The Killer of Pilgrims (23 page)

‘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.