew, thinking he must have misheard.

‘On prostitutes in the Bible,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘It was very interesting and had us transfixed.’

‘It did,’ agreed Clippesby ruefully. ‘Even I was fascinated, and I keep my vows of chastity.’

The less said on that subject the better, given that he tended to be in a minority, even among those Fellows who were in holy orders, and Michael stepped forward hastily.

‘I doubt Kendale did this,’ he said, seeing some of the students were keen to march on Chestre and demand answers with their fists. ‘Not so soon after manhandling that trebuchet all around town. We must look elsewhere for the culprits.’

‘I will help you find them,’ said William grimly, and there was an immediate clamour of identical offers from everyone else.

Michael raised an imperious hand. ‘I can manage alone, thank you. And none of you will attempt your own investigations. Do I make myself clear? You may cause Michaelhouse irreparable harm if you go about making wild accusations, and we do not want other parts of our home disappearing.’

He glared until he had reluctant nods from the students, then turned to the Fellows. William was apt to be bloody-minded in such situations, but this time it was Thelnetham causing trouble.

‘I shall do as I feel fit,’ the Gilbertine declared. ‘This is an outrage, and–’

‘You will do as the Senior Proctor suggests,’ said Langelee in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘I may not possess the authority to dismiss Fellows, but there are other ways of making nuisances disappear.’

Bartholomew listened to the exchange nervously, not exactly sure what Langelee was saying but acutely aware that Thelnetham would be wise to do as he was told. Without a word, the Gilbertine stalked away, habit billowing behind him. Langelee watched him go, then turned to Michael.

‘Get the gates back, Brother,’ he ordered. ‘We are vulnerable without them.’

‘Where are the builders?’ asked Michael. ‘Can they not run us up a temporary pair?’

‘Yffi and his boys failed to arrive again this morning,’ supplied William. ‘Blaston is here, making new window shutters, but I doubt he can produce gates on his own. At least, not quickly.’

‘Yffi is missing yet another day of work?’ demanded Michael. He gestured up at the sky. ‘But it looks like rain, and we have no roof!’

Langelee grimaced. ‘If it is not one thing it is another with this place. And what ails Thelnetham? He has always been prickly, but he has never indulged in open rebellion before.’

‘He is probably worried about the camp-ball this afternoon,’ said William. ‘His Order’s honour is at stake, and I happen to know he takes that sort of thing very seriously.’

‘He should,’ said Langelee. He flexed the bulging muscles in his arm, and grinned rather diabolically. ‘But he need not fear. I shall ensure the Gilbertines emerge victorious.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are we going to do about the fact that we have no roof, and that great grey clouds are gathering?’

‘I saw Yffi earlier, carrying a lot of equipment to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Langelee. ‘I was going to find out what thinks he is doing the moment Thelnetham finished pontificating on harlots.’

‘I do not want my students learning about harlots, not even the ones in the Bible,’ said Bartholomew, starting to walk across the yard. ‘They are supposed to be studying medicine.’

Langelee darted after him, swinging him around by the arm to peer into his face. He was very strong, and Bartholomew staggered.

‘You are still too pale for my liking, and I do not want you teaching until after the camp-ball,’ the Master decreed in the kind of voice that said objections would be futile. ‘Stroll about the town with Michael if you will, but do not exhaust yourself with students. Besides, Thelnetham is a priest, so they are not going to hear anything too outrageous.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, given the rapt attention the Gilbertine seemed to have engendered in his audience. But he could see Langelee meant what he said, and so with great reluctance, he followed the monk across the yard to talk to Blaston about the gates.

The carpenter was in a world of his own as he assembled his shutters, working with deft, confident movements. He jumped when he became aware of Bartholomew and Michael beside him.

‘I was concentrating,’ he said sheepishly. ‘The wood Emma bought is warped, so I need to think about which piece goes where, or you will end up with gaps. And we do not want those.’

‘I wish it was you working on the roof,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Could you not run up a ladder and nail a few tiles down? Yffi does not seem very interested in doing it.’

Blaston laughed. ‘Tiling is a skilled task, Brother, and I will not undertake anything I cannot do well. Of course, I could probably do a better job than Yffi – I have no respect for his workmanship.’

‘You are not the only one,’ muttered Michael. ‘Did you see anyone tampering with our gates?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Blaston ruefully. ‘Or I would have stopped them. But my work absorbs me, as you have just seen, and I notice very little once I start.’

‘When we spoke before, you mentioned your unhappiness with the high prices Drax charged for ale. Will you tell me exactly what–’

Blaston’s eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘You think I killed him because his ale was too expensive! But I was here, in Michaelhouse, when he was murdered.’

‘Actually, you were not,’ countered Michael. ‘Drax died when you told us you left to buy nails.’

‘The smith will tell you I went to his forge and left him money,’ objected Blaston. ‘Ask him.’

‘I have, and he did. I am not accusing you, Blaston. I am merely pointing out a fact – namely that no one can vouch for you at the time of Drax’s death.’

‘Then what about Yffi?’ demanded Blaston angrily. ‘His alibi is those vile lads, who would think nothing of lying to protect him – or rather, to protect their jobs. Moreover, he disliked Drax’s high prices, too, and was always complaining about them. Ask him these questions, not me!’

Bartholomew was dismayed to see tears glitter as Blaston turned back to his work. He grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him away, determined that the carpenter should be distressed no further.

‘You hurt his feelings with your “facts”, Brother,’ he said reproachfully, when they were out of earshot. ‘We both know he is innocent, so why torment him?’

Michael glared. ‘Because it would be remiss not to explore all the lines of enquiry available to us. Blaston probably is innocent, but you think so because he is a friend and you like him, whereas I would rather eliminate him with solid evidence. Dick Tulyet will not be sentimental about what he learns, and neither should we.’

Bartholomew supposed he had a point, although he did not feel like admitting it. ‘Where are you going next?’

‘It is time I put my needs first, and my investigations second. I am going to ask Yffi why he has left us with no roof. Are you coming, or are you afraid I might say something to offend him, too?’

With a sigh, Bartholomew followed him through Michaelhouse’s gateless entrance.

The Carmelite Priory was a good deal calmer than it had been during the kerfuffle over the attempt to snatch St Simon Stock’s scapular. The shrine was busy, as usual, but it was now being guarded by two sturdy lay-brothers. Bartholomew and Michael arrived just as the visiting pilgrims emerged from it. The physician was surprised to see Horneby and Welfry with them.

‘You should be resting,’ he told the Carmelite.

Horneby smiled. ‘I woke this morning feeling much better, although, as you can hear, I am still hoarse. Then Welfry said St Simon Stock might be willing to ensure I have a strong voice for the lecture I am to give in his honour, so we went to pray in his shrine.’

Welfry crossed himself. ‘I hope he listened, and will be inclined to oblige. I am looking forward to Horneby’s address – the University is dull during term time, when everyone is too busy teaching to propound new theories, and I need something to enliven my life.’

‘I do not suppose you enlivened it by stealing my College’s gates, did you?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Someone spirited them away this morning.’

Welfry looked startled, then laughed when Michael explained what had happened. The monk was unimpressed by his reaction.

‘I would not have thought the Seneschal would delight in silly ventures,’ he said icily.

‘Then you do not know him very well,’ muttered Horneby.

‘I am all admiration for the hostels’ ingenuity today,’ declared Welfry, still smiling. ‘Taking the gates is not as clever as the trebuchet business, but–’

‘How do you know it was a hostel that stole them?’ Michael pounced.

‘Oh, come, Brother!’ exclaimed Welfry. ‘Of course it was a hostel. Who else would pick on a College? I shall have to think of an answering trick to–’

‘No,’ ordered Michael sharply. ‘This ridiculous rivalry has gone far enough. We shall have a war on our hands if it continues, and none of us want a bit of foolery to end in bloodshed.’

Welfry sobered immediately. ‘Of course not, Brother. Forgive me. It must be because…’ He trailed off, and his hand went to the place where the little boot had been pinned. A hole in the material showed where it had been ripped away.

‘I heard you lost your signaculum,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’

‘So am I,’ said Welfry, genuinely downcast. ‘I know Dominicans are not supposed to own personal property, but that badge represented … It was my reminder that…’

‘It helped him keep his sense of fun in check,’ explained Horneby. ‘He thinks laughter makes him a poor friar, although I cannot say I agree. There is nothing wrong with making people smile, and if more men were like Welfry, Cambridge would be a happier place.’

Welfry blushed, clearly uncomfortable with his friend’s approbation. He turned awkward and tongue-tied, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

‘I had better do all I can to retrieve it, then,’ said Michael. ‘In the meantime, concentrate on your duties as Seneschal. That should keep you away from the temptations posed by practical jokes.’

‘Come, Welfry,’ said Horneby, taking his friend’s arm. ‘I have prepared the next part of my lecture and I would like you to read it. That should keep you out of mischief for a while.’

Keenly interested, Welfry allowed himself to be led away. Michael watched them go.

‘There is something odd about their friendship,’ he said. ‘Welfry possesses an excellent mind, but he is too frivolous to put it to good purpose, so why does Horneby waste time with him?’

‘Horneby is not wasting his time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Welfry has helped him a great deal with his sermon – probably more than Horneby will ever admit.’

But Michael was not listening. He had fixed glaring eyes on Prior Etone, who was standing by the shrine with Yffi. He marched towards them, ignoring the greetings of Poynton and Fen as he stalked past. Not wanting to cause offence, Bartholomew hastened to wish the pilgrims good day.

‘Has Michael located the villain who stole my badge yet?’ demanded Poynton. His face was more flushed than usual, and his eyes had a yellow cast, both signs of poor health.

‘If he had, he would have told you,’ retorted Fen sharply, and it seemed that even his equable temper was being tested by Poynton’s constant belligerence.

‘I understand you stayed in the Griffin when you first arrived in the town,’ said Bartholomew, also sufficiently irritated by Poynton’s manner to go on the offensive. He did not share Michael’s suspicions about Fen as a suspect for the killer-thief, but Poynton was another matter entirely: he might well have lied about his badge being stolen, and the crimes did seem to have started the day he arrived. ‘It was owned by John Drax, who was subsequently murdered. Did you meet him?’

‘Yes – and we disliked him profoundly,’ Poynton declared. ‘I am not surprised God saw fit to end his miserable life. His ale was expensive, and he denied his regular patrons credit.’

Fen smiled at the physician. ‘Speaking of wine, Thelnetham was here earlier, and he mentioned that you partook too heavily of it last night. Are you recovered? You are very pale.’

‘Thelnetham told you that?’ demanded Poynton, while Bartholomew wondered two things: why Fen should change the subject so abruptly, and why Thelnetham should have been discussing him with strangers. ‘But he is a Gilbertine, and you should not fraternise with them – we are to play them at camp-ball this afternoon, so they are the enemy.’

‘Poynton has been invited to join the Carmelites’ team,’ explained Fen, when the merchant had stamped furiously away. ‘Apparently, he is good at it, although I do not believe it is a pastime worthy of a pilgrim. But now you must excuse me, too, because I have not finished my prayers.’

Bartholomew wanted to pursue the matter of Drax but Fen either did not hear or chose to ignore the question he began to ask. Thwarted, the physician walked towards Michael, who was engaged in a head-to-head confrontation with Prior Etone and Yffi.

‘–cannot rip the roof off my home,’ the monk was shouting, ‘then disappear on another job.’

‘But this is far more important than your roof, Brother,’ snapped Etone. ‘Yffi is to build us a proper shrine. The incident yesterday told us that we need something more secure, and we were delighted when he said he could begin work immediately.’

‘I am sure you were!’ yelled Michael. ‘But that is not the point. He has been engaged to repair Michaelhouse, and he cannot leave us with no windows and no roof while he makes you a temple.’

Yffi sighed heavily. ‘All right. I will go to Michaelhouse, and my apprentices will stay here. Then everyone will be happy. And do not say that is unacceptable, Brother, because the work on your roof has reached the point where only a master mason can make headway anyway. My lads would have been standing around doing nothing, regardless.’

Michael was clearly unconvinced, but Yffi grabbed a sack of tools and stalked towards the gate, indicating with a wave of his hand that his apprentices were to begin measuring out the new site. Etone immediately went to pester them with unwanted advice and directions.

‘Yffi has left his apprentices unattended, Brother,’ remarked Bartholomew, to stall the impending diatribe. ‘It is an opportunity to speak to them without a master prompting their replies.’

A determined gleam came into Michael’s eyes. ‘So it is! And we need not worry about objections from Etone that we are distracting them, because Poynton and Fen have just dragged him off somewhere – probably to complain about impertinent questions from you. You did ask some, I hope?’

‘None that elicited helpful answers.’

‘It was as Yffi told you,’ said Peterkin, when the monk ordered them to repeat their story. ‘We could not see the yard. It was dangerous upon that roof, and we were concentrating on our work.’

‘You were discussing Yolande de Blaston,’ countered Michael. ‘That was not concentrating.’

The lad flushed. ‘We can talk about her and do our jobs at the same time. But how could we see anything down in the yard when we were lounging around the back of the…’ He faltered.

‘Lounging?’ pounced Michael.

Peterkin tried to retract his words, but it was too late. The slip allowed Michael to launch into one of his aggressive interrogations, and he soon learned that Yffi and his lads had been idling out of sight when Drax’s body had been hidden.

‘The first we knew about it was when Agatha started fooling around with that dog,’ said Peterkin, speaking reluctantly and sulkily. ‘We all looked down at the yard then.’

‘Who initiated that discussion about Yolande?’ demanded Michael. ‘Yffi?’

A sly grin stole across Peterkin’s face. ‘Yes, because it amused him when all you scholars started listening to us. We could not see the yard, but we could see into your hall, and we saw we had your undivided attention. And half of you are priests, too! You should know better.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘We should, because it was your lewd banter that let a killer deposit a corpse in our College. You are not innocent in this affair, and I intend to see you pay for it.’

He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the grin fading from Peterkin’s face, and his cronies exchanging anxious glances.

Langelee invited Bartholomew to dine with him when the physician returned to Michaelhouse, plying him with fresh bread, roasted meat, sweetmeats and a very small goblet of wine.

‘If you are still thirsty, you can have some small ale,’ said Langelee, snatching the cup away before Bartholomew had taken more than a token sip. ‘You cannot be drunk for this afternoon.’

‘I will not be drunk,’ said Bartholomew testily, indicating that the Master should return it to him. It was good wine. ‘Not on a thimbleful of claret. Are you nervous?’

‘A little,’ admitted Langelee. ‘It is the biggest camp-ball game of the season.’

‘Well, just be careful,’ said Bartholomew, finishing the wine and standing to leave. ‘We do not want anything to happen to you.’

‘Nothing will happen to me,’ declared Langelee, following him across the yard. ‘But the opposition had better watch themselves. The Carmelites have recruited two of the louts from Chestre Hostel, and if they try anything sly, they will be sorry.’

‘There is no evidence that it was Chestre who stole the gates,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Langelee might decide to punish the outrage on the field. ‘It may have been someone else.’

‘Of course it was them,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘They have always hated us.’

Bartholomew looked uncomfortably at the yawning gap in the College’s defences as they passed through it. It was disconcerting, and he felt acutely vulnerable, despite the student-guards on patrol.

‘Do you know how the two Orders came to challenge each other to an annual camp-ball game in the first place?’ he asked, as they walked up St Michael’s Lane.

‘After the plague, life was bleak, so the Gilbertines decided to cheer everyone up. They settled on sponsoring a bout of camp-ball because it is popular with townsfolk, as well as scholars. The Carmelites thought it a wonderful idea, and offered to fund the opposing team.’

‘And it always takes place on the day after the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham?’

‘Yes,’ said Langelee. ‘Because he founded the Gilbertine Order, and the canons are always in the mood for a bit of celebration around this time of year.’

When they arrived, Langelee led the way to the large expanse of land behind the priory buildings, where the event was due to take place. Some games used the whole town as a playing field, but the canons were aware that this could prove dangerous to innocent bystanders, so, in the interests of safety, they had opted to confine the action to a limited area.

The players had assembled in two knots, about thirty men in each. One group wore white sashes, to indicate they were fighting for the Carmelites, while the other had donned black for the Gilbertines. Langelee abandoned Bartholomew and raced towards the latter, tying a strip of dark material around his waist as he did so.

Spectators were also gathering, forming a thick rim around the edge of the field. Although he had certainly been aware of the game being played in recent years, something had always happened to prevent him from attending them – emergencies with patients, or duties in Michaelhouse – so it was the first time he had ever been to one, and he was astonished by the number of people who had abandoned work to enjoy themselves there. He estimated there were at least a thousand of them. Many were townsmen, and he was surprised when he saw his sister and her husband standing to one side, waving small white flags. He had not known they favoured the Carmelites over the Gilbertines, and wondered why.

Unfortunately, the game had also attracted the kind of students who were enjoying the hostel–College dispute. The feisty lads from Essex Hostel were there, and Michael and his beadles were struggling to keep them apart from the boys of Gonville Hall. Meanwhile, noisy contingents from Maud’s, Batayl and York hostels were standing provocatively close to equally belligerent representatives from Peterhouse and the Hall of Valence Marie.

Emma de Colvyll and her household were also present, and had secured themselves a pleasantly sheltered spot under some trees. Emma, clad in a black cloak and perched on a high stool, looked more like a spider than ever, and Bartholomew noticed that she was being given a very wide berth by the other spectators. Odelina and Celia sat on either side of her, while their retainers stood in a row behind. They all carried white banners, and when Leccheworth happened to stroll past, Bartholomew idly asked what he had done to turn Emma against his Order.

‘There are two reasons why she dislikes us,’ explained the Prior, running a hand through his curiously raven locks. ‘First, because Heslarton is playing for the Carmelites, and second, because of Edmund House.’ He pointed to the abandoned property at the far end of the field. ‘I told you the last time you were here how we were forced to sell it to her during the Death.’

‘You said you were unsure why she will not sell it back to you now.’

Leccheworth nodded. ‘And I remain unsure. I can only surmise she is doing it to show everyone that she does as she pleases, and does not care who she offends or annoys.’

He took Bartholomew to meet the teams. Among the Gilbertines’ champions was Yffi, who studiously avoided Bartholomew’s eye, knowing he should not be playing camp-ball when he was supposed to be working on Michaelhouse’s roof. The giant Brother Jude stood next to him, fierce and unsmiling. Langelee was near the ale-bellied Gib and the scowling Neyll from Chestre, and Bartholomew experienced a twinge of unease when he caught Neyll glaring at the Master. Would they use the game to harm him? But there was no time to warn Langelee, because Leccheworth was pulling him away to greet the opposition.

The Carmelites had recruited Poynton, Heslarton and a number of loutish lads from Essex, Cosyn’s and St Thomas’s hostels. They exuded a sense of grim purpose, although Heslarton hopped from foot to foot to indicate his delight at the prospect of some serious rough and tumble. His bald head gleamed pinkly, and his roguish smile revealed a number of missing teeth. Bartholomew took the opportunity to ask a few questions when he found himself next to the man and no one else appeared to be listening.

‘I understand you sold Drax a pilgrim badge,’ he began. ‘Why was–’

‘I did not!’ exclaimed Heslarton, regarding him belligerently. ‘I am a businessman, not a priest, and holy objects can be dangerous in the wrong hands. I leave such items well alone.’

Bartholomew frowned. Was he telling the truth? He recalled that it was Thelnetham who had identified the seller; Clippesby had been unable to do so. Could the Gilbertine have been mistaken? He was spared from thinking of a reply, because Poynton bustled forward, shoving roughly past Heslarton, whose eyebrows went up at the needless jostling.

‘Your friend the monk is worthless – it has been four days since my badge was stolen.’ Poynton drew himself up to his full height. ‘But I have taken matters into my own hands. By representing St Simon Stock’s Order in this game, I shall win his approbation, and he will deliver the badge back to me by divine means. He told me as much in a dream.’

‘St Simon Stock appeared to you?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing it was only ever a matter of time before pilgrims began claiming miracles and visions. For many, visiting a shrine was an intensely moving experience, and he knew that alone was enough to affect impressionable minds.

Poynton waved his hand. ‘Well, it was more of a nightmare, to be honest – one I had just a few moments ago, as I was lying down to summon my strength for the game – but I woke certain he applauds my decision to play. My fellow pilgrims agree with my interpretation, and are here to cheer me on.’

He gestured to where the two nuns stood shivering together, looking very much as though they wished they were somewhere else. Fen was with them, his expression distant and distracted. They stood with a massive contingent of White Friars that included Horneby, whose neck was swathed in scarves to protect it from the cold. Welfry was next to him. He yelled something to the Carmelite team, and they responded with a rousing cheer. Horneby started to add something else, but Welfry rounded on him quickly, warning him to save his voice.

‘Are you sure you should be playing today?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to Poynton. ‘The game is practised very roughly in Cambridge, and your health is not–’

‘My health is none of your concern,’ snapped Poynton furiously. ‘How dare you infer that I might have a disease! I am as hale and hearty as the next man.’

He turned abruptly and stalked away. Bartholomew was familiar with patients refusing to accept the seriousness of their condition, but even the most stubborn ones tended not to use camp-ball games to challenge what their bodies were trying to tell them. But it was none of his affair, and he turned his attention to the spectators who lined the field.

The townsmen among them were exchanging friendly banter, while the Carmelites and Gilbertines appeared to be on friendly terms. On the surface, all seemed amiable, but he was acutely aware of undercurrents. Scholars were coagulating in identifiable factions, while all was not entirely peaceful on the field, either. Neyll and Gib were scowling at Langelee, who was berating a resentful Yffi for abandoning his work on the roof. Meanwhile, Poynton had jostled Heslarton a second time, earning himself a black glare.

With a sense of foreboding, Bartholomew wondered how many of them would walk away unscathed when the game was over.

There was nothing to do until the contest started, so Bartholomew went to stand with his colleagues from Michaelhouse. He was unsettled to note that Kendale had taken up station not far away, and was regarding them in a manner that was distinctly hostile.

‘Where is Suttone?’ he asked worriedly, aware that one of their number was missing.

‘Headache,’ explained Michael. ‘I do not blame him. He is a Carmelite, but the Master of his College is playing for the Gilbertines. Deciding which team to support would not have been easy.’

‘I disagree,’ said Thelnetham coldly. ‘It should be very easy: his first loyalty should be to his Order – the organisation in which he took his sacred vows. Mine certainly is.’

‘Heslarton,’ said Bartholomew, before the others could take issue with him. ‘Are you sure it was he you saw selling Drax the pilgrim badge? Only I have just asked him and he denies it.’

‘Of course he denies it,’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘He is frightened of his evil mother-in-law, and will not want her to know what he has been doing in his spare time.’

‘He is not frightened of her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On the contrary, they are fond of each other.’

‘I am sure they are,’ said Thelnetham curtly. ‘But that does not mean he is not also terrified.’

He stalked away towards his brethren. Bartholomew watched him go, thinking, not for the first time, that he was not sure what to make of Thelnetham. But it was no time to ponder the Gilbertine, and he was more immediately concerned with the camp-ball game.

‘A lot of people who do not like each other are here today,’ he remarked to Michael.

‘I know,’ replied Michael. ‘And Essex, York, Batayl and Maud’s are using the occasion to encourage other hostels to join their campaign against the Colleges. But my beadles are watching, so there should be no trouble – among the onlookers, at least. The field is another matter, but you are here to set bones and mend wounds.’

Bartholomew turned as Gyseburne, Meryfeld and Rougham approached. All three wore rich cloaks and thick tunics, and he felt poor and shabby by comparison, reminded that everyone except him seemed able to make a princely living from medicine.

‘We came to congratulate you on your appointment as Official Physician,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It is a lucrative post, because not only does it carry a remuneration of three shillings, but the injured – and they will be myriad – will need follow-up consultations later.’

Bartholomew regarded him in dismay, wondering how he was going to fit them all in. Seeing his alarm, a triumphant expression flashed across Rougham’s face.

‘We will help,’ he offered smoothly, speaking as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘Most players can afford to pay for post-game horoscopes, so we do not anticipate problems with taking some of them off your hands. As a personal favour, of course.’

‘It will be no bother,’ added Meryfeld, rubbing his hands together, although Gyseburne would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘We are all happy to help a busy colleague.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, supposing they intended to leave him the ones with no money – and he could not refuse their ‘kindness’, because he simply did not have time for new patients. He turned back to his Michaelhouse friends, feeling that at least they were not trying to cheat him.

‘It is to be savage-camp,’ said Langelee gleefully, coming to join them. ‘This will be fun!’

‘What is savage-camp?’ asked Ayera warily.

‘It means we can kick the ball, which is known as “kicking camp”, but we keep our boots on, which makes it savage,’ explained Langelee. ‘Leccheworth and Etone wanted us to remove our footwear, but I persuaded them that it is too cold.’ He grinned. ‘This is my favourite form of the game!’

Bartholomew was alarmed. It was not unknown for men to die playing savage-camp. He wondered what the two priors thought they were doing by agreeing to such a measure. He started to object, but Michael, who was watching the spectators, narrowed his eyes suddenly.

‘What is he doing?’

Everyone looked to where he pointed, and saw Fen with his arms around the two pilgrim nuns. The women appeared to be enjoying themselves, although most of Fen’s attention was on Kendale, who was talking to him.

‘They complained about the cold,’ explained Clippesby. For some reason known only to himself, he had brought two chickens with him, both fitted with tiny leather halters to keep them from wandering away. They scratched the grass around his feet. ‘So he is trying to warm them up.’

‘And I am the Pope,’ said Michael. ‘What is he really doing? Seducing two women of God?’

‘It is more likely to be the other way around,’ said Langelee. ‘They asked him to warm them. I have met them on several occasions, and they made no secret of the fact that they want to bed me.’

‘Really, Master!’ exclaimed William, expressing the astonishment of all the Fellows at this bald announcement. ‘The things you say!’

‘I only speak the truth,’ shrugged Langelee.

But Michael was more interested in the pardoner. ‘Kendale and Fen are prime suspects in the killer-thief case. What are they saying to each other? Can anyone read lips?’

‘Would you like my hens to ease forward and listen?’ offered Clippesby. ‘They are good at–’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Stay away from them, Clippesby. I do not want you hurt.’

‘Fen will not hurt anyone,’ objected Clippesby, startled. ‘He is a good man!’

‘Pardoners are, by definition, evil, ruthless and unscrupulous, and they prey on the vulnerable and weak,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly. ‘It does not surprise me at all to see this one engage in sly exchanges with a man who is exacerbating the hostel–College dispute.’

‘Kendale is aggravating the trouble,’ agreed William soberly. ‘The hostels have always been jealous of the Colleges, but they have never taken against us en masse before. He will have our streets running with blood before too long.’

Bartholomew had a bad feeling William might be right.

The Gilbertines’ field afforded scant protection from the wind that sliced in from the north, and the pilgrim nuns were not the only ones who were cold. Everywhere, people began stamping their feet and flapping their arms in an effort to keep warm. Unfortunately, there was some technical problem with the pitch, and the game was delayed until it could be resolved. Langelee tried to explain what was happening, but none of his Fellows understood what he was talking about.

‘Tell Horneby this is no place for a man with a bad throat,’ begged Welfry, coming to grab Bartholomew’s arm while they waited. His face was taut with concern. ‘We do not want a relapse.’

Bartholomew agreed, and followed him to where the Carmelites were huddled together in a futile attempt to stave off the chill.

‘Tell me how you came to lose your signaculum,’ he said as they walked. ‘Michael is looking into similar thefts, you see.’

‘I heard,’ said Welfry. ‘But I doubt my testimony will help – it all happened so fast. I was returning from visiting Horneby when a yellow-headed man shoved me against a wall and demanded that I hand it over. I am ashamed to say I did as he ordered without demur. I was a rank coward!’

‘You did the right thing – no bauble is worth your life. Could you tell whether he wore a wig?’

Welfry frowned. ‘It did not look like a wig, but as I said, it all happened very fast.’

‘Then can you describe him?’

‘Not really – average weight and height, rough voice, very strong hands. However, I can say he was wholly unfamiliar to me, and I have a good memory for faces. He is no one I have met before.’

‘Who, then? A visiting pilgrim?’

‘It is possible, although I would not have thought so. Such folk come to beg forgiveness, not to compound their sins by committing new ones.’

‘Is your hand paining you today?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You keep rubbing it.’

‘You are observant.’ Welfry flexed his gloved hand as he smiled. ‘I chafe it without thinking when the weather is cold, lest it freeze without my noticing – I no longer have any feeling in it, you see. It happened once before, and thawing it afterwards was excruciating.’

‘There are poultices that may help with that. I could make you some.’

‘Would you?’ asked Welfry hopefully. ‘I would be grateful, but we had better leave it until you are not so busy.’ He smiled again. ‘My motives are selfish, of course. If you have more time, you might be inclined to linger and discuss natural philosophy with me. But here is Horneby, and his health is rather more pressing than mine at the moment.’

‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew, when Horneby heard the last part of Welfry’s remark and groaned. ‘Windy fields in the middle of winter are not good places for men with sore throats.’

‘I no longer have a sore throat,’ objected Horneby. ‘Besides, I want to see the game.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘Why? It promises to be bloody.’

Horneby grinned mischievously. ‘The unruly youth who caused you so much trouble in the past is not quite gone yet. I still enjoy a bit of a skirmish.’

It was an odd thing for a friar to admit, and Bartholomew was starting to tell him this, when there was a shout to say that the problem with the pitch had been resolved, and the game could begin. Priors Etone and Leccheworth summoned both teams to the centre of the field and, as an official, Bartholomew was ordered to go, too. So was Michael, who had been chosen for the role of ‘Indifferent Man’ – the neutral person who would toss the ball into the air and start the game. The ball was an inflated pig’s bladder, which someone had painted to look like a severed head. The artist had been uncannily accurate, even down to the red paint around the base, to represent blood.

‘You are not supposed to be armed,’ objected Bartholomew, eyeing with dismay the arsenal most players carried: knives, sharp sticks, pieces of chain, and lumps of metal that allowed the holder to pack more of a punch.

‘But weapons are part of the game,’ declared Langelee, who was one of the most heavily laden.

‘I am not wasting my day tending wounds that can be avoided,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘So you can all disarm, or I am going home.’

‘You will have to do as he asks, because you cannot play without a physician,’ said Prior Leccheworth, while Etone nodded agreement. Both seemed pleased by Bartholomew’s ultimatum. ‘It is against the rules.’

‘Damn you for a killjoy, Bartholomew,’ muttered Langelee, as he began to do as he was told. Resentfully, the other players did likewise, and soon there was a huge pile of armaments at the physician’s feet. Most dashed away to take their places before they could be searched for more, and Bartholomew was sure they had not given up everything they had secreted about them. Unfortunately, he was equally sure that there was not much more he could do about it.

‘Prior Etone and I are obliged to remind you of the rules,’ announced Leccheworth eventually to the participants. ‘Not that there are many. Well, two and an optional one, to be precise.’

‘First, each team has two goals,’ continued Etone. ‘The object of the game is to pass the ball into your own goals, and to prevent the opposition from getting the ball into theirs.’

‘Second, there will be no biting,’ continued Leccheworth. ‘And third, if you would not mind, no swearing, either. This is a convent, and I do not want my novices hearing anything uncouth.’

‘Right you are then, Father,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘We shall take our positions, and the game will be under way as soon as the ball leaves the hand of the Indifferent Man, who is Michael this year. In the meantime, I advise you and Bartholomew to leave the field with all possible speed.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael uneasily. ‘You told me all the Indifferent Man has to do is throw the ball in the air, and walk back to the side.’

‘Running to the side would be safer,’ said Neyll with a nasty grin. ‘As fast as you can.’

The teams lined up about ten yards distant from each other. As soon as Bartholomew and the priors left, the competitors issued a great roar that seemed to make the ground tremble. The Indifferent Man hurled the ball into the air, and all the players immediately began to converge on it. Bartholomew started back in alarm when he saw Michael was going to be crushed under the onslaught, but Etone stopped him. The two sides met with a crash that reminded the physician painfully of the Battle of Poitiers.

‘Michael does not look very “indifferent” now,’ chortled Leccheworth, as the monk disappeared in a mêlée of flailing arms and legs. ‘I have never seen a man look so frightened!’

Bartholomew tried to free himself, to go to his friend’s aid, but Etone held tight. Then Michael appeared, clawing his way free of the frenzy. He made a determined dash for safety, but Neyll emerged from the scrimmage and stuck out a sly foot. Unfortunately for the Bible Scholar, once Michael’s bulk was on the move, it was not easily stopped, and it was Neyll who went sprawling.

It did not take Bartholomew long to decide that camp-ball was not very interesting as a spectator sport. All that could be seen most of the time was a pile of heaving bodies, and he rarely knew where the ball was. He suspected the same was true for the players, and that they had forgotten their goals in the general enjoyment of punching, kicking and slapping each other.

His skills were needed almost immediately. First, Brother Jude was knocked senseless, then Gib hobbled from the field, howling in agony.

‘What is wrong?’ shouted Bartholomew, struggling to make himself heard over the Chestre man’s screeches. There was nothing obviously amiss, and he was not sure what he was expected to do.

‘My leg is broken, of course!’ bellowed Gib. ‘Call yourself a physician?’

‘It is not broken,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It is not even bruised.’

‘It is snapped in two!’ Gib was making such a fuss that more people were watching him than the game. ‘And you are only pretending there is nothing wrong because you made yourself sick on our wine last night. It is vengeance!’

Bartholomew was about to deny the charge, when the action on the field came to a sudden stop. He glanced across to see some players milling around aimlessly, while the others had formed a massive heap. They untangled themselves slowly, but the one at the very bottom of the pile lay still. Neyll shouted that he was holding up the action, and prodded the inert figure with his foot. Before the Scot could do any damage, Bartholomew abandoned Gib and ran towards them.

Before he was halfway there, he could see it was Poynton, identifiable by his fine clothes, now sadly stained with mud. He reached the victim and dropped to his knees. But there was nothing he could do to help, because Poynton was dead.

Although fatalities were not uncommon in camp-ball, it was the first time Bartholomew had had to deal with one, and he found it an unsettling experience. He called for a stretcher, and escorted the body from the field. He expected the game to end there and then, and was startled when there was a call for the return of the Indifferent Man so it could begin afresh.

‘But a player is dead,’ he objected, shocked.

‘And the Indifferent Man intends to investigate the matter,’ added Michael.

‘Of course,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘Do not let us interfere. Father William, how would you like the honour of being indifferent, given that Michael declines? You can run fast, I believe.’

‘This is hardly seemly, Prior Leccheworth,’ declared Michael, watching in horror as William trotted out on to the field to oblige. ‘It is–’

‘I dare not stop it,’ whispered Leccheworth, his face white against his black hair. ‘There is nothing in the rules – such as they are – that says a game must be aborted in the event of a death. And people have been looking forward to this match for weeks. There would be a riot!’

‘He is right,’ agreed Etone. ‘There must be upwards of a thousand people here, including the kind of apprentices and students who react badly to disappointment. It will be better for everyone if we let the game continue. But it is a shame the casualty is Poynton: corpses do not make benefactions.’

His fellow Carmelites had a rather more compassionate attitude to the pilgrim’s demise, and they and Welfry were already on their knees, intoning prayers for the dead. They were joined by most of the Gilbertines, although Thelnetham was not among them. He was nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew wondered where he had gone.

Michael wanted Bartholomew to examine Poynton’s body before it was taken away, but the physician had the living to tend. Within moments, he was obliged to bandage a cut in Heslarton’s arm, and apply a poultice to Neyll’s knee. Kendale came to stand next to his fallen Bible Scholar, gripping his shoulder encouragingly. Gib, on the other hand, had recovered from his ‘broken’ leg and had rejoined the game, throwing punches with unrestrained enthusiasm.

‘Treat Neyll gently, physician,’ ordered Kendale, his breath hot on Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Chestre will not countenance any roughness. And you need not bother to tend my injured hand again, because Meryfeld has offered to do it.’

Neyll grinned malevolently. ‘I told him I would burn down his house if he refused, and he was not sure whether I was in jest or not. He agreed, just to be on the safe side.’

Bartholomew ignored them both, too busy to bandy words. When Michael saw Kendale looming over his friend in a manner he deemed threatening, he hurried over.

‘Step away, Kendale,’ he ordered. ‘And incidentally, I expect our gates to be returned by this evening. If you do not oblige, I will see Chestre closed down, and your pupils sent home.’

‘Will you indeed?’ drawled Kendale. ‘Well, unfortunately for you, you have no evidence that we are the culprits, and you cannot suppress a hostel on a suspicion. If you even attempt it, I shall inform the King – I have kin at court, so you can be sure my threat is not an idle one. Besides, we are innocent.’

‘Then who is responsible?’ demanded Michael.

Kendale shrugged. ‘I imagine a brash College like Michaelhouse has all manner of enemies, and Chestre is not the only hostel that would like to see it cut down to size.’

Michael glared at him, then turned on Neyll. ‘What can you tell me about Poynton’s death? You were on the field, so what did you see?’

A spiteful expression suffused the Bible Scholar’s face. ‘I saw Master Langelee paying rather close attention to Poynton before the mishap. Perhaps you should question him. I, however, was nowhere near the pilgrim when he died.’

‘Neyll is lying,’ said Bartholomew, after Kendale had helped his student limp away. ‘He was near Poynton, because he was one of those extricated from the pile. I saw Yffi help him up.’

‘Why should he lie?’ asked Michael worriedly. ‘Did he crush Poynton deliberately and is trying to ensure we do not prosecute him? Of course, malicious intent would be difficult to prove, given the level of violence on the field today.’

‘Difficult to disprove, too,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But Neyll was right about one thing: Langelee was by Poynton during the fatal skirmish. If we accuse Chestre, they will almost certainly respond with similar claims about our Master.’

‘And anyone who knows Langelee will be aware of his penchant for savagery,’ concluded Michael. ‘Damn them! They will use Langelee’s wild reputation to protect themselves.’