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.
‘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 li
ke 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, ho
w 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.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 20
