The Killer of Pilgrims (40 page)

‘A physician,’ said Cynric immediately. ‘A servant cannot be entrusted with such a delicate task. You cannot send Doctor Bartholomew
off to France in a barge until—’

‘Can she hear us?’ interrupted Odelina, touching her grandmother’s face, very gently.

Bartholomew shook his head.

‘Good,’ said Odelina. ‘Because I do not want her to know what is going to happen next.’ She turned to the bowman. ‘Kill them.’

The archer and Heslarton regarded Odelina askance. Cynric nodded grimly to himself, to say he had been right to distrust her,
while Bartholomew sagged against the wall.

‘But we made a bargain—’ began Heslarton, raising his hand to stop the bowman.

‘And I am breaking it,’ Odelina retorted. ‘If we put them on the barge and they escape, we will hang. I am not prepared to
take that risk.’

‘Christ, Odelina!’ muttered Heslarton. ‘You have grown ruthless. It must be his influence.’

‘
His
influence?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep his words from slurring. ‘Do you mean Odelina’s accomplice? I thought that
was Celia.’

‘Celia knows nothing of this,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘Leave her out of it.’

‘He will not thank me for leaving them alive,’ said Odelina, ignoring Bartholomew and addressing her father. ‘Not now he is
so close to achieving all he wants.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Heslarton doubtfully.

On the other side of the room, Cynric was wound as tightly as a spring, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. Bartholomew
tried to brace himself, knowing he
had to be ready to help, no matter what the cost to himself.

‘At the camp-ball game today, there will be trouble,’ Odelina was explaining. ‘The hostels will be blamed, and afterwards,
the likes of Chestre will be ousted from Cambridge for ever.’

‘Your accomplice wants the hostels discredited?’ Numbly, Bartholomew struggled to make sense of what she was saying. ‘But
why?’

‘And we shall be free to enjoy the proceeds of our hard work,’ Odelina continued, ignoring him again. ‘We shall all go to
France. But we will never rest easy if this pair are alive.’

Heslarton shook his head, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, but drew his sword just the same. He nodded to the
archer, who brought his bow to bear on Cynric, while he advanced on Bartholomew. Odelina watched with eyes that glittered
more savagely than her grandmother’s had ever done.

Cynric sprang into action. He hurled one blade at the archer, catching him in the throat, then jammed the other in Heslarton’s
side. Heslarton howled in agony and fell to his knees. Cynric was a blur of motion as he raced towards Odelina and gave her
a shove that sent her sprawling. Heslarton’s screams alerted the servants, who immediately poured into the room, but Cynric
felled two with punches, and the others, unnerved by the fierce, warlike expression on his face, turned and fled. He snatched
up Heslarton’s sword, and made for the door.

‘Are you coming?’ he demanded, when Bartholomew made no move to follow, shocked into immobility by the speed and efficiency
of the assault.

In the hallway, the surviving bowman ran towards them, sword at the ready. Cynric fended him off with a series of
ferocious swipes. Bartholomew lobbed a pot, although it was more by luck than design when it struck the fellow and knocked
him senseless.

Then Odelina recovered, and launched herself at the physician, nails clawing wildly at his face. Her weight was more than
he could handle, and he fell to the floor with her on top of him. Cynric turned to pull her off, but Bartholomew could hear
more feet clattering in the yard below – the servants had summoned reinforcements, probably in the guise of the rough, soldierly
men who had helped Heslarton to scour the marshes for the yellow-headed thief.

‘Run, Cynric!’ he urged. ‘Warn Michael.’

‘Not without you,’ muttered Cynric grimly.

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but there was no time. He shoved Odelina away, and when she came at him again, he chopped her
in the neck with the side of his hand. She fell back, stunned.

‘She hit me first,’ he protested, aware of Cynric’s startled look. Even so, it was not in his nature to strike women, and
he did not feel easy in his mind as he scrambled to his feet. Then he saw Heslarton groaning on the floor with the blade protruding
from his ribs.

‘Leave him,’ hissed Cynric. ‘I did not kill him – which is more mercy than he was going to show us.’

He grabbed a sword from the fallen bowman and shoved it into Bartholomew’s hand. Then he raced towards the stairs with one
of his blood-curdling battle cries. Heslarton’s men had massed there, and he plunged among them like a madman, driving them
back with the sheer ferocity of his charge. Bartholomew jabbed here and there, mostly ineffectually.

Step by step, they fought their way downwards, and eventually reached the door. Bartholomew hauled it open while Cynric, howling
all manner of curses and incantations in
Welsh, whirled the sword around as though he were demented. Bartholomew was vaguely aware of people in the street stopping
to stare as he staggered outside Emma’s domain, and then he was stumbling into the arms of someone who hurried towards him.
It was Michael.

Bartholomew watched Michael’s beadles do battle with those members of Emma’s household who had charged into the street after
him. When he was sure the beadles would win, he turned to the monk, speaking quickly and urgently, acutely aware that time
was of the essence.

‘I have been busy, too,’ said Michael, when he had finished, indicating he was to sit on the edge of a horse trough while
they talked. Bartholomew sank down gratefully. His legs were like jelly, and he could not recall when he had felt more wretched.
‘Although only with rioting hostels.’

‘Has there been fighting?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘A little. There might have been more, but Welfry saved the day. Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels were about to set fire
to King’s Hall, when he jumped on a wall and screeched a riddle at the top of his voice.’

‘A riddle?’ echoed Bartholomew blankly.

‘One he claimed the hostels could never solve. Needless to say they rose to the challenge, and by the time they had calculated
the answer, tempers had cooled. It was a clever ploy, and one that saved lives. I am glad he is our Seneschal. But even so,
it took all my diplomatic tact and skills to encourage them to go home afterwards.’

‘Will your arrest of the killer-thief be enough to quell trouble at the camp-ball game now?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.
‘Especially as it is not a scholar?’

‘It is impossible to say. Are you
sure
we have the right culprits this time? There is no doubt?’

‘No. I mean, yes.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Well, which is it? We cannot afford more mistakes.’

‘Heslarton and Odelina are definitely involved, but they did not work alone. She is not clever enough, despite her claims
to the contrary – it was
not
her idea to shove a wig on Gib and use him to confound your investigation. Likewise, I doubt she or her father would have
thought of leaving Yffi in Chestre’s cellar, or of taking Drax to Michaelhouse.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael.

‘Moreover, Heslarton says he is innocent of the thefts, and I believe him. Someone else is responsible for those. I thought
it was Celia, but Odelina and Heslarton referred to a man – some fellow who plans to take them to France when his plans reach
fruition.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Fen? I said he was a villain, and you should have listened.’

‘There are other possibilities, too,’ said Bartholomew. He looked away, unwilling to list them, because they included people
he liked.

Michael had no such qualms. ‘Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Blaston …’

‘Not Blaston – he is not sufficiently cunning. Thelnetham is, though …’

‘Yes, he is, but I cannot see what he would gain from having Chestre blamed for his crimes – or from having his University
plunged into turmoil by stoking up anger between Colleges and hostels.’

They were interrupted by a sudden violent skirmish among the prisoners. Cynric had been right when he said he had not hurt
Heslarton badly, and the man was engaged in a furious scuffle. When they saw their master’s determined resistance, his henchmen
renewed their own efforts
to escape, and it took all the beadles, Michael and Cynric to subdue them. Bartholomew tried to help, but was too unsteady
and disoriented to be of much use.

‘Where is Odelina?’ he asked urgently, when it was over.

‘Damn!’ cried Michael, looking around wildly. ‘Heslarton’s antics were a diversion! They were to give his wretched daughter
a chance to flee.’

‘I imagine she has run straight to her accomplice,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘The one who has some terrible plan in mind
for the camp-ball game.’

Michael regarded him in horror. ‘The camp-ball game! I forgot to tell you – it has been brought forward, because rain is predicted
later. Vast crowds are gathering, for it is due to start within the hour.’

‘Arrest
all
our suspects,’ urged Bartholomew, feeling desperate situations called for desperate measures. ‘If they are innocent, they
will forgive you when you explain yourself. And if they are guilty, you will prevent them from—’

‘Brother Michael! Brother Michael!’ They turned to see Meryfeld racing towards them. For the first time since Bartholomew
had met him, he was not rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank God I have found you! Horneby the Carmelite has just attacked me.’

‘Attacked you?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He burst into my house and locked me in my cellar without so much as a word of explanation,’ shouted Meryfeld, furious and
indignant. ‘How dare he! I order you to apprehend him.’

‘Horneby,’ said Bartholomew, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last. ‘
He
is Odelina’s accomplice.’

‘
Horneby
is Odelina’s accomplice?’ echoed Michael, gaping at Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Impossible! He is a theologian.’

‘And theologians are incapable of murder?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity, because I admire him. However, he is certainly
clever enough to have masterminded all this mayhem – he has one of the best minds in the University.’

‘I barely recognised him when he attacked me,’ said Meryfeld, looking from one to the other as he tried to understand what
they were talking about. ‘His face was twisted, and I am surprised he did not kill me. In fact, I think he might have done,
had he not been in such a hurry.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and he quickly organised his beadles into two groups: those who would march Heslarton and his
henchmen to the gaol, and those who would police the camp-ball. Bartholomew used the brief respite to rest. He closed his
eyes, trying to quell the agitated churning in his stomach.

The day was bitterly cold, with grey clouds scudding overhead and a brisk northerly breeze that cut straight through his clothes.
Would it cut through the spectators’ clothes, too, he wondered, and encourage them to leave the game and head for the warmth
of home? He jumped when he became aware that someone was behind him. It was Gyseburne, and Thelnetham was with him.

‘You look terrible,’ said Gyseburne, peering into his face.
Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was not going to demand a urine sample. ‘What ails you?’

‘Yet another sleepless night, I expect,’ said Thelnetham, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘They seem to be an occupational
hazard at Michaelhouse – none of us have had proper rest in days.’

‘There is no reason for you to have been disturbed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Thelnetham was not a physician or a senior
proctor, so should have been sleeping like a baby.

Thelnetham regarded him oddly. ‘It is hard to relax when half the College has no roof and our protective gates have been missing.
And I am—’

He broke off when Welfry approached at a run. The Dominican’s face was pale.

‘Have you seen Horneby?’ he asked urgently. ‘He raced out of his friary as though the Devil was on his tail earlier. Moreover,
he has burned his notes for the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. It is inexplicable behaviour, and I fear he may not be completely
recovered from his recent illness.’

Meryfeld explained briefly what had been done to him, but before Welfry could respond, Michael shouted that he was ready and
that he needed volunteers to help him at the camp-ball game. Welfry, Thelnetham and Gyseburne were among those who rallied
to his call, but Meryfeld muttered something about visiting a patient and slunk off in the opposite direction.

‘What are we hoping to prevent, exactly?’ asked Thelnetham, after Michael had given a short account of all that had happened,
and they were marching along the High Street towards the Gilbertine Priory.

‘Trouble,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We do not know what form it might take, so you must all be vigilant for the unusual.
All I know is that it must be stopped.’

‘Had I known Cambridge was going to be this turbulent, I would never have left York,’ muttered Gyseburne to himself.

‘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.’