The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 7

It felt like an age until a bell rang to announce the game was over. The uninjured players – down to about ten per team – left the field slapping each other’s shoulders in manly bonhomie. Langelee, smeared in blood, though none of it was his own, came to greet his colleagues with a beaming grin.

‘By God, I enjoyed that,’ he declared. ‘I am sorry about Poynton, though. Was his neck broken or was he crushed? I have known both to happen before, which is why I am careful never to end up on the bottom of those piles.’

‘You enjoyed it?’ cried Thelnetham in disbelief. ‘But our team lost! You only managed three goals, whereas the Carmelites scored ten. It was what is known in military terms as a rout.’

‘Rubbish!’ cried Langelee. ‘We were the better players. Goals are not everything, you know.’

‘I think you will find they are,’ countered Thelnetham. He brushed himself down fussily, and Bartholomew wondered again where he had been earlier, when his brethren had been praying over Poynton’s corpse. ‘At least, they are if you are trying to win.’

‘Were there goals?’ asked William. ‘I did not see any. And to be honest, I would not have known who had won, either, if Prior Leccheworth had not announced the result. As far as I could tell, it was just a lot of skirmishing. Indeed, I am not even sure the ball was involved in the last part. It seemed to be lying forgotten at the edge of the field.’

‘Did any of you see what happened to Poynton?’ Michael asked.

‘He caught the ball, and went down under a wave of men,’ replied Thelnetham promptly. ‘The first four to reach him were Master Langelee, Yffi, Neyll and Heslarton.’

‘Heslarton?’ asked William. ‘But he was on Poynton’s side! Why should he join the scrum?’

‘One forgets these niceties in the heat of the moment,’ explained Langelee. ‘But do not ask me about it, Brother. There were so many scrimmages today that I cannot recall one from another.’

Michael walked to where Yffi was standing with his apprentices, being commiserated because his team had lost.

‘At least we killed one of the bastards,’ Yffi was saying viciously. ‘And I am not sure I believe Prior Etone’s claim that his team got ten goals, because I did not see any of them. Of course, I did not see the three we had, either…’

‘You were among the first to reach Poynton when he caught the ball,’ said Michael, launching immediately into an interrogation. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Yffi scratched his head with a rough, callused hand. ‘Langelee, Neyll and I raced to get it back. So did Heslarton, although he was on Poynton’s side, and was supposed to be protecting him. But it is difficult to remember who is who on these occasions, so you should not hold it against him.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, thus indicating he would think what he pleased.

‘Then others hurled themselves on the pile, and I suppose Poynton could not breathe under the weight of the bodies,’ continued Yffi. ‘It would not be the first time, nor will it be the last.’

While Bartholomew treated a staggering array of gashes, grazes and bruises, assisted none too ably by Rougham, Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Michael continued to ask questions. Everyone’s story – players and spectators alike – was the same: Poynton had died because the human body was not designed to be trapped under so much weight.

When the monk had satisfied himself that there was no more to be learned from witnesses, he turned his attention to the body, only to find that Welfry and Horneby had organised a bier, and were already carrying it to the Carmelite Priory. He hurried after them, arriving just as they were setting the corpse before the altar. Fen and the two nuns were with them, and when they had finished, the pardoner stepped forward and gently laid a badge on Poynton’s chest.

‘That is a Holy Land cross,’ said Horneby softly, eyeing it in awe. ‘From Jerusalem.’

‘It was his favourite,’ said Fen in a broken voice. ‘We have been travelling together for years, and I shall miss him terribly. I shall undertake to return his belongings to his family myself, especially his signacula. It is what he would have wanted.’

‘Would he?’ asked Horneby. ‘You do not think he might prefer to leave one or two of the valuable ones here? He was talking about helping us rebuild our shrine, and I speak not because I want his money, but because we must ensure that we follow his wishes.’

‘Right,’ murmured Fen flatly. ‘But we should let his kin decide how to honour him.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘As a pardoner, you sell pilgrim tokens, do you not?’

Fen regarded him coolly. ‘On occasion, but I assure you, that is not the reason I want to assume possession of Poynton’s. My motives are honourable.’

‘Of course they are,’ said Welfry soothingly, speaking before Michael could respond. ‘But this is not the place to discuss such matters. Will you join me in a prayer for his soul?’

Without appearing insensitive, no one had any choice but to agree, so Michael, Horneby, Fen and the nuns knelt while Welfry began to intone several lengthy petitions. It was cold in the chapel, and the three surviving pilgrims were openly relieved when at last he finished. They took their leave quickly, and Michael watched them go with narrowed eyes.

‘They are chilled to the bone, Brother,’ said Horneby, seeing what he was thinking. ‘It has been a long afternoon, and the wind was biting. I understand why they are eager to find a fire.’

Welfry agreed. ‘They are running to warm themselves, not to paw through Poynton’s things.’

‘My poor friend!’ said Horneby, regarding the Dominican sheepishly. ‘You came today because I promised you some fun, to make up for the distress of losing your signaculum, but I suspect you feel you have been most shamelessly misled.’

Welfry nodded unhappily. ‘Watching men punch and kick each other is not my idea of entertainment, and I am sorry for Poynton. There was nothing to laugh about this afternoon.’

‘Then let us remedy that,’ said Horneby. ‘Father William has given me a theological tract to read – one he penned himself. I warrant there will be something in that to bring a smile to your face.’

Welfry did not look convinced, but allowed himself to be led away, leaving Michael alone with Poynton. The monk stared down at the arrogant, unattractive face for a long time, grateful the death was an accident, and not something else he would have to investigate. Eventually, Bartholomew arrived, looking for him.

‘You had better examine Poynton,’ Michael said tiredly. ‘The Gilbertine Priory counts as University land, because some of its canons are scholars. His death comes under our jurisdiction.’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically. ‘I am cold, wet and tired.’

‘So am I,’ snapped Michael. ‘But I will need a cause of death for my records, and I would like the matter concluded today. Then I can concentrate on catching the killer-thief and preventing the Colleges and hostels from tearing each other apart.’

With a sigh of resignation, Bartholomew obliged, but soon forgot his discomfort when he discovered what lay beneath the fine garments. He had suspected Poynton was ill, but he was appalled to learn the extent to which disease had ravaged its victim. He regarded the pilgrim with compassion, feeling it went some way to explaining why Poynton had been so irascible. It also explained why he had devoted so much time to pilgrimage – and why he had been so distressed when his signaculum had been stolen. Doubtless he knew he was living on borrowed time and would soon need any blessings such items might confer on their owners.

‘Well?’ Michael asked, impatient to be gone. ‘Which was it? Crushing or a broken neck?’

‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew, tearing his thoughts away from Poynton’s sickness to more practical matters. ‘He died from a knife in the heart.’

There was silence in the Carmelite chapel after Bartholomew made his announcement. In the distance, Welfry was laughing, his voice a merry chime above Horneby’s deeper chuckle. Etone and some of his friars were chanting a mass in the shrine, and a cockerel crowed in the yard.

‘I have spoken to dozens of witnesses who tell me otherwise,’ said Michael eventually.

‘I cannot help that, Brother. The fact is that his neck is not broken, and there is no significant damage to his chest – other than the fact that someone has shoved a knife through it. He was also mortally sick, although that has no bearing on his demise.’

‘Murder?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘In front of a thousand spectators and sixty players?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Or accident. The competitors were ordered to disarm before the game, but most managed to keep hold of at least one weapon. Then, during that colossal scrum, a blade may have slipped from its hiding place and into Poynton without its owner knowing anything about it.’

‘But it is equally possible that he may have been killed on purpose?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But Poynton’s body cannot tell us which.’

Michael grimaced. ‘I do not believe in coincidences, and it seems suspicious to me that he should be the one to die – a victim of the signaculum-snatcher. Or an alleged victim, at least.’

‘He was on your list of suspects as the killer-thief,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘On the grounds that he poked his head around our College gates the morning Drax was dumped there.’

‘Along with Fen and those two horrible nuns.’ Michael sighed, and closed his eyes wearily. ‘Damn! The Carmelites will be outraged when they learn a potential benefactor has been unlawfully slain, and may blame the Gilbertines – Yffi, Neyll and Langelee, all members of the Gilbertines’ side, were the first to jump on Poynton, after all. There will be trouble for certain.’

‘Heslarton jumped on him, too, and he was playing for the Carmelites. But to be honest, I do not think anyone cared who was on whose team. The whole thing was just an excuse for a brawl.’

Michael’s anxieties intensified. ‘The Carmelites have always sided with the Colleges, while the Gilbertines prefer the hostels. Etone and Leccheworth – both sensible men – usually intervene if the rivalry turns sour, but if rabble-rousers like Kendale learn what happened to Poynton, the ill feeling between the two convents may escalate beyond their control.’

‘Then we had better keep the matter to ourselves until we understand exactly what happened. If we ever do – this will be not be an easy nut to crack. Incidentally, I heard Trinity Hall discussing Jolye again today.’

‘Jolye?’ asked Michael. ‘The lad who drowned after playing the prank with the balanced boats?’

‘Yes. You recorded it as an accident, but Trinity Hall is now braying that he was murdered by a hostel. I told them there was no evidence to suggest such a thing, but you know how these rumours take on a life of their own, especially when fuelled by unscrupulous men.’

‘Men like Kendale,’ sighed Michael. ‘So who killed Poynton, do you think?’

Bartholomew considered carefully before replying. ‘Just before the fatal scrimmage, Gib claimed to have broken his leg. He made a terrible fuss, although there was nothing wrong with him, and within a few moments he was back on the field.’

‘What are you saying? That he created a distraction, to allow an accomplice to commit murder?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neyll was one of the four who first hurled themselves on Poynton. However, although a lot of people watched Gib’s curious antics, not everyone did – so if it was a diversion, it was not a very effective one. I am not sure what to think, Brother. Perhaps Gib is just one of those players who enjoys making a scene over a scratch.’

Michael looked tired. ‘But regardless, we have another suspicious death to investigate?’

‘If it was suspicious. Accidents are not uncommon in camp-ball.’

‘Perhaps that is what someone hopes we will think. But the Senior Proctor will not be manipulated. If Poynton was murdered, I shall find out.’

They left the chapel just as the three pilgrims were emerging from the refectory, one nun still chewing vigorously. Clearly, Poynton’s death had not deprived the visitors of their appetites. The trio began to hurry towards the guest house, where smoke billowing from a chimney said a fire had been lit within. Michael muttered to Bartholomew that he had not yet had the chance to interrogate them properly, and intercepted them.

‘Were any of you watching the camp-ball when Poynton died?’ he asked, after some strained pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘Or were you more intent on talking to devious characters like Kendale?’

‘Is Kendale devious?’ asked Fen in surprise. ‘He is a scholar, so I assumed he was decent.’

Bartholomew looked hard at him, wondering if he was being facetious, but found he could not tell. Michael’s eyes narrowed, though.

‘What were you discussing?’ he demanded.

‘That is none of your business,’ replied Fen sharply. Then he rubbed his face with a hand that shook. ‘Forgive me. It is shock speaking – as I said, Poynton and I have travelled together for a long time, and his death has distressed me. Kendale asked whether I could locate Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo for him. I deal in books occasionally, you see.’

‘It is true,’ said the nun called Agnes. Or was it Margaret? She pulled a disagreeable face. ‘The conversation went on for some time, and we were ignored.’

Michael changed the subject abruptly. ‘What did you see when Poynton died?’

Margaret smiled coyly. ‘Very little, because we were huddled inside Master Fen’s cloak.’

‘When he was in it, too,’ simpered Agnes. ‘It meant our vision was limited.’

Fen cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Most of my attention was on Kendale, but I did happen to glance at the field during the fatal skirmish. Unfortunately, all I saw was a flurry of arms and legs. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. And now I shall bid you good evening.’

He bowed politely, and walked towards the guest house. The two nuns scurried after him, trying to catch up so they could cling to his arms. Michael watched them go, hands on hips.

‘Fen is a liar,’ he declared. ‘Moreover, he intends to deflower those silly ladies, if he has not done so already. I could see the lust shining in his eyes.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is not interested in them, and the gleam you saw was tears of grief. He was fond of Poynton, and is genuinely distressed by his death.’

‘Rubbish! You are too easily swayed by a pleasant face and courtly manners.’

‘And you are too easily influenced by a man’s profession,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Not all pardoners cheat their customers, and Fen is a pilgrim. Pilgrims generally avoid committing crimes while they are conducting major acts of penitence.’

‘How do you know Fen is a genuine pilgrim? Perhaps his real intention was to befriend Poynton and lay hold of his signacula the moment this disease claimed his life.’

‘I do not believe it. And Fen can have nothing to do with Poynton’s death, because he was on the sidelines when Poynton was stabbed.’

‘Killers can be bought,’ argued Michael. ‘And for a small fraction of what Fen stands to earn from selling Poynton’s signacula. He is implicated in this death, Matt. I am sure of it.’

Their debate was cut short by the arrival of Cynric. He was mud-smeared, and Bartholomew suspected he had been enjoying a celebratory ale with the camp-ball players in the King’s Head.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Michael, putting out his hand suddenly. ‘Rain! My room will be awash!’

‘It will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because the sheet over your ceiling will not repel anything more than a shower, and I suspect we are in for a good downpour tonight.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But I came to tell you that Emma de Colvyll has summoned you, boy.’

‘She is no longer my patient,’ said Bartholomew, glad to be able to refuse her. ‘Meryfeld–’

‘The messenger said Meryfeld needs a second opinion. He wants you to go, too.’

Bartholomew had no desire to visit Emma. He was chilled through from an afternoon of kneeling in frost-encrusted grass to tend wounds, and he was still fragile from Chestre’s hospitality the night before. He felt like going home, to sit by the conclave fire and enjoy the comforting, familiar conversation of his colleagues.

‘You had better go – your conscience will plague you all night if you do not,’ said Michael. ‘And while you are there, see if you can learn two things. First, the status of Heslarton’s enquiry into the yellow-headed thief. And second, whether it was Heslarton’s knife that killed Poynton.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ objected Bartholomew, not very happy about probing such delicate matters when the sinister Emma was likely to be present.

‘I am sure you will find a way,’ said Michael.

They parted company on the High Street. Bartholomew knocked on Emma’s door, which was opened by the chubby-faced maid. She conducted him to the solar where her mistress spent most of her time. Emma was sitting by the hearth, black eyes glittering in the firelight. Celia Drax, elegant and laconic, was sewing in the window, while Heslarton sat opposite her, honing his sword. Their knees were touching, and Bartholomew recalled Agatha’s contention that they were lovers. There was no sign of Meryfeld.

‘Did you enjoy the camp-ball, Doctor?’ asked Heslarton, looking up from his whetting to grin. He seemed to have fewer teeth than when Bartholomew had last seen him. ‘Everyone says my two goals were the best of the day.’

‘I am sure they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Meryfeld?’

‘It was entertaining to see that pilgrim die,’ declared Emma, ignoring his question. ‘There is nothing like a death to liven up a game.’

Bartholomew had heard her make insensitive remarks before, but never one that was quite so brazenly callous. ‘Did you see what happened to him?’ he asked, struggling to mask his distaste.

Emma nodded smugly. ‘He caught the ball and went down under a wall of men. How did he die, Doctor? Was it crushing or a broken neck? Thomas and I have a small wager on it, you see, and I would like the matter resolved tonight, so I can gloat over him when he is proven wrong.’

‘I forgot he was on my side, and ran to grab the ball,’ said Heslarton, either uncaring of or oblivious to Bartholomew’s grimace of distaste at Emma’s confession. ‘By the time I realised my mistake, Langelee, Yffi and Neyll were looming, and then everything happened very fast. There was a huge scrum, and it took ages to unravel it. Unfortunately, Poynton was at the bottom. Some players are heavy, so my money is on crushing.’

‘No – necks are easily broken,’ countered Emma. Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she knew. She flicked imperious fingers at him. ‘Well? Who is right?’

‘It is not something I am free to discuss,’ he replied coolly. ‘You are neither his friends nor his next of kin.’

‘Give him some wine,’ suggested Celia. ‘It may loosen his tongue.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what had happened to Alice and Odelina.

‘It is quite safe,’ said Emma, seeming to read his mind. ‘The servants threw away all the old stock, and everything is tasted before it comes to us now.’

‘Tasted by whom?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Emma smiled slyly. ‘Rats. Thomas keeps a ready supply of them in the cellar. And that yellow-headed thief will join them there when he is caught.’

Bartholomew stared at her, taking in the beady eyes and thin lips, devoid of humour and kindness, and was hard pressed to suppress a shudder. She appeared especially malevolent that evening, because her head was swathed in a curious back turban and it, combined with her round body and short, thin limbs, served to make her look more like a predatory insect than ever.

‘You are still hunting him, then?’ he forced himself to ask, although instinct urged him to race away as fast as his legs would carry him, and have nothing to do with her or her household.

‘Of course,’ said Heslarton. ‘He murdered my wife, hurt my daughter, and made off with my mother-in-law’s most treasured possessions. And he jostled Celia and stole her badge.’

‘You think the thief is the poisoner,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to make him think twice before doing anything rash. ‘You do not know it, not for certain.’

‘Of course it was him,’ countered Celia. ‘He was the only stranger to enter this house that day. Other than you, of course – the physician who dabbles in sorcery.’

‘I have no objection to sorcery,’ said Emma, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I employ it myself on occasion, and find it very useful. But Doctor Bartholomew did not contaminate the wine, Celia. I was with him the whole time he was here, and I would have noticed.’

‘I suppose you would,’ said Celia, rather ambiguously.

‘Where is Meryfeld?’ Bartholomew asked again, this time more firmly. He had better things to do than stand around and be insulted by Celia. ‘The messenger said he needed a second opinion.’

‘He does,’ said Emma. ‘He just does not know it yet. He calculated my horoscope, you see, but I am not very happy with it. I want you to make me another.’

Bartholomew regarded her with dislike, supposing the servant had been told to lie about Meryfeld’s complicity. He was annoyed by the deception, and determined not to oblige her.

‘You do not want a horoscope from me,’ he said frostily. ‘I make mistakes.’

‘You will not make mistakes in mine,’ said Emma, in the kind of voice that implied there would be trouble if he did. ‘No, do not edge towards the door, man! I want another one done, because Meryfeld’s said I had to go on a pilgrimage in order to get well. And I am not going anywhere.’

‘I cannot interfere,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘You are Meryfeld’s patient now, and I do not poach my colleagues’ clients.’

‘Why not? They poach from you,’ interjected Celia slyly. ‘They have stolen nearly all your rich customers, leaving you with just the poor ones. Here is your chance to pay them back.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And a pilgrimage will not cure you, Mistress Emma. Your tooth will continue to ache until it is pulled out.’

Emma shook her head in disbelief. ‘You earned my regard by saving Odelina – and I do not bestow my good opinion on many people. So why do you not strive to keep it? Most people would love to be in your position.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to reply, but rescue came in the form of Heslarton, who had tired of the discussion and suddenly stood up. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating violence, but the burly henchman merely indicated the stairs with a flick of his bald head.

‘Odelina took a chill this afternoon, and is asking for you. If you will not help my mother or settle our wager, then perhaps you will see to her instead. I will take you to her.’

‘Meryfeld will–’ began Bartholomew.

‘She does not want Meryfeld,’ said Heslarton. ‘She dislikes the way he keeps rubbing his filthy hands together, and I confess I see her point. The man gives me the shivers!’

Bartholomew did not want to visit Odelina, but decided a consultation was likely to be quicker than the argument that was going to arise from a refusal. It would not take him a moment to deal with a chill, after all. He followed Heslarton up the stairs to a fine chamber on the upper floor, where Odelina was reclining on a bed, clad in a tight, cream-coloured gown that put him in mind of a grub.

‘There you are, Doctor,’ she cooed, when her father had gone. ‘I thought you were not coming. Have you brought me a gift?’

‘A gift?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘That is the custom, is it not, when visiting the sick? To take a little something to make them feel better? A piece of jewellery, perhaps. Or some dried fruit.’

‘It is not the custom for physicians,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would hardly be practical!’

Odelina’s smile faded. ‘But surely, I am different from your other patients?’

While he struggled for a tactful response, Bartholomew’s eye fell on a book. It was one his sister had made him read to her many years before, and concerned a heroine with a tragic disease who was miraculously cured by a gift from a suitor. He glanced at Odelina’s clothes and posture, and was suddenly certain that she saw herself as the protagonist. With a sigh of irritation – she was surely too old for such games? – he resolved not to go along with the charade.

‘I am not well,’ she said feebly. Then her voice strengthened. ‘But I might feel better if you were to give me a talisman. You saved my life, thus forging a unique bond between us.’

‘It is not unique,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘All my patients are–’

‘I was almost at Heaven’s gates when you snatched me back,’ countered Odelina. ‘And that makes me special to you. I cannot imagine you rescue many patients from impending death?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Bartholomew, cornered. ‘Not many. But–’

‘Well, then.’ Odelina beamed, and she held out a plump hand. ‘Give me something of yours. Anything will do. A thread from your tabard, a scrap of your cloak.’

‘How about a remedy to make you sleep? I can tell your maid how to make it.’

Her face fell. ‘You are cruel! You know I do not want one of those!’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot start yanking my clothes apart for threads and scraps, anyway. They are old, and likely to fall off.’

The expression on her face made him wonder whether she found this notion as disagreeable as he thought she should have done.

‘Sing to me, then,’ she ordered. ‘I have heard that music helps the sick become well again, so it will be like dispensing medicine.’

‘I rarely sing.’ Bartholomew had had enough of her. ‘And loud noises are dangerous after catching chills at camp-ball games. So are long visits from physicians. Sleep now. Goodnight.’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, hurrying through the wet streets and grateful to be away from Emma’s stronghold. He stepped through the great gap where the gates had hung, nodding to the student-guards, and walked across the yard to his room. He found Valence there, working on yet another exercise that should have been completed the previous day.

‘There has been quite a commotion here tonight, sir,’ the student said, seeing where his teacher was looking and hastening to distract him. ‘Rain seeped through the sheet in Brother Michael’s room, and it is no longer habitable. And look at our walls!’

Bartholomew was dismayed to see rivulets coursing down them. His students were going to be in for a damp and miserable night. The medicines room, where he slept himself, was equally dismal, with water pooling on the floor and oozing through the ceiling.

‘Brother Michael and his theologians have been moved to the servants’ quarters,’ Valence went on. ‘And the servants are relegated to the kitchen. Fortunately, none of them objected.’

Bartholomew was sure they had not, because the kitchen was by far the warmest room in the College, and he would not have minded sleeping there himself.

‘I will organise a watch,’ said Valence. He saw his master’s blank look. ‘To protect your supplies. Neither this chamber nor the storeroom have window shutters any more, and our front gates have gone. In other words, anyone can slip into the College and help himself. The guards are doing their best, but…’

‘There is not much to steal, Valence. I cannot recall a time when I have been so low on remedies.’

‘All the more reason to defend what is left, then,’ said Valence practically.

Bartholomew thanked him and went to the hall, where he learned that supper had been served, eaten and cleared away. Fortunately, Suttone had provided cakes and wine in the conclave for the Fellows, to celebrate his Order’s victory over the Gilbertines. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, not sure he would take kindly to what was effectively gloating, but the canon was sitting impassively by the fire, and it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.

Not surprisingly, Langelee was holding forth about the game, delighting in the opportunity to analyse every move and skirmish. Clippesby was listening, although Ayera’s eyes were glazed. William and Suttone were discussing a theological text together, and Michael was out.

‘Essex Hostel had a lot of dead rats delivered to it this evening,’ Ayera explained, when Bartholomew asked where the monk had gone. ‘So he is trying to prevent Essex from marching on Trinity Hall and tossing the lot back through their windows.’

Bartholomew sat at the table, and helped himself to a Lombard slice. It was sweet, rich and cloying. He poured some wine to help it down, but when he raised the cup to his lips he found he could not bring himself to swallow anything else, so he set it back on the table untouched. Langelee abandoned his monologue, and came to sit next to him, lowering his voice so the others would not hear.

‘Michael told me – in confidence – that Poynton was stabbed, and wanted my opinion as to how it might have happened. I have been pondering the matter. Obviously, some players must have kept their weapons after you ordered us to disarm.’

‘I know they did,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And you were one of them.’

Langelee grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I did not want to be at a disadvantage. I knew damn well that Heslarton had a dagger, while Neyll and Gib are louts, who would never play camp-ball without a blade. Then Brother Jude is fond of knives, and so is Yffi.’

The list continued for some time, and Bartholomew saw his efforts to make the game safer had been a sham. He might have eliminated the more obvious weapons, but every competitor had still been armed to the teeth.

‘So what have you concluded from all this?’ he asked. ‘Who killed Poynton?’

‘It must have been one of the three men who reached him first,’ replied Langelee. ‘Because he was directly beneath them and they acted as a shield, separating him from the second wave of players. Ergo, your suspects are Heslarton, Yffi and Neyll.’

‘Neyll claims you are the culprit,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Langelee’s analysis told him nothing he had not already found out for himself. ‘Probably because you belong to a College.’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘He is always trying to cause trouble between us and the hostels, but the dispute is ridiculous, and I refuse to let Michaelhouse become embroiled.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So which of these three do you think is the killer?’

‘Heslarton,’ replied Langelee, without hesitation. ‘It is not always easy to remember who is on one’s own team, but Poynton was distinctive. I would not have forgotten a fellow like him, and I cannot imagine Heslarton would have done, either.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. Langelee knew a great deal about camp-ball, so his opinion was worth considering. But why should Heslarton kill an ailing pilgrim? Was it for his remaining signacula? Or, rather more sinisterly, had Heslarton uncovered evidence to suggest Poynton was somehow involved with the yellow-headed thief?

‘Speaking of Heslarton, I visited his home earlier,’ said Langelee, when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘I went to beg Emma’s help – to see whether she would order Yffi back to work on our roof. Odelina was there, and she made some remarks.’ He winked and touched the side of his nose.

‘What kind of remarks?’ Bartholomew had no idea what the gesture was supposed to convey.

‘Ones that say she has developed a hankering for you,’ replied Langelee, a little impatiently. ‘So I am afraid you will have to bed her.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘I am sorry?’

‘Yes, I imagine you will be, because she is an unattractive lass. But it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You want me to lie with our benefactress’s granddaughter?’

Langelee nodded, as if such a discussion between Master and Fellow were the most natural thing in the world. ‘It will almost certainly result in more gifts, because Emma dotes on her. In other words, if Odelina asks Emma to build us a new accommodation wing, I am sure she will oblige. I know it will be unpleasant for you, but you can always keep your eyes closed.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, feeling rather weak at the knees.

Langelee slapped a manly arm around his shoulders. ‘Come to my chambers later and I shall give you advice on how to go about it.’

‘I do not need advice. I know how to manage these matters myself. But–’

Langelee’s next slap was hard enough to hurt, and he guffawed conspiratorially. ‘Good! Then do your duty, and we shall say no more about it.’

‘I am not doing it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not with Odelina. She is a patient, for God’s sake.’

‘Even better. No one will raise any eyebrows when you visit her. Do not be a fool, Bartholomew. We need the generosity of people like Emma de Colvyll, and the occasional frolic with Odelina might make all the difference. Would you really condemn us, your friends, to live in poverty, just because you cannot bring yourself to pleasure a young woman?’

‘Emma is far too shrewd a businesswoman to be influenced by Odelina. Besides, you may have misread the situation. She might object to her granddaughter’s seduction, and withdraw her support altogether – perhaps demanding a refund from us into the bargain.’

Langelee was thoughtful. ‘True. Perhaps I had better make a few discreet enquiries before you undertake this mission. You are right: it would not do to get it wrong.’

When Langelee wandered away to resume his commentary on the game to Clippesby and Ayera, Bartholomew worked on his lectures for the following day. One by one, the other Fellows retired to their beds, until he was the only one remaining. He laboured on a little while longer, but the lantern’s dim light and oily fumes were giving him a headache. With a sigh, he closed his books and left the conclave, to walk slowly across the yard. He jumped violently when a shadow stepped out of a doorway to accost him.

‘Easy!’ said Thelnetham, starting in his turn. ‘It is only me.’

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Bartholomew, more curtly than he had intended. He glanced at the missing gates and wished the pranksters had thought of another way to express their cleverness, because he did not feel safe as long as they were gone.

‘I live here, if you recall,’ replied Thelnetham acidly. ‘Beyond this porch is the entrance to my room. I was taking a little fresh air before retiring to it.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. He could not have said why, but he did not believe Thelnetham, and was under the distinct impression that he had been lurking. ‘What do you want?’

‘To do a colleague a good turn, actually.’ Thelnetham sounded offended. ‘Your students have begged beds elsewhere, because rain has invaded your quarters, and I wondered whether you might like a mattress on my floor. We are cramped, but we can manage one more.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, relenting. ‘It is kind, but the medicine room will suffice.’

‘That is awash, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It will be like sleeping at sea.’

Bartholomew walked to the little chamber and saw with dismay that Thelnetham was right. He was tempted to accept his colleague’s offer, but something stopped him. He smiled awkwardly.

‘I appreciate your kindness, but I am almost certain to be called out by … by Emma tonight, so I doubt I will be sleeping much anyway.’ He looked away, never comfortable with fabrication, but better a lie than offending a man who was probably only trying to be neighbourly.

Thelnetham sighed. ‘As you please. Does Emma’s tooth still pain her? She is a fool not to listen to your advice. Of course, the procedure will be painful, so her reluctance to let you loose on her jaws is understandable. Heslarton once had a molar drawn by a surgeon in Huntingdon, and he said pieces of bone were dropping out in bloody gobbets for weeks afterwards.’

No wonder Emma was wary, Bartholomew thought. ‘How do you know this?’

Thelnetham shrugged. ‘He must have mentioned it when I went to their house with Langelee to seal our arrangement about the roof. I saved you some cakes, by the way. You were late, and I did not think it fair that you should be left with the boring ones.’

He passed Bartholomew a parcel wrapped in cloth and started to walk away. As he did so, Bartholomew heard an odd sound from the roof. He glanced up, then hurled himself backwards when something began to drop. A chaos of ropes and planks crashed to the ground, right where he had been standing. His heart thudded at the narrow escape.

‘The rain must have dislodged it,’ said Thelnetham, coming to peer at the mess. ‘It is a good thing you have fast reactions.’

Bartholomew could not see his face, because the night was too dark. He frowned, watching the Gilbertine stride away, then shook himself. He was tired and it had been a long day – his imagination was running riot. He located the cakes he had dropped, and entered his storeroom.

His mind was too active for sleep, so he lit a lamp and began to work on his treatise on fevers – intended to be a basic guide for students, but now an unwieldy collection of observations, notes and opinions – and ate a cake while he wrote. It was good, so he had a second, and then a third. He was reaching for the fourth when there was a sharp pain in his stomach. He gripped it for a moment, then dived for a bucket when he knew he was going to be sick.

Afterwards, he did not feel like working. He lay in his damp bed, feeling his innards churn, and listened to the rain dripping through the ceiling.

It was a miserable night. Bartholomew’s stomach pains subsided in the small hours, but the wind gusting through the shutterless windows made an awful racket among his bottles and jars, and no matter where he lay, the rain seemed to find him. At one point, he went to the hall in search of a dry berth, but the door had been locked in response to the missing gates. He returned to his own room, eventually falling asleep shortly before the bell rang to call everyone to morning prayers. He dozed through it, and was difficult to rouse when Michael noticed he was missing and came to find him.

‘Were you called out last night?’ asked the monk sympathetically, as Bartholomew crawled off the mattress and splashed water on his face from the bowl Cynric left for him each night – not that he needed a bowl, given the amount of rain that was available on the floor. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘I should have accepted Thelnetham’s offer of a dry bed,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘I kept dreaming I was sailing down the river on a leaking boat. And about Jolye.’

Michael picked up one of the Lombard slices from the table; miraculously, they had remained dry. ‘The rumour is spreading that he was murdered by the hostels. Trinity Hall claims that was why they sent rats to Essex – in revenge for his unlawful death.’

‘If Jolye was killed, then the culprits are more likely to be at Chestre – it was their boats that were being tampered with when he drowned. Perhaps they caught him and pushed him in.’

‘Perhaps, but we will never prove it,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘There were no witnesses, and you found nothing on the body to allow me to make a case.’

They were silent for a while, Michael thinking about the youngster’s death while he stared at the Lombard slice he held, and Bartholomew hunting around for dry clothes.

‘I was out late last night,’ the monk said eventually. ‘Although I have nothing to show for it. After putting down the rat trouble, I interviewed camp-ball players in the King’s Head, but still cannot decide whether Poynton’s death was murder or accident. Then I was told that a yellow-headed stranger was drinking in the Griffin, so I went there.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘That he has a twisted foot – you would have caught him had he snatched Emma’s box and hared off up the High Street. He is not our man.’ Michael raised the cake to his mouth.

‘Do not eat that, Brother. They made me sick last night.’

‘Because you are unused to their richness,’ said Michael, taking a substantial bite. He gagged, and immediately spat it out. ‘Or more likely, because they were made with rancid butter. Nasty!’

‘Thelnetham gave them to me.’

‘He does not like you very much,’ said Michael, wiping his lips with a silken cloth. ‘I think he is jealous. He is a controversial thinker, which brings its share of fame and recognition. But you are our resident heretic, and you overshadow him.’

Bartholomew was still too befuddled with sleep to tell him his theory was nonsense. He finished dressing, then walked across the yard to where their colleagues were gathering for church. It was raining again, and William was complaining about a patch of mould growing on his ceiling.

‘At least you have one,’ said Michael caustically. ‘I do not, while Matt spent half the night floating about on his mattress.’

‘Yffi will make good on the roof today, or he will answer to me,’ growled Langelee.

He spun on his heel and led his scholars up the lane, leaving the slower of them to scramble to catch up with him. Bartholomew did not mind the Master’s rapid pace – it was cold and wet, and the brisk walk served to warm him a little. But even so, he shivered all through mass.

Teaching finished at noon on Saturdays, but, unimpressed by his students’ performance, Bartholomew ordered them to attend a lecture Rougham was giving on Philaretus’s De pulsibus. They objected vociferously at the loss of a free afternoon, and he was obliged to send Cynric with them, to make sure they did not abscond.

‘You are driving them too hard,’ remarked Michael, watching them leave, a sullen, resentful gaggle that dragged its heels and shot malicious glances at its teacher.

‘They will fail their disputations if they do not work. They are not learning as fast as they should.’

‘They are not learning as fast as you would like,’ corrected Michael. ‘But at least your tyranny is keeping them away from the hostel–College trouble. They are lively lads, far more so than students in the other disciplines, and would certainly have joined in, had they had time. Thank God you have seen that they do not. Will you come to Chestre with me?’

Bartholomew blinked at the abrupt question. ‘I thought you had decided not to tackle them until you had more evidence.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That was about the murders, the pilgrim badge thefts and our missing gates. But they are material witnesses to what happened to Poynton, so they cannot object to questions about him. And if the occasion arises, perhaps I shall see what a little subtle probing on other matters brings to light. Besides, I am low on clues, so it is time to rattle a few nerves.’

Bartholomew followed him over the road to Chestre Hostel. The rain had darkened its plaster to the point where it was almost black, and a strategically placed window shutter made the ‘face’ on the front of the building appear to be leering. Even Michael looked a little unsettled when he rapped on the door and it evinced an eerily booming echo that rumbled along the corridor within.

‘We have already told you all we know,’ said Kendale irritably, when the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were shown into the hall. ‘And I am busy.’

He was teaching, and from the complex explanations chalked on the wall, Bartholomew could see he was deep into the mean speed theorem. He was sorry Kendale was unfriendly, because he would have liked to listen. However, he could see by the bored, bemused faces that Chestre’s students did not feel the same way.

‘But not too busy to offer a little hospitality,’ said Neyll, exchanging a sly grin with Gib and lifting a jug. Bartholomew felt sick at the thought of it: it was far too early in the day for wine.

‘It is the Feast Day of St Dorothea,’ declared Michael, raising an imperious hand to stop the Bible Scholar from pouring. ‘And we always abstain from strong drink then, to honour her. We cannot accept your generous offer, I am afraid.’

Neyll opened his mouth to argue, but could apparently think of nothing to say, and closed it again. Bartholomew hoped the monk had not lied, for the excuse was something that could be checked.

‘Then state your business, so I can return to my lecture,’ ordered Kendale arrogantly. ‘Is it to ask yet more tediously bumbling questions about Poynton, like you did yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael, equally haughty. ‘I want to know why Gib sobbed like a girl over his bruised leg, thus allowing Neyll to murder a pilgrim on the camp-ball field.’

Even Bartholomew was taken aback by this assertion, and the students were livid. They flew to their feet, and for a moment the hall was a cacophony of clamouring voices.

‘That is not my idea of subtle probing, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, as Michael held up an authoritative hand for silence. It was ignored, and it was Kendale who restored calm.

‘Sit,’ he ordered his scholars. They did so immediately, and he turned to the monk. ‘I assure you there was no collusion between Neyll and Gib. And Neyll was only one of a score of men who inadvertently crushed Poynton, anyway. Clearly, the man owned a feeble constitution and should not have been playing such a rough game.’

Bartholomew watched Neyll and Gib intently, but their faces were blank, and he could read nothing in them. Nor could he tell whether Kendale had had an inkling that his violent students might have committed a crime. Neither could Michael, apparently, because he changed the subject.

‘This business of our gates,’ he began, and Bartholomew saw Kendale’s hubris had nettled him into saying more than he had intended. ‘It was neither amusing nor clever.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Kendale. ‘Which is why we are not guilty. We would never demean ourselves with such a paltry trick. It is hardly in the same class as illuminating St Mary the Great!’

‘Your “fuses”,’ began Bartholomew, still hoping to learn something useful from that escapade. ‘No one can work out how you–’

‘True,’ interrupted Michael, cutting across him and concentrating on Kendale. ‘Stealing gates is an asinine prank, so I know you are innocent. However, your students–’

‘My lads had nothing to do with it,’ interrupted Kendale firmly. ‘And I suggest you look to a College for your culprit. They are the unimaginative ones, not we.’

‘It was Seneschal Welfry,’ declared Neyll, grinning. ‘He did it, so the hostels would be blamed. He had better not try anything like it on us, or I will slit his … I will not be pleased.’

‘There you are, Brother,’ said Kendale smugly. ‘Speak to Welfry – that fool in a Dominican habit, who takes it upon himself to answer the hostels’ challenges. Incidentally, the townfolk were disappointed by yesterday’s camp-ball. They said it was boring. So, I have decided to sponsor another game on Tuesday. It will be between the hostels and the Colleges, and any scholar will be welcome to join in.’

Bartholomew was appalled, knowing exactly what would happen if a lot of young men were given free rein to punch other young men from foundations they did not like.

‘You cannot,’ said Michael, also trying to mask his shock. ‘It will be the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You will never recruit enough players.’

But he would, of course, because camp-ball was far more interesting to students than a theological debate, and Kendale knew it. He smiled languorously.

‘I am sure we shall rustle up sufficient support. And afterwards we shall provide free wine and ale, for players and spectators alike.’

If the game itself did not lead to a fight, then Chestre’s powerful beverages would certainly do the trick. Bartholomew gaped at him, horrified that he should even contemplate such an irresponsible act.

‘I refuse you permission,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You cannot hold such an event without the consent of the Senior Proctor, and that will not be forthcoming.’

Kendale held a piece of parchment aloft, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more maliciously gloating expression. ‘I do not need your consent, because I have gone over your head. Chancellor Tynkell has given me what I need, and he is head of the University, is he not?’

‘Only in theory,’ replied Michael icily. ‘Tynkell’s writ will be annulled within the hour.’

‘It will not,’ predicted Kendale. He smiled again. ‘I have powerful friends in the King’s court, and Tynkell is a lot more concerned about offending them than you.’

‘The game will be fun,’ said Neyll insolently, delighted by the monk’s growing alarm. ‘A chance for the hostels to demonstrate their superiority over the fat, greedy Colleges. It will be a great spectacle – for scholars and townsfolk alike.’

‘A bloody spectacle,’ muttered Michael. ‘Lord! There will be deaths galore.’

‘You cannot do it,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Please reconsider, Kendale! Surely, your conscience tells you that this is wrong?’

‘I am sponsoring a game and drinks for my fellow men,’ said Kendale, while his students sniggered. ‘That makes me a philanthropist. What can possibly trouble my conscience about that?’

‘I will not allow this to happen,’ warned Michael.

‘You can try to stop me,’ said Kendale softly. ‘But you will not succeed.’

Michael was so angry as he stormed out of Chestre that he did not hear the jeering laughter that followed. White-faced, he stamped towards the High Street, and those who saw the expression on his face gave him a wide berth. Even Emma, who was walking with Heslarton and Odelina, closed her mouth and the remark she had been planning to make went unspoken. Odelina smiled coquettishly at Bartholomew, and reached out to snare his arm as he passed.

‘I am better,’ she said in a low, sultry voice. ‘You were right: a good night’s sleep banished my fever and rendered me hale and hearty again. I owe you a great deal.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ said Bartholomew shortly, aware that Heslarton was listening, and loath for the man to think his daughter might need protecting from predatory medics. Heslarton wore the broadsword he had been honing the previous night, and it looked sharp and deadly.

‘No, we do not,’ agreed Emma. Her malignant face creased into what he supposed was a smile. ‘But we are appreciative anyway. I might do you a favour one day, if it is convenient to me.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to make of such an enigmatic offer, but he had more pressing matters to concern him at that moment, and he pushed Emma and her family from his mind as he ran to catch up with Michael. Seeing that the red fury burned as hotly as ever, he put a calming hand on the monk’s shoulder. Michael shrugged it off.

‘Who does Tynkell think he is?’ he raged.

‘The Chancellor?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Kendale is right: he is supposed to be in charge.’

‘He has never been in charge,’ snarled Michael. ‘Not even in the beginning. It has always been me, so how dare he issue writs without my permission!’

There was no reasoning with him, so Bartholomew followed him to St Mary the Great, where the Chancellor’s office comprised a chamber that was considerably less grand than the Senior Proctor’s. They arrived to find Tynkell laid low with stomach pains, something from which he often suffered, due to a peculiar aversion to hygiene. The room stank, and Bartholomew itched to put his sleeve over his mouth. The wrath drained out of Michael when he saw Tynkell looking so pitiful.

‘Why did you sign Kendale’s writ?’ he asked tiredly, slumping on to a bench.

‘Because he came with his loutish students and frightened the life out of me,’ replied Tynkell, nervously defensive. ‘And then he showed me letters from his kinsmen, who are close to the King, and said they would be displeased if I refused him.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Who cares about what they think?’

‘I do, and so do you. They might persuade the King to favour our sister University at Oxford, and then where would we be?’

‘We may not have a University if this game takes place,’ Michael pointed out. He reached for pen and inkpot. ‘You will issue a declaration withdrawing permission. You have the perfect excuse, in that it is on the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You can claim the conflict slipped your mind. No one will hold it against you.’

‘It is too late,’ said Tynkell miserably. ‘Kendale has already made his intentions public, and people are looking forward to the free drinks. If we cancel now, the town will see us as a spoiler of fun, and we shall have a riot anyway.’

‘But the Carmelites will be livid,’ cried Michael. ‘The lecture is an important event for them, and they will not want a large chunk of their audience enticed away by sport.’

‘The kind of lad who likes camp-ball is unlikely to be interested in theology,’ began Tynkell, but Michael overrode him, blasting on as though he had not spoken.

‘Worse, they may assume the Gilbertines are responsible, because they lost the last game, and we shall have a feud between the two Orders into the bargain.’

‘There will be no trouble if the event is properly policed,’ argued Tynkell, although with scant conviction. ‘We shall provide plenty of beadles and all the players will be searched, to ensure they have no weapons.’

‘You will have to search the spectators, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I imagine there will be as much fighting off the field as on it, especially if Kendale aggravates the situation with rumours about martyrs – or worse, with another dangerous joke, like the crated bull.’

There was a polite knock on the door, and Horneby entered, wearing an enormous woollen scarf to protect his throat.

‘I am sorry, Horneby,’ said Michael, before he could speak. ‘I would not have interfered with your sermon for the world, and–’

‘It is all right,’ said Horneby, holding up his hand to stop him. ‘Prior Etone is outraged, but I do not want trouble. So I have come to suggest a solution.’

‘You have?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Then let us hear it.’

‘If my sore throat returns, I cannot give my address – it will be postponed regardless of whether or not there is a camp-ball game. No one can take offence at that.’

‘But you are better,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The swelling is gone.’

Horneby smiled. ‘Then you are going to have to tell a small lie, Bartholomew. You must inform anyone who asks that I need another day to recover. I shall keep my end of the bargain by staying in my room. I do not mind – it will give me more time to prepare.’

‘That would work,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘The vicious scrimmage between hostels and the Colleges will still continue, but at least we will not have to worry about warlike Carmelite novices starting a fight because they feel they have been slighted. It is a good idea, and very gracious of you, Horneby.’

‘Actually, it was Welfry’s idea,’ the friar admitted, ‘He abhors bloodshed.’

‘Perhaps he will not make such a bad Seneschal, after all,’ said Michael approvingly.