‘What do you mean?’ demanded Philippa, voicing the question that was also on Bartholomew’s lips. ‘Everything Walter did was careful and prudent.’
‘Careful, yes,’ said Giles. ‘But not always prudent, and they are not the same thing. You cannot say that killing Fiscurtune was prudent – and neither was going skating on thin ice.’
‘He was prudent in business matters,’ she said defensively. ‘It made him rich. And he owned two relics – St Zeno’s finger and the snail from Jesus’s tomb. That made him special, too.’
‘But he gave them both away,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The finger is at Michaelhouse and Sheriff Morice has the snail.’
‘He planned to buy more relics at Walsingham,’ said Abigny. ‘He had his heart set on purchasing something really impressive, like a piece of the True Cross or a lock of the Virgin’s hair – some very holy item to flaunt at his colleagues in the Fraternity of Fishmongers.’
‘That does not explain why he parted so readily with the old ones,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is more impressive to own three relics than one?’
‘I do not think he ever felt comfortable with that finger, despite the fact that he usually carried it with him,’ said Abigny. ‘And he, like me, thought the snail was fraudulent. It was a clever ploy to give it to Morice.’
‘He did not care for the finger,’ agreed Philippa. ‘I think he was afraid of St Zeno. But the snail was a real relic. He bought it from a Knight Hospitaller for two gold nobles. It must have been genuine to be that expensive.’
‘Gosslinge,’ prompted Michael, to bring the discussion back to the dead servant and declining to comment on the fact that price had little to do with authenticity in the world of relics. ‘Was he upset about anything? Lonely? Worried about the journey that lay ahead? And in what way was he weak? Easily bullied?’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed both Philippa and Abigny at once. Philippa continued. ‘Despite his size, Gosslinge was very confident. Walter was the only man he ever heeded; he ignored everyone else.’
‘He was rude and lazy,’ murmured Abigny.
Philippa did not hear him. ‘But he was not strong physically. I do not mean he was sickly, just that he seemed unable to lift even fairly light loads.’
‘That was because he did so little work,’ muttered Abigny. ‘His muscles were wasted.’
‘But he was not upset about anything,’ said Philippa, ignoring her brother’s aside. ‘On the contrary, he was looking forward to the journey we were about to make.’
‘He saw opportunities,’ said Abigny darkly. ‘Him and his dice. I think he had done something to the balance, so they would fall more often in his favour. While I have no idea what led him to die in a church wearing someone else’s clothes, I would not be surprised to learn that he did it for reasons that would benefit him financially.’
‘Giles!’ admonished Philippa tiredly. ‘It is not kind to tell tales now the poor man cannot defend himself.’ She turned to Michael and made a helpless gesture, raising her hands palms upward. ‘Gosslinge was not the best servant we had, but he was loyal, and Walter valued loyalty.’
‘I never understood that,’ said Abigny. He looked at Philippa. ‘Even you cannot pretend Walter treated his servants well – he was demanding, mean and critical of their efforts. Yet Gosslinge stayed for years, when we were lucky if others managed more than a few months.’
‘They liked each other,’ said Philippa stubbornly. ‘Walter was kinder to Gosslinge than to the others, and Gosslinge repaid him with devotion.’
‘No,’ said Abigny, shaking his head. ‘It was more than that. I always felt there was some bond that went deeper than a master – servant relationship.’
‘But Walter did not seem particularly distressed when he learned that Gosslinge was dead,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Rather, he was irritated, because it meant he had to find a replacement.’
‘You did not know Walter,’ said Philippa, angered by the comment. ‘He was upset; he just did not show it with tears and lamentations. He would have missed Gosslinge very much.’
‘Can you think of any reason why they should both die in Cambridge?’ asked Michael, unruffled by her ire. ‘Is it possible that Walter was so distressed by Gosslinge’s death that he skated on the Mill Pool, knowing that it might crack under him and bring about his death?’
‘Suicide?’ asked Abigny with a startled laugh. ‘Walter? I do not think so!’
‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘It is winter, and men do die of cold or falling through ice. You are trying to read something into these deaths, when there is nothing. Now, the best thing you can do is leave my husband and his servant in peace, and let me grieve for them.’
She took her brother’s arm and marched away towards Milne Street, so Abigny was obliged to hobble and stumble to keep up with her. Bartholomew could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was agitated, and he was curious. Was it because she did not like Michael probing into secrets she would rather keep concealed? Did she know Gosslinge’s death had not been natural, as had first been assumed, and was determined the truth should not come out? What was the nature of the odd relationship between Turke and his servant? It did not sound as though either was a man who inspired or gave loyalty for no reason. Bartholomew wondered what that reason might be.
Deynman decreed that all Michaelhouse scholars and servants should take part in a game of camp-ball that had been organised for the town that afternoon. It was not good weather for such an activity, and Bartholomew anticipated he would be busy later with patients who had cuts and broken bones. Camp-ball was a vicious event anyway, but it would be worse with ice on the roads and piles of hard snow everywhere.
The game had been Sheriff Morice’s idea, and had been planned for weeks. People were looking forward to it, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. To him, camp-ball was another word for ‘riot’, and it was not unknown for folk to be killed while taking part. The game was played with two sides, and the aim was to put an inflated leather bag between twin posts that marked the ‘goal’ of the opposing team. There was no limit to the number of people who could play, and the teams were sometimes hundreds strong. The ball could be kicked, but it was mostly thrown. This year, Morice had set one goal at the Barnwell Gate, and the other at the Castle. People complained these were too close together – in the past, the goals had been as far apart as the Castle and the village of Trumpington, some two miles distant – but the Sheriff pointed out that most roads were closed by snow, and if folk wanted to play, then the event had to take place in the town, where at least some of the streets were navigable.
Knowing the game could turn into a competition between townsmen and scholars – and then into something that had nothing to do with sportsmanship – Michael petitioned Morice to ensure both sides contained a mixture of town and gown. Michaelhouse scholars were to play for the side called ‘Castle’, who were supposed to drive the ball to their opponents’ goal at the Barnwell Gate. Meanwhile, ‘Gate’ were supposed to stop them, and carry the ball to Castle’s goal. Any method to achieve this was acceptable, although use of weapons was not permitted. There were no other rules.
The teams massed in the Market Square, where there was some reasonably good-natured shouting and bantering, and much quaffing of the powerful church ale that was for sale in the graveyards of St Mary the Great and Holy Trinity. The apprentices were out in force, and so were scholars, all wearing their warmest clothes in anticipation of a long afternoon in the cold. Morice sat on his horse, and addressed the crowd, informing them it was illegal to use anything other than fists while attempting to gain possession of the ball – and anyone aiming a crossbow or drawing a sword could expect to be arrested on sight – and everyone should take care not to trample small children. The prize to the winning team was a groat for every man, half a groat for every woman, and a penny for boys. Girls, Bartholomew assumed, should expect to be disappointed or should lie about their age or sex.
There was a cheer of d
elight as the Sheriff raised the camp-ball over his head. Michael glanced around warily, watching the vintner’s apprentices fix the scholars of Valence Marie with meaningful intent that had nothing to do with a leather bag. He nodded to Meadowman, and several beadles appeared, jostling the scholars until they were obliged to move away. The vintners were deprived, at least temporarily, of their prey.
Bartholomew saw the Michaelhouse contingent instinctively move closer together. Everyone was there: every student, all the Fellows (except William) and the servants. Cynric had dispensed with the Welsh hunting knife he always carried – it was not unknown for folk to be stabbed by scabbarded weapons when there was a scrum for the ball – and had replaced it with something smaller and less menacing. Agatha clutched a heavy stick, pretending to use it for walking through the snow, although it was obvious that the ‘Gates’ had better watch themselves when she was near.
‘I think I must be the oldest player here,’ said Kenyngham, glancing around in dismay. ‘Spending a whole afternoon chasing a ball is not a good use of my time. I would rather pray.’
‘So would I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘So, why are you here, Father? This is too rough for you.’
‘Deynman ordered everyone at Michaelhouse to take part,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Even the Waits. He wants us to be on the winning team, and thinks numbers may make a difference.’
‘This was not what we had in mind when we agreed to work for Deynman,’ said Frith the musician resentfully. ‘I do not like games of violence.’
‘I do,’ said Agatha, brazenly confrontational. ‘They sort the men from the boys.’
‘Oh?’ Frith’s eyes travelled insolently over Agatha’s formidable bulk. ‘And which are you?’
Agatha’s eyes narrowed, and powerful fingers tightened around her cudgel. ‘I am more man than you will ever hope to be. I do not skulk around the College, looking for things to steal.’
Frith’s lips compressed into a hard, straight line. ‘Neither do I. Michaelhouse folk keep accusing us of stealing, but then the objects turn up a few days later, and it transpires they were just misplaced. You should watch what you say, woman. Defaming the character of innocent people is an offence that I am sure Sheriff Morice will prosecute.’
‘I am quite sure it is,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, so Frith would not hear. ‘Morice knows Colleges will pay to drop any charges that might bring them into disrepute.’
Bartholomew suspected the monk was right. However, the Waits were not stupid, and they had already weathered one encounter with the greedy Sheriff that had probably left them the poorer. They would know that levelling accusations against Michaelhouse would cost them money – especially since they had already demonstrated a fondness for other folks’ gold, so their honesty was compromised.
‘Morice will throw you in his gaol for thieving,’ declared Agatha hotly, glowering at Frith in a way that should have made any sane man back down. ‘And you and your friends will hang.’
‘Prove us thieves, then,’ challenged Frith, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘Search our possessions. You will find nothing amiss.’
‘I have already done that and he is right,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The salt dish, Wynewyk’s inkpot and Ulfrid’s missing knife were not there. I do not understand: it is obvious they are the culprits, yet I cannot discover where they have hidden what they stole.’
‘Are you sure they are dishonest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was under the impression that valuable things have been left lying around, but have been ignored. Why take a salt dish when they could have William’s gold nobles or the College silver?’
Cynric shook his head. ‘As I said, I do not understand them at all.’
‘You should leave Michaelhouse,’ said Agatha imperiously to Frith. ‘You are no longer welcome. I shall speak to Deynman, and have him dismiss you.’
Frith sneered. ‘Deynman cannot dismiss us. He signed a document that promised us food, shelter and employment for the whole Twelve Days. We will take it to Morice if you renege.’
‘That document was clever planning on their part,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Previous employers must have found them lacking, so they learned to draw up legal contracts outlining their terms in advance. Langelee would never have signed it, so they are lucky Deynman was elected Lord of Misrule: he is the only one stupid enough to put his mark to such a thing.’
‘Evicting them in this weather would be wicked, anyway,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘We shall have to keep them until it breaks.’
‘We shall have to do no such thing,’ declared Agatha, overhearing him. ‘I do not care what happens to thieves. If they kept their hands to themselves and put on decent performances, we would not be having this discussion in the first place.’
‘Our performances are good,’ objected Makejoy, offended. ‘We are professionals!’
‘You are all right,’ acknowledged Agatha. ‘And Yna and Jestyn are adequate. But Frith is wholly without talent. You should dispense with him – you would do better without the racket he dares to call music.’
Makejoy regarded Frith unhappily, and Bartholomew was under the impression she thought the aggressive laundress was right. Frith did not, however, and he moved up to Agatha until his face was only inches from hers. His voice was low and hoarse with menace.
‘Leave me alone, woman. And keep your nasty opinions to yourself.’
‘I think you should—’ began Bartholomew, wanting to warn Frith to back down before it was too late. Next to him, Cynric was laughing softly, while Michael watched Frith step into mortal danger with folded arms and an amused smile. Bartholomew never had the chance to complete his sentence. Agatha’s stick moved so fast that it was a blur. There was a sharp crack, and Frith crumpled to the floor at her feet.
‘Whoops,’ she said flatly. ‘How clumsy of me.’
‘He will be all right,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling quickly to inspect the fallen man before Makejoy could make a fuss. ‘He is just dazed. Take him back to Michaelhouse and tell him to spend the rest of the day quietly. He glanced up at Agatha. ‘You should watch what you do with that thing. You do not want to be charged with assault.’
‘It was an accident,’ said Agatha archly. She turned to the Fellows and servants, who were watching her antics with unconcealed approval. Langelee was chortling with delight, and even the dour Suttone was laughing. ‘Well? Was it not?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Cynric gleefully. ‘The stick just slipped.’
‘It was a shame Frith walked into it,’ added Langelee. ‘I imagine he will be unable to entertain us with music tonight. Pity.’
Makejoy helped the stunned piper to his feet. ‘I am sorry,’ she said to Agatha, seeing where the sympathy lay and determined to make the best of a bad situation. It would not do for Michaelhouse to ignore the contract and dismiss them when they would be unlikely to find alternative employment that season. ‘This will not happen again.’
‘It had better not,’ said Agatha ungraciously. ‘Keep him away from me, or I shall do more than give him a bump on the skull next time.’
‘She will, you know,’ said Deynman cheerfully. ‘You should hide him away, if you want him to live to see his old age.’
‘I shall try,’ said Makejoy. She slipped Frith’s hand over her shoulder and led him away. He pulled away from her in an attempt to regain some of his dignity, but staggered on rubbery legs.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Kenyngham, watching him in dismay. ‘Violence already, and the game has not even started yet. I do not want to be here!’
‘Do not worry,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a withering glare for inflicting camp-ball on someone like the Gilbertine. The student looked surprised, as though he could not imagine what he had done wrong. ‘Wait until the game begins, then slip away. You will not be missed. This is a game for the strong and the fast, and the chances of you even seeing the ball once the game has started are remote. Let the likes of Deynman and Agatha compete, if they
will.’
The Sheriff abruptly concluded his opening speech, then tossed the leather bag with all his might into the waiting crowd. There was an almighty cheer, and all eyes followed it as it rose, then arced downwards – straight into the astonished arms of Kenyngham.
‘Lord!’ cried the Gilbertine in alarm. ‘I do not want it. Here!’
Before Bartholomew could stop him, Kenyngham had given him the ball. Large and determined men were already beginning to converge on the spot where the ball had landed, thrusting the smaller and weaker out of the way. An old woman was battered to the ground, where she covered her head with her arms as feet trampled heedlessly across her. A child screamed in terror at the chaos, and everywhere, people started to shout with excitement.
‘To me! To me!’ yelled Deynman, beginning to dart away, and raising his hands to indicate he was ready for Bartholomew to pass him the ball.
‘No! Me!’ howled Gray, dashing off in the opposite direction.
‘Here!’ shouted Langelee, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Throw it to me!’
‘Not me!’ shrieked Michael, as the physician glanced in his direction. ‘I do not want it, man!’
‘I will take it,’ announced Agatha, snatching the ball from the physician. She drew back one of her mighty arms and precipitated the ball high into the air, far higher and further than Sheriff Morice’s paltry effort. The crowd howled in delight, the burly men abruptly changed the direction of their charge, and the Michaelhouse Fellows were reprieved. The students rushed into the affray, Cynric and the other servants among them, while Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief that his part in the game was over.
‘I am going to the church,’ said Kenyngham shakily. ‘I did not enjoy that at all.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Suttone fervently. ‘I thought we were all about to be bowled over like kayles. I was terrified. I am going to Michaelhouse, where I shall bar the door to my room and spend the afternoon thanking God for my lucky escape.’
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 30
