The Killer of Pilgrims (16 page)

‘And killing Alice,’ added Emma, almost as an afterthought. ‘But we shall have him. Such a man cannot be allowed to walk the
streets with decent, honest folk. We shall ensure he faces justice.’

‘He is committing other crimes, too,’ said Heslarton. ‘Just last night, a man matching his description collided with Celia.
When he had gone, she found her pilgrim badge missing.’

‘He made her stumble, and stole it while he pretended to steady her,’ explained Emma. ‘My new physician has
lost a token, too. Well, he told me he dropped it, but I imagine it was stolen.’

Bartholomew was about to question them further, when a rustle of cloth made him turn around. It was Celia, all smug smiles
and expensive new clothes. He did not think he had ever seen her look so radiant. Heslarton apparently thought so, too, because
he gazed admiringly at her.

‘I have decided
not
to blame your College for its role in my husband’s demise,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘So you and your colleagues can leave
if you like.’

‘That is not why we came,’ said Bartholomew, a little indignant. ‘We are here to pray for Drax.’

Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? I doubt the Almighty will listen to the petitions of a warlock.’

‘I hear you have lost a
signaculum
,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into introducing a subject he suspected would annoy her. ‘Did you buy it, like your husband bought
his?’

He watched Heslarton, to see if he would react to this remark, but he remained impassive, and Bartholomew was not sure what
to think. However, a flash of something unreadable from Emma’s black eyes warned him that he was on dangerous ground.

Celia smiled slyly. ‘It was a gift from an admirer. I decided to wear it on my cloak, but then some yellow-headed thief jostled
me, and it was gone. Master Heslarton has promised to see him at the end of a rope for his crime.’

‘
I
am recovered,’ came a voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Odelina, smiling in a way that was vaguely predatory. ‘You
saved my life, and I shall always be grateful.’

‘He probably did it with sorcery,’ said Celia snidely.

Suspecting denials would serve no purpose – and a little uncomfortable when Emma regarded him as if she was favourably impressed
– Bartholomew returned to Edith, to
begin studying the mourners for Michael. He looked around rather helplessly, not sure where to start.

The gloomy Prior Etone and gap-toothed Horneby stood near the front, but although they chanted the responses and stood with
heads bowed, their expressions were distant, as though they were thinking of other things. Welfry was with them, his boot-shaped
signaculum
dwarfed by the larger badge that marked him as the University’s new Seneschal.

Etone’s wealthy pilgrims knelt to one side. Muttering furiously, the two nuns leaned towards each other, and Bartholomew realised
with astonishment that they were competing to see who could recite the fastest psalms. Meanwhile, Fen’s eyes were fixed on
the high altar, and his face wore an oddly ecstatic expression. Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, but could
see only a wooden cross and two cheap candles. Poynton yawned, apparently struggling to stay awake.

Isnard and several cronies from the Michaelhouse Choir were behind them, and Welfry had trouble controlling his laughter when
they joined in some of the musical responses. But his mirth faded abruptly when Emma edged away, one hand to her jaw. He was
not a man to find amusement in the discomfort of others.

The surly scholars of Chestre Hostel were near the back, jostling anyone who came too close. Their victims included Brother
Jude and Prior Leccheworth of the Gilbertines. Leccheworth stumbled impressively when he was shoved, but it was Neyll who
reeled away clutching a bruised arm when the manoeuvre failed to have a similar effect on the beefy Jude.

Yffi and his lads lounged in the aisle. The apprentices looked bored, obviously wishing they were somewhere else. About halfway
through the ceremony, Emma beckoned Yffi towards her and began whispering. Yffi nodded frequently,
and there was an expression of sly satisfaction on the old woman’s face that was distinctly unsettling.

Odelina passed the time by making eyes at two knights from the castle. Celia was next to her, hands folded prayerfully. But
the ritual was a protracted one, and it was not long before she began to sigh her impatience. Heslarton stared longingly at
her all the while, clearly smitten.

Finally, there was a large contingent of Drax’s customers, including Blaston and a number of his artisan friends. Blaston
was pale and suitably sombre, but the others were more interested in discussing whether it would be ale or wine provided after
the ceremony for mourners.

Bartholomew looked around unhappily. The occasion had attracted a large crowd, but virtually everyone was there because it
was expected of them – or for the free refreshments afterwards – not because they felt any sadness at Drax’s passing. Of course,
he thought with a guilty pang, he was no different. Chagrined, he bowed his head and said his prayers, although Celia’s words
kept echoing in his head, and he could not help but question whether the petitions of a man thought to commune with the Devil
were doing Drax any good. At last the service ended. He saw Edith home, visited two more patients, then walked back to Michaelhouse.

When he arrived, Cynric was waiting to tell him he was needed at the Dominican Priory. With a weary sigh, he made for the
gate again, grateful when the Welshman fell in at his side. His spirits were oddly low that day, and he welcomed the company.

The Dominicans’ convent lay outside the town, and to reach it Bartholomew exited through the Barnwell Gate and walked along
the Hadstock Way. With no buildings for shelter, it was bitterly cold, and the wind sliced wickedly
through his cloak. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, and he wondered if there was snow in the air. He said as
much to Cynric.

‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘It will not snow again this year.’

‘You seem very sure,’ remarked Bartholomew suspiciously.

Cynric nodded. ‘I am sure. I dislike snow, because it makes you leave tell-tale footprints when you visit haunts you would
rather no one else knew about. So I went to a witch, and enquired how much more we might expect this year. She told me none.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to ask what sort of places Cynric frequented that he would rather were kept secret.
‘You should ask for your money back, because it is snowing now.’

Cynric inspected the flecks of ice that were settling on their clothes, and sniffed dismissively. ‘This is not snow, it is
a flurry. There is a difference.’

Bartholomew did not see how, but they had arrived at the priory, so he knocked on the gate. It was a large complex, comprising
a church, chapels, refectory, dormitory, chapter house and a range of outbuildings. Virtually all the Dominicans had died
during the plague, because they had bravely ministered to the sick and dying and had become victims themselves. But their
numbers had grown since, and now they numbered about forty. They were under the command of Prior Morden – no academic but
a popular leader. When a lay-brother opened the door, a gale of laughter wafted out.

‘I am not coming in,’ said Cynric, backing away. ‘Last time, they put a bucket of water over the door, so I was doused as
I passed through. These Black Friars have a childish sense of humour.’

They did, and Bartholomew doubted the situation had improved since the arrival of the ebullient Welfry. He entered the convent
cautiously, stepping over the almost invisible rope that had been placed to make visitors trip.

Prior Morden came to greet him. He had clearly been enjoying himself: there were tears of laughter in his eyes and he could
hardly keep the smile from his face. He was one of the smallest men Bartholomew had ever met, although his head and limbs
were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. He wore a beautiful cloak and matching habit, and a pair of tiny leather
boots.

‘We had a mishap during our afternoon meal,’ said Morden, leading him towards the infirmary. He began to chortle. ‘I thought
we should dine on something special today, you see. The winter has been exceptionally hard, and we are all tired of bread
and peas.’

‘How special?’ asked Bartholomew warily, hoping the entire convent had not been provided with bad meat or some such thing.
He did not think Morden’s idea of a joke was to poison everyone, but with the Dominicans, one could never be sure.

Morden grinned. ‘I added a little colouring to the pottage, so it turned blue. But that was not what caused the real trouble.
It was the roof.’

‘The roof,’ echoed Bartholomew flatly, wondering what was coming next.

‘Brother Harold arranged for part of it to come down during the meal,’ explained Morden. ‘Well, not the
roof
exactly, but several baskets containing leaves, scraps of parchment, feathers and other sundries – things that float. It
was his intention to shower the novices, and give them a start.’

‘And I suppose the baskets fell, too, and someone happened to be underneath one,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Really, Father! This
is not the first time you have
summoned me to treat members of your community who have suffered physical harm from these jests. They are getting out of
hand.’

‘I will order them curtailed,’ said Morden sheepishly. ‘Come. Your patient is waiting.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was testament to the wildness of the Dominicans’ sense of humour that he knew
most of them fairly well.

‘Welfry. He was sitting with the novices today because he has been teaching them Aristotle. Oh, well, he will know better
next time.’

‘Let us hope there will not
be
a next time,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Welfry was lying on a cot in the infirmary. His normally smiling face was pale, and feathers and leaves still adhered to his
habit. They stuck to the glove on his left hand, too, while a scrap of parchment had lodged itself in the boot-shaped
signaculum
that was pinned at his shoulder.

‘Ah, Matthew,’ he said weakly as Morden conducted the physician to his bedside. ‘I have been brained by a basket, and my head
feels as though it might split asunder.’

‘I understand you were the victim of a joke,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to him and inspecting the abused pate under
its mop of tawny hair.

‘A joke,’ growled Welfry, looking pointedly at Morden. ‘Is that what you call it?’

‘It was funny,’ objected Morden.

‘No,’ corrected Welfry sternly. ‘It ended in bloodshed, which means it was
not
amusing. Harold needs to make sure this kind of thing does not happen when he executes his pranks. I am proud of my intellect,
and I do not want it splattered all over the refectory in the name of humour.’

‘It will not happen again,’ said Morden. ‘He is mortified
by what has happened, and I have ordered him to work in the gardens for the next month, as a punishment.’

Welfry waved a weary hand. ‘It would be better if you let me have him for a month instead. He could learn a lot – including
how to secure baskets to rafters.’

‘It is not a good idea to encourage Harold’s penchant for clownery,’ said Bartholomew in alarm.

‘We shall see,’ said Morden. ‘But what can you do to help poor Welfry? We are all delighted by his appointment as Seneschal,
but he says he might have to resign if his injury is irreparable.’

‘It is not irreparable,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for the poultice of elder leaves, poppy petals and oil that
he used in such situations. ‘He has a nasty lump, but that is all.’

‘Thank God,’ said Morden, crossing himself. ‘I had better tell Harold, because he is beside himself with worry. Thank you,
Matthew. Here is a shilling for your pains – more than we usually pay, because I know you will spend it all on medicines for
the poor.’

He was gone before the physician could thank him, tiny feet clattering across the flagstones. Bartholomew turned his attention
back to the poultice.

‘I keep meaning to ask you about the illumination of St Mary the Great,’ he said as he worked. ‘Do you know how it was managed?’

‘That was Kendale, not me.’ Welfry smiled wanly. ‘But I wish it had been! It was an incredible achievement, especially the
device he called a “fuse”.’

‘A fuse?’

‘Yes – a piece of twine smeared with some substance that made it burn at a steady and reliable rate. It allowed all his buckets
of sludge to be ignited simultaneously, and was highly ingenious.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What did his sludge comprise, exactly?’

‘I wish I knew. I tried to question him, but he was … let us say less than forthcoming.’

‘You are friends with him?’

‘Hardly! My Order has taken the side of the Colleges in this ridiculous spat with the hostels, so he would sooner die than
forge a friendship with me. In fact, when I asked for details of his trick, all enthusiasm and admiration, he said that unless
I got out of his way, he would skewer me.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘And that is why I am sceptical of the claims that he was the instigator. It seems
too harmless a prank for him.’

‘It was a challenge to the Colleges,’ said Welfry, mock-serious. ‘There was nothing harmless about it. Besides, Valence thinks
his real intention was to set Gonville Hall alight.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Welfry considered the question carefully. ‘No. It would be malicious beyond words, and I cannot believe a fellow scholar would
stoop so low. But it is a pity Kendale is so sullen, for he possesses a formidable intellect. I would relish some mental sparring
with him.’

‘Are you sure you do not know the formula for his sludge?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You cannot even hazard a guess?’

‘From the odour that lingered afterwards, I would say it contained brimstone and some sort of tarry pitch. But there will
have been other ingredients, and I cannot begin to imagine what they were.’ Welfry brightened. ‘We answered the challenge
by putting the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. And no one was maimed, incinerated or brained while we did so.’