‘I do not believe any of this,’ whispered Welfry, his amiable face grey with shock and grief. ‘You are mistaken. Horneby would never do anything so terrible.’
‘Yet he has,’ said Michael roughly. ‘The evidence is overwhelming.’
‘It is circumstantial,’ argued Welfry loyally. ‘And he would never …’ He trailed off uneasily.
‘What?’ demanded Michael.
For a moment, Bartholomew thought the Dominican would refuse to answer, but then Welfry began to speak.
‘Odelina,’ he said in a choked whisper. He would not look at Michael. ‘He told me he thought her a fine woman. She harboured a fancy for me, you see, and I asked his advice on how best to repel her. I thought he was in jest when he said he admired her, to make me feel better …’
‘But he was in earnest,’ finished Michael. ‘What else can you tell me, Welfry? And please do not hold back. I know you and Horneby are friends, but lives are at stake here. Do you have any notion of what he might be planning?’
Welfry’s face was an agony of conflict. ‘He has been reading a lot of books on alchemy of late, and I think his throat trouble began after an experiment with powerful substances …’
‘We must hurry, said Michael grimly. ‘Whatever he is plotting, we cannot let him succeed.’
Welfry was stunned, shaking his head as he walked. ‘There will be an explanation for all this, and Horneby will be exonerated. Then we will feel terrible for thinking such dreadful things about a man whose decency and goodness are beyond question.’
While he continued in this vein to anyone who would listen, Thelnetham fell into step beside Bartholomew, and offered a hand when the physician stumbled over an uneven cobble. He removed a phial from his pouch.
‘Drink this. You will need your strength if we are to avert a catastrophe.’
‘What is it?’
‘A tonic for vitality that Gyseburne gave me. Go on. It will do you good.’
It was a measure of Bartholomew’s debility that he took the concoction without thinking twice about it. It tasted foul, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But the sensation passed, and he was left feeling no worse than he had been before.
‘I was summoned to tend Dickon this morning, because you were unavailable,’ said Gyseburne, striding on his other side. ‘He tried to burgle Celia Drax’s house, and cut his knee on the window.’
‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as a sudden, awful thought began to take shape in his head. ‘And Horneby has been reading books on alchemy! Oh, no! Surely …’
‘What?’ asked Thelnetham uneasily. ‘What have you reasoned?’
‘Dickon must have talked about the compound we created,’ said Bartholomew, as his stomach began to churn in horror. ‘The one that burns, but that cannot be extinguished.’
‘Yes, he has,’ agreed Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘I have heard him myself. What of it?’
‘Did Meryfeld mention anything missing after Horneby had burst into his home?’ demanded Bartholomew urgently.
‘He said the cauldron we used to make our lamp-fuel was gone, along with some pitch, quicklime and brimstone.’ Gyseburne paled when he understood what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘You believe Horneby intends to use that vile abomination at the camp-ball? No! It is too terrible, and he is a friar! He would never …’
‘I think he might,’ said Bartholomew soberly. Was it his imagination, or had Thelnetham’s tonic given him a sudden burst of energy? Or was it simply the challenge of preventing such a terrible atrocity that filled him with strength and determination?
It was not long before they reached the camp-ball field, and Bartholomew was horrified by the size of the crowd that had gathered – it was far larger than the one for the game between the Carmelites and the Gilbertines. Those who were scholars had formed themselves into blocks, some sporting red banners that declared them members of hostels, and others carrying blue for the Colleges or convents. Red was by far the dominant colour, although it did not deter the blue from bellowing insults and abuse.
Bartholomew’s heart sank further still when he saw the factions were separated by groups of the kind of townsman who enjoyed rough sport. If there was any off-the-field skirmishing, they would join in, and the trouble would escalate to the point where Tulyet’s soldiers and Michael’s beadles would be unable to control it. Then the peace they had enjoyed for the past few weeks would be shattered, and town and University would be back at each other’s throats again.
There was an enthusiastic roar from the crowd as the teams trotted on to the field. Bartholomew was appalled when he saw how many students had elected to play. There were at least sixty on each side, and many were lads who had already been involved in the rivalry – Essex, Maud’s, Batayl and Cosyn’s hostels, along with King’s Hall, Gonville and Valence Marie for the Colleges.
‘No one from Michaelhouse, thank God,’ said Michael, following the direction of his gaze. ‘Although our students are among the supporters, and will join in any fight that starts.’
Bartholomew watched Kendale, smug and arrogant in his capacity of organiser, stroll on to the field after the players amid a chorus of cheers from the hostels. This was immediately countered by boos and hisses from the Colleges, and Bartholomew saw the smile slip a little.
‘Mingle,’ Michael ordered his beadles and volunteers, as Kendale beckoned the competitors forward and began to outline the rules. ‘Look for Horneby, and listen for any fighting talk. And if you succeed in either, come to me – do not attempt to tackle it on your own. You will almost certainly fail, and then Horneby will have his riot.’
They hurried away to do as they were told. Bartholomew aimed for a large contingent of Carmelites, huddled in their cloaks and shivering in the cold. Their hoods were up, shielding their faces, and it occurred to him that it was the perfect place for Horneby to hide. But when he arrived, and they turned to greet him, he saw the young friar was not among them. Etone was, though, looking old, drawn and tired.
‘Have you seen Horneby?’ Bartholomew demanded.
As one, the Carmelites shook their heads. ‘Not since dawn,’ said one. ‘When Prior Etone announced that he was well enough to resume his duties.’
Etone regarded the physician with a bleak expression, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would ever recover from the loss of his relic.
There was another cheer as the two teams separated and the Indifferent Man took up position. The honour had been awarded to Chancellor Tynkell, who was puffed up with pride – until he realised what the appointment entailed, at which point he began to look frightened. Panicked into resourcefulness, he effected a powerful dropkick, which propelled the ball away from him. The players veered after it, leaving him to depart the field with his dignity intact.
Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle and looked around desperately, wondering where Horneby might be. He spotted Rougham, appointed Official Physician for the day. The Gonville medicus looked stately and confident in his academic robes, although his hubris faded when the first two players limped from the field with deep cuts.
‘Help me, Bartholomew,’ he commanded, regarding the wounds in distaste. ‘Kendale said this game was not to be savage-camp, so there would be no serious injuries. I would not have accepted the commission had I known there would be blood involved.’
‘Have you seen Horneby?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the order.
‘Yes – haring towards Edmund House just a few moments ago,’ replied Rougham, gesturing to the derelict building on the far side of the pitch. ‘But never mind him. I need your expertise, because these wounds need stitching.’
‘Then stitch,’ suggested Bartholomew shortly, forgetting Michael’s warning about not tackling the villain alone as he began to run around the edge of the field.
Progress was not easy. Bartholomew wore no red or blue ribbon to declare his allegiance, but this attracted aggravation from both sides. He was shoved, jostled, tripped and prodded the
whole way around, and each time he stumbled, he felt more of his energy leach away. It felt like an age before he reached the house and staggered around it until he found the door. He opened it gingerly, and stepped inside, immediately aware of the stale, earthy aroma of neglect. He listened intently, trying to hear where Horneby might be, but the shouts and cheers from the field drowned out any sounds the friar might be making.
The ground floor looked as though no one had been in it since the plague, with its curtains of cobwebs, crumbling plaster and mildew-encrusted walls. A flight of stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew was astonished to find furnished. Grimly, he supposed Celia had declined to romp in a ruin, and had obliged Heslarton to provide her with some basic comforts.
He pushed open the first door, alert for any sign that Horneby was waiting to ambush him, but the room was empty. Heart pounding, he did the same to the second, and saw someone lying on the floor.
It was Horneby, blood seeping into his hair from a wound on the side of his head. Bewildered, Bartholomew eased him on to his back, watching his eyes flutter open as he was moved. The injury was nasty, but not life threatening. However, someone had hit him extremely hard.
‘Bartholomew,’ Horneby breathed. ‘You have to stop him!’
‘Stop who?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘The loss of life will be terrible,’ Horneby went on weakly, ‘and I tried to persuade him to abandon it, but he outwitted me. Odelina must be his lover.’
‘His lover?’ echoed Bartholomew stupidly, wishing his wits were sharper.
‘Yes, although it is hard to believe he would break his vows for such a woman.’ Horneby shot Bartholomew a sheepish glance. ‘Being such close friends, we sometimes discussed ladies. I said Odelina was too venal for my tastes, and he agreed. He lied to me!’
‘You mean Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew, his mind a dazed whirl. ‘But he rejected her advances. I saw it myself.’
Horneby swallowed hard. ‘He did not reject them earlier today. He has captured her heart, and she is like clay in his hands. He knows enough of romantic ballads to understand what will tie her to him. How could I have been so blind?’
‘Odelina is Welfry’s accomplice? But …’
But it was certainly possible, Bartholomew thought, as he trailed off. Welfry was handsome and witty, and Odelina was not the sort of woman to let priestly vows stand in the way of what she wanted. Moreover, Welfry might well have been the fleet-footed thief in the yellow wig whom Bartholomew had chased along the High Street – far more likely than the heavier, slower Horneby.
‘St Simon Stock’s scapular,’ he said, answers coming in blinding flashes. ‘The three thieves I saw making off with it must have been Welfry, Heslarton and Odelina. Welfry often visits you there, so knows better than most how to escape through your grounds. Clearly, he failed with his first attempt to snatch a piece of it, so he recruited them to help him make off with the whole thing.’
‘No!’ cried Horneby in a strangled voice that eerily echoed Welfry’s distress earlier. ‘He would not have taken my priory’s most valuable possession.’
‘Meryfeld’s cauldron,’ said Bartholomew, moving to a more urgent matter. ‘Did Welfry order you to lay hold of it?’
‘Yes! Dickon had mentioned it to him. He told me that if I grabbed it we could prevent it from being used on innocent people. I did as he suggested, eager to help avert an outrage. But when I presented it to him, he promptly passed it to Heslarton. I suspected then that something was wrong.’
‘Why did you not report it to Michael or his beadles?’
‘Because Welfry is the University’s Seneschal,’ explained Horneby in despair. ‘The man who calmed a potentially bloody situation outside King’s Hall this morning. Who would believe me? I decided to follow him instead, in an affort to learn exactly what he thinks he is doing. He came here, and shortly afterwards, Odelina arrived.’
‘Then what?’
‘She told him you knew almost everything about their plan. He merely smiled, and said he had acquired enough signacula at last, although he did not say for what. Then I must have made a sound, because she came and hit me. I cannot believe any of this. Surely, I am dreaming?’
‘Welfry is strong, fast and agile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Capable of snatching Poynton’s badge, of donning a disguise and stealing Edith’s, of breaking into Gyseburne’s home to take his …’
‘Odelina is furious that he made her grandmother and Celia his victims,’ said Horneby. ‘But he has promised to make it up to her. He mentioned something about already giving her father a nice red cloak as compensation. Welfry! He is my friend!’
‘Have you burned the notes for your lecture?’
Horneby regarded him askance. ‘No, of course not! I have been working on them for months.’
‘Then have you been reading books on alchemy, and conducting experiments?’
‘No! I have not had time, not with my lecture looming, although Welfry has always been interested in such matters. But how can you ask such irrelevant questions when there is an atrocity to prevent? You must act, Bartholomew! Now, before it is too late!’
Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet when he heard a sound behind him, but his legs were still too unsteady. Odelina was already swinging a heavy sword towards his neck.
Bartholomew’s life might have come to an end there and then, if it had not been for Horneby. The theologian reached up and hauled Bartholomew down on top of him, so Odelina’s wild swipe passed harmlessly over both their heads. While she regained her balance, Bartholomew scrambled upright, and Horneby eased himself up on to one elbow, his face ashen with shock and pain. Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt.
‘Welfry has deceived us all,’ the Carmelite said in a low, strained voice. ‘Please, Odelina. You must see this is wrong. People will die, and it will be on your conscience.’
‘I do not have a conscience,’ declared Odelina. ‘At least, that is what my father always says. And if it should happen to twinge, then Welfry has enough pilgrim tokens to buy me a clean slate.’
‘Put down the sword,’ ordered Bartholomew, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. But he had to stop Welfry, and there was no time to fool around with Odelina. ‘You are not going to escape this time, and whatever Welfry has planned is going to fail. The Sheriff, Senior Proctor and all manner of other people are working to thwart him.’
Odelina laughed unpleasantly. ‘But they will not succeed, because no one knows he is the one they should be hunting. He will outwit them, just as he has outwitted them before. In fact, his plan is already a success, because he wanted Horneby to be seen as the villain, and that is exactly what folk believe.’
Bartholomew took a tentative step towards the door, but she waved the weapon menacingly. Could he disarm her? Unfortunately, he knew he was not yet strong enough to try, not even with Thelnetham’s miraculous tonic coursing in his veins. She would kill him, and then she would kill Horneby, and there would be no one left to tell Michael the truth.
‘He was jealous of you, Horneby,’ Odelina was saying. ‘Of your intellect, although I do not think wits are an especially enviable commodity. As far as I am concerned, they make men arrogant, and unwilling to appreciate pretty ladies in search of husbands.’
‘Even if Welfry succeeds, it will not help you,’ said Bartholomew harshly. ‘Because you will be in prison, awaiting execution for the murder of Drax, Gib and your mother.’
‘Not me,’ said Odelina smugly. ‘And I did not kill Drax, as I keep telling you. But none of it matters, because Welfry is taking me to France on Isnard’s barge. I shall marry him, and we will live happily ever after.’
‘He is a priest,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He cannot marry.’
‘He is going to retract his vows,’ asserted Odelina. ‘Why do you think he has been amassing so many pilgrim badges? It is to buy himself freedom from the silly promises he made to God.’
Horneby looke
d as though he felt sorry for her. ‘He will not settle down with you, Odelina. Marriage will deprive him of everything he loves – books, learning, jokes with the novices—’
‘He loves me,’ declared Odelina stubbornly, raising the sword. ‘And we will wed. But you will not be alive to see the happy day.’
‘Think, Odelina,’ urged Horneby. He struggled to his knees. ‘Do you not see what he is doing? You will be blamed for killing Matthew and me, leaving him to walk free.’
‘He will meet me by Isnard’s barge,’ insisted Odelina. ‘He promised.’
‘He will not be there,’ said Horneby, compassion in his voice, while Bartholomew listened to the discussion in an agony of tension. Every moment wasted with Odelina was time for Welfry to realise his diabolical plans, and he itched to dive at her and wrest the sword from her grip. Surely it was worth the risk, to prevent something so evil? He took another step towards the door.
‘He will,’ insisted Odelina. She feinted at Bartholomew, causing him to flinch, but this time there was uncertainty in the manoeuvre. Perhaps he could disarm her …
‘Let us go, so we can prevent more mayhem,’ urged Horneby with quiet reason. ‘I will speak for you at your trial. He has clearly lied to you, as he has to me.’
‘I will never betray him,’ declared Odelina. Tears began to form in her eyes. ‘And I am not listening to any more of your clever words. You are only trying to confuse me.’
‘Why is he so intent on causing such mischief?’ asked Horneby quickly, when her fingers tightened around the hilt and the great blade began to wobble towards Bartholomew again. ‘You could at least tell us that before we die.’
For a moment, Bartholomew thought she was going to attack them without answering the question, but then she began to speak.
‘He does not want Kendale in Cambridge, because he has aggravated the rivalry between the hostels and Colleges. He wants him ousted, by having him blamed for all the murders and thefts. He says the University will be better off without such men in it.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 36
