‘And I suppose the baskets fell, too, and someone happened to be underneath one,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Really, Father! This is not the first time you have summoned me to treat members of your community who have suffered physical harm from these jests. They are getting out of hand.’
‘I will order them curtailed,’ said Morden sheepishly. ‘Come. Your patient is waiting.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was testament to the wildness of the Dominicans’ sense of humour that he knew most of them fairly well.
‘Welfry. He was sitting with the novices today because he has been teaching them Aristotle. Oh, well, he will know better next time.’
‘Let us hope there will not be a next time,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Welfry was lying on a cot in the infirmary. His normally smiling face was pale, and feathers and leaves still adhered to his habit. They stuck to the glove on his left hand, too, while a scrap of parchment had lodged itself in the boot-shaped signaculum that was pinned at his shoulder.
‘Ah, Matthew,’ he said weakly as Morden conducted the physician to his bedside. ‘I have been brained by a basket, and my head feels as though it might split asunder.’
‘I understand you were the victim of a joke,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to him and inspecting the abused pate under its mop of tawny hair.
‘A joke,’ growled Welfry, looking pointedly at Morden. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘It was funny,’ objected Morden.
‘No,’ corrected Welfry sternly. ‘It ended in bloodshed, which means it was not amusing. Harold needs to make sure this kind of thing does not happen when he executes his pranks. I am proud of my intellect, and I do not want it splattered all over the refectory in the name of humour.’
‘It will not happen again,’ said Morden. ‘He is mortified by what has happened, and I have ordered him to work in the gardens for the next month, as a punishment.’
Welfry waved a weary hand. ‘It would be better if you let me have him for a month instead. He could learn a lot – including how to secure baskets to rafters.’
‘It is not a good idea to encourage Harold’s penchant for clownery,’ said Bartholomew in alarm.
‘We shall see,’ said Morden. ‘But what can you do to help poor Welfry? We are all delighted by his appointment as Seneschal, but he says he might have to resign if his injury is irreparable.’
‘It is not irreparable,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for the poultice of elder leaves, poppy petals and oil that he used in such situations. ‘He has a nasty lump, but that is all.’
‘Thank God,’ said Morden, crossing himself. ‘I had better tell Harold, because he is beside himself with worry. Thank you, Matthew. Here is a shilling for your pains – more than we usually pay, because I know you will spend it all on medicines for the poor.’
He was gone before the physician could thank him, tiny feet clattering across the flagstones. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the poultice.
‘I keep meaning to ask you about the illumination of St Mary the Great,’ he said as he worked. ‘Do you know how it was managed?’
‘That was Kendale, not me.’ Welfry smiled wanly. ‘But I wish it had been! It was an incredible achievement, especially the device he called a “fuse”.’
‘A fuse?’
‘Yes – a piece of twine smeared with some substance that made it burn at a steady and reliable rate. It allowed all his buckets of sludge to be ignited simultaneously, and was highly ingenious.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What did his sludge comprise, exactly?’
‘I wish I knew. I tried to question him, but he was … let us say less than forthcoming.’
‘You are friends with him?’
‘Hardly! My Order has taken the side of the Colleges in this ridiculous spat with the hostels, so he would sooner die than forge a friendship with me. In fact, when I asked for details of his trick, all enthusiasm and admiration, he said that unless I got out of his way, he would skewer me.’
Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘And that is why I am sceptical of the claims that he was the instigator. It seems too harmless a prank for him.’
‘It was a challenge to the Colleges,’ said Welfry, mock-serious. ‘There was nothing harmless about it. Besides, Valence thinks his real intention was to set Gonville Hall alight.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Welfry considered the question carefully. ‘No. It would be malicious beyond words, and I cannot believe a fellow scholar would stoop so low. But it is a pity Kendale is so sullen, for he possesses a formidable intellect. I would relish some mental sparring with him.’
‘Are you sure you do not know the formula for his sludge?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You cannot even hazard a guess?’
‘From the odour that lingered afterwards, I would say it contained brimstone and some sort of tarry pitch. But there will have been other ingredients, and I cannot begin to imagine what they were.’ Welfry brightened. ‘We answered the challenge by putting the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. And no one was maimed, incinerated or brained while we did so.’
‘The next time the hostels play a prank, it might be best not to respond. Michael spent much of today trying to quell disturbances, and more tricks will only exacerbate the matter.’
‘I beg to differ,’ argued Welfry. ‘The ox and cart served to calm troubled waters – it made scholars laugh instead of fight, and hostilities eased for several days. Until Kendale thought up that nasty business with the bull. Then the situation turned angry again.’
‘I hope it ends soon,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘I do not want the streets running with blood.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Welfry. ‘But I shall do all in my power to make people smile, because I honestly believe humour is the best way to defuse this horrible tension.’
‘You may be right,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is worth a try.’
Welfry’s smile turned rueful. ‘I know I am not much of a friar, with my love of laughter, but if I can use my wits to confine this feud to a series of harmless pranks, then perhaps God will overlook my flaws. And if not, I can always go on a pilgrimage – this time to somewhere rather more holy than the site where John Schorne conjured the Devil into a boot.’
Chapter 5
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and taught until it was too dark to see. He took Valence and Cynric with him on his evening rounds, Valence so he might learn, and Cynric because the book-bearer was restless and wanted to be out. There were a lot of patients, and he grew steadily more despondent when he realised the list would be reduced by two-thirds if people had access to warmth and decent food. One visit took him to the Carmelite Priory, where Prior Etone wanted another report on his protégé.
‘It just needs time to heal,’ he said, after struggling to look down Horneby’s throat with the terrible lamp. ‘The worst is past, and I can tell you no more than I did the last time – that he must sip the blackcurrant syrup I prescribed, and avoid speaking as much as possible.’
‘He insisted on visiting Welfry this afternoon,’ said Etone disapprovingly. ‘And he talked then.’
‘Welfry is my friend, and I was worried when I heard he had been hurt,’ croaked Horneby. ‘And he did most of the talking, anyway.’
‘I can well imagine,’ said Etone, not entirely pleasantly. ‘But I must have Horneby fit by next Tuesday, Matthew. We cannot postpone the Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’
‘Why not?’ whispered Horneby. ‘What can it matter if it is delayed a week?’