‘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.’
‘The ball is still in the air,’ yelled Langelee admiringly. ‘That was quite a throw, Agatha. We shall have to make sure you are on our team again next year. But I am away to join the fun.’
He shoved through the jostling crowd, becoming one of the large, tough men whose only aim was to grab the ball and play, careless of anyone who happened to be in his way. Bartholomew could see the bag as a black dot in the distance, sailing towards St Mary the Great. He wondered whether it would ever return to the ground. The crowd was still cheering when it smacked into the church like one of the new fire-propelled missiles that the English were currently using to frighten the French in the wars.
Then there was a disbelieving silence, as every eye was fixed on the spectacle of the town’s one and only camp-ball firmly embedded in the mouth of one of St Mary’s more impressive gargoyles. It was so high up that Bartholomew suspected there were few – if any – ladders that would reach it. Gradually, people looked away from the ball and turned to Agatha. There was discontented mumbling, and bitter disappointment was written clear across the face of every man who had been looking forward to an afternoon of violent fun. Michaelhouse’s laundress suddenly found herself the centre of some very hostile attention.
‘What?’ she demanded belligerently, hands on hips.
That evening, while the students caroused in the conclave, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the kitchen to avoid being asked by the Lord of Misrule to provide musical entertainment. Once settled with mulled wine and a dish of dried fruit, they discussed the day’s events. Bartholomew was tired and distressed about Dunstan, and was grateful that Agatha was not in her domain that night, sewing by candlelight as was her habit on winter evenings. She had gone to the King’s Head, to give her own version of the camp-ball incident to a host of wary admirers.
Michael was in Agatha’s wicker throne, while Bartholomew had drawn a stool as close to the fire as it was possible to be without actually setting himself alight. It was another bitterly cold night, and the physician felt he should probably be grateful that Dunstan did not have to live through it with lungs that were irritated both by the cold and by the smoke from his fire.
The Waits were also out, having been offered a non-optional night off. Gray had bluntly informed Deynman that he needed to provide a change in entertainment, because everyone was bored with poor music and lack-lustre juggling. Agatha had wholeheartedly agreed, and informed Deynman that even the Fellows could put on a better show than the Waits. Deynman had taken her literally, and the Fellows had been instructed to perform that night.