Bartholomew turned as Gyseburne, Meryfeld and Rougham approached. All three wore rich cloaks and thick tunics, and he felt poor and shabby by comparison, reminded that everyone except him seemed able to make a princely living from medicine.
‘We came to congratulate you on your appointment as Official Physician,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It is a lucrative post, because not only does it carry a remuneration of three shillings, but the injured – and they will be myriad – will need follow-up consultations later.’
Bartholomew regarded him in dismay, wondering how he was going to fit them all in. Seeing his alarm, a triumphant expression flashed across Rougham’s face.
‘We will help,’ he offered smoothly, speaking as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘Most players can afford to pay for post-game horoscopes, so we do not anticipate problems with taking some of them off your hands. As a personal favour, of course.’
‘It will be no bother,’ added Meryfeld, rubbing his hands together, although Gyseburne would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘We are all happy to help a busy colleague.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, supposing they intended to leave him the ones with no money – and he could not refuse their ‘kindness’, because he simply did not have time for new patients. He turned back to his Michaelhouse friends, feeling that at least they were not trying to cheat him.
‘It is to be savage-camp,’ said Langelee gleefully, coming to join them. ‘This will be fun!’
‘What is savage-camp?’ asked Ayera warily.
‘It means we can kick the ball, which is known as “kicking camp”, but we keep our boots on, which makes it savage,’ explained Langelee. ‘Leccheworth and Etone wanted us to remove our footwear, but I persuaded them that it is too cold.’ He grinned. ‘This is my favourite form of the game!’
Bartholomew was alarmed. It was not unknown for men to die playing savage-camp. He wondered what the two priors thought they were doing by agreeing to such a measure. He started to object, but Michael, who was watching the spectators, narrowed his eyes suddenly.
‘What is he doing?’
Everyone looked to where he pointed, and saw Fen with his arms around the two pilgrim nuns. The women appeared to be enjoying themselves, although most of Fen’s attention was on Kendale, who was talking to him.
‘They complained about the cold,’ explained Clippesby. For some reason known only to himself, he had brought two chickens with him, both fitted with tiny leather halters to keep them from wandering away. They scratched the grass around his feet. ‘So he is trying to warm them up.’
‘And I am the Pope,’ said Michael. ‘What is he really doing? Seducing two women of God?’
‘It is more likely to be the other way around,’ said Langelee. ‘They asked him to warm them. I have met them on several occasions, and they made no secret of the fact that they want to bed me.’
‘Really, Master!’ exclaimed William, expressing the astonishment of all the Fellows at this bald announcement. ‘The things you say!’
‘I only speak the truth,’ shrugged Langelee.
But Michael was more interested in the pardoner. ‘Kendale and Fen are prime suspects in the killer-thief case. What are they saying to each other? Can anyone read lips?’
‘Would you like my hens to ease forward and listen?’ offered Clippesby. ‘They are good at–’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Stay away from them, Clippesby. I do not want you hurt.’
‘Fen will not hurt anyone,’ objected Clippesby, startled. ‘He is a good man!’
‘Pardoners are, by definition, evil, ruthless and unscrupulous, and they prey on the vulnerable and weak,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly. ‘It does not surprise me at all to see this one engage in sly exchanges with a man who is exacerbating the hostel–College dispute.’
‘Kendale is aggravating the trouble,’ agreed William soberly. ‘The hostels have always been jealous of the Colleges, but they have never taken against us en masse before. He will have our streets running with blood before too long.’
Bartholomew had a bad feeling William might be right.
The Gilbertines’ field afforded scant protection from the wind that sliced in from the north, and the pilgrim nuns were not the only ones who were cold. Everywhere, people began stamping their feet and flapping their arms in an effort to keep warm. Unfortunately, there was some technical problem with the pitch, and the game was delayed until it could be resolved. Langelee tried to explain what was happening, but none of his Fellows understood what he was talking about.
‘Tell Horneby this is no place for a man with a bad throat,’ begged Welfry, coming to grab Bartholomew’s arm while they waited. His face was taut with concern. ‘We do not want a relapse.’
Bartholomew agreed, and followed him to where the Carmelites were huddled together in a futile attempt to stave off the chill.
‘Tell me how you came to lose your signaculum,’ he said as they walked. ‘Michael is looking into similar thefts, you see.’
‘I heard,’ said Welfry. ‘But I doubt my testimony will help – it all happened so fast. I was returning from visiting Horneby when a yellow-headed man shoved me against a wall and demanded that I hand it over. I am ashamed to say I did as he ordered without demur. I was a rank coward!’
‘You did the right thing – no bauble is worth your life. Could you tell whether he wore a wig?’
Welfry frowned. ‘It did not look like a wig, but as I said, it all happened very fast.’
‘Then can you describe him?’
‘Not really – average weight and height, rough voice, very strong hands. However, I can say he was wholly unfamiliar to me, and I have a good memory for faces. He is no one I have met before.’
‘Who, then? A visiting pilgrim?’
‘It is possible, although I would not have thought so. Such folk come to beg forgiveness, not to compound their sins by committing new ones.’
‘Is your hand paining you today?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You keep rubbing it.’
‘You are observant.’ Welfry flexed his gloved hand as he smiled. ‘I chafe it without thinking when the weather is cold, lest it freeze without my noticing – I no longer have any feeling in it, you see. It happened once before, and thawing it afterwards was excruciating.’
‘There are poultices that may help with that. I could make you some.’
‘Would you?’ asked Welfry hopefully. ‘I would be grateful, but we had better leave it until you are not so busy.’ He smiled again. ‘My motives are selfish, of course. If you have more time, you might be inclined to linger and discuss natural philosophy with me. But here is Horneby, and his health is rather more pressing than mine at the moment.’
‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew, when Horneby heard the last part of Welfry’s remark and groaned. ‘Windy fields in the middle of winter are not good places for men with sore throats.’
‘I no longer have a sore throat,’ objected Horneby. ‘Besides, I want to see the game.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘Why? It promises to be bloody.’
Horneby grinned mischievously. ‘The unruly youth who caused you so much trouble in the past is not quite gone yet. I still enjoy a bit of a skirmish.’
It was an odd thing for a friar to admit, and Bartholomew was starting to tell him this, when there was a shout to say that the problem with the pitch had been resolved, and the game could begin. Priors Etone and Leccheworth summoned both teams to the centre of the field and, as an official, Bartholomew was ordered to go, too. So was Michael, who had been chosen for the role of ‘Indifferent Man’ – the neutral person who would toss the ball into the air and start the game. The ball was an inflated pig’s bladder, which someone had painted to look like a severed head. The artist had been uncannily accurate, even down to the red paint around the base, to represent blood.