The Killer of Pilgrims (24 page)

‘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.’

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.’