Emma de Colvyll and her household were also present, and had secured themselves a pleasantly sheltered spot under some trees. Emma, clad in a black cloak and perched on a high stool, looked more like a spider than ever, and Bartholomew noticed that she was being given a very wide berth by the other spectators. Odelina and Celia sat on either side of her, while their retainers stood in a row behind. They all carried white banners, and when Leccheworth happened to stroll past, Bartholomew idly asked what he had done to turn Emma against his Order.
‘There are two reasons why she dislikes us,’ explained the Prior, running a hand through his curiously raven locks. ‘First, because Heslarton is playing for the Carmelites, and second, because of Edmund House.’ He pointed to the abandoned property at the far end of the field. ‘I told you the last time you were here how we were forced to sell it to her during the Death.’
‘You said you were unsure why she will not sell it back to you now.’
Leccheworth nodded. ‘And I remain unsure. I can only surmise she is doing it to show everyone that she does as she pleases, and does not care who she offends or annoys.’
He took Bartholomew to meet the teams. Among the Gilbertines’ champions was Yffi, who studiously avoided Bartholomew’s eye, knowing he should not be playing camp-ball when he was supposed to be working on Michaelhouse’s roof. The giant Brother Jude stood next to him, fierce and unsmiling. Langelee was near the ale-bellied Gib and the scowling Neyll from Chestre, and Bartholomew experienced a twinge of unease when he caught Neyll glaring at the Master. Would they use the game to harm him? But there was no time to warn Langelee, because Leccheworth was pulling him away to greet the opposition.
The Carmelites had recruited Poynton, Heslarton and a number of loutish lads from Essex, Cosyn’s and St Thomas’s hostels. They exuded a sense of grim purpose, although Heslarton hopped from foot to foot to indicate his delight at the prospect of some serious rough and tumble. His bald head gleamed pinkly, and his roguish smile revealed a number of missing teeth. Bartholomew took the opportunity to ask a few questions when he found himself next to the man and no one else appeared to be listening.
‘I understand you sold Drax a pilgrim badge,’ he began. ‘Why was–’
‘I did not!’ exclaimed Heslarton, regarding him belligerently. ‘I am a businessman, not a priest, and holy objects can be dangerous in the wrong hands. I leave such items well alone.’
Bartholomew frowned. Was he telling the truth? He recalled that it was Thelnetham who had identified the seller; Clippesby had been unable to do so. Could the Gilbertine have been mistaken? He was spared from thinking of a reply, because Poynton bustled forward, shoving roughly past Heslarton, whose eyebrows went up at the needless jostling.
‘Your friend the monk is worthless – it has been four days since my badge was stolen.’ Poynton drew himself up to his full height. ‘But I have taken matters into my own hands. By representing St Simon Stock’s Order in this game, I shall win his approbation, and he will deliver the badge back to me by divine means. He told me as much in a dream.’
‘St Simon Stock appeared to you?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing it was only ever a matter of time before pilgrims began claiming miracles and visions. For many, visiting a shrine was an intensely moving experience, and he knew that alone was enough to affect impressionable minds.
Poynton waved his hand. ‘Well, it was more of a nightmare, to be honest – one I had just a few moments ago, as I was lying down to summon my strength for the game – but I woke certain he applauds my decision to play. My fellow pilgrims agree with my interpretation, and are here to cheer me on.’
He gestured to where the two nuns stood shivering together, looking very much as though they wished they were somewhere else. Fen was with them, his expression distant and distracted. They stood with a massive contingent of White Friars that included Horneby, whose neck was swathed in scarves to protect it from the cold. Welfry was next to him. He yelled something to the Carmelite team, and they responded with a rousing cheer. Horneby started to add something else, but Welfry rounded on him quickly, warning him to save his voice.
‘Are you sure you should be playing today?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to Poynton. ‘The game is practised very roughly in Cambridge, and your health is not–’
‘My health is none of your concern,’ snapped Poynton furiously. ‘How dare you infer that I might have a disease! I am as hale and hearty as the next man.’
He turned abruptly and stalked away. Bartholomew was familiar with patients refusing to accept the seriousness of their condition, but even the most stubborn ones tended not to use camp-ball games to challenge what their bodies were trying to tell them. But it was none of his affair, and he turned his attention to the spectators who lined the field.
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.’