‘You are not supposed to be armed,’ objected Bartholomew, eyeing with dismay the arsenal most players carried: knives, sharp sticks, pieces of chain, and lumps of metal that allowed the holder to pack more of a punch.
‘But weapons are part of the game,’ declared Langelee, who was one of the most heavily laden.
‘I am not wasting my day tending wounds that can be avoided,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘So you can all disarm, or I am going home.’
‘You will have to do as he asks, because you cannot play without a physician,’ said Prior Leccheworth, while Etone nodded agreement. Both seemed pleased by Bartholomew’s ultimatum. ‘It is against the rules.’
‘Damn you for a killjoy, Bartholomew,’ muttered Langelee, as he began to do as he was told. Resentfully, the other players did likewise, and soon there was a huge pile of armaments at the physician’s feet. Most dashed away to take their places before they could be searched for more, and Bartholomew was sure they had not given up everything they had secreted about them. Unfortunately, he was equally sure that there was not much more he could do about it.
‘Prior Etone and I are obliged to remind you of the rules,’ announced Leccheworth eventually to the participants. ‘Not that there are many. Well, two and an optional one, to be precise.’
‘First, each team has two goals,’ continued Etone. ‘The object of the game is to pass the ball into your own goals, and to prevent the opposition from getting the ball into theirs.’
‘Second, there will be no biting,’ continued Leccheworth. ‘And third, if you would not mind, no swearing, either. This is a convent, and I do not want my novices hearing anything uncouth.’
‘Right you are then, Father,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘We shall take our positions, and the game will be under way as soon as the ball leaves the hand of the Indifferent Man, who is Michael this year. In the meantime, I advise you and Bartholomew to leave the field with all possible speed.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael uneasily. ‘You told me all the Indifferent Man has to do is throw the ball in the air, and walk back to the side.’
‘Running to the side would be safer,’ said Neyll with a nasty grin. ‘As fast as you can.’
The teams lined up about ten yards distant from each other. As soon as Bartholomew and the priors left, the competitors issued a great roar that seemed to make the ground tremble. The Indifferent Man hurled the ball into the air, and all the players immediately began to converge on it. Bartholomew started back in alarm when he saw Michael was going to be crushed under the onslaught, but Etone stopped him. The two sides met with a crash that reminded the physician painfully of the Battle of Poitiers.
‘Michael does not look very “indifferent” now,’ chortled Leccheworth, as the monk disappeared in a mêlée of flailing arms and legs. ‘I have never seen a man look so frightened!’
Bartholomew tried to free himself, to go to his friend’s aid, but Etone held tight. Then Michael appeared, clawing his way free of the frenzy. He made a determined dash for safety, but Neyll emerged from the scrimmage and stuck out a sly foot. Unfortunately for the Bible Scholar, once Michael’s bulk was on the move, it was not easily stopped, and it was Neyll who went sprawling.
It did not take Bartholomew long to decide that camp-ball was not very interesting as a spectator sport. All that could be seen most of the time was a pile of heaving bodies, and he rarely knew where the ball was. He suspected the same was true for the players, and that they had forgotten their goals in the general enjoyment of punching, kicking and slapping each other.
His skills were needed almost immediately. First, Brother Jude was knocked senseless, then Gib hobbled from the field, howling in agony.
‘What is wrong?’ shouted Bartholomew, struggling to make himself heard over the Chestre man’s screeches. There was nothing obviously amiss, and he was not sure what he was expected to do.
‘My leg is broken, of course!’ bellowed Gib. ‘Call yourself a physician?’
‘It is not broken,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It is not even bruised.’
‘It is snapped in two!’ Gib was making such a fuss that more people were watching him than the game. ‘And you are only pretending there is nothing wrong because you made yourself sick on our wine last night. It is vengeance!’
Bartholomew was about to deny the charge, when the action on the field came to a sudden stop. He glanced across to see some players milling around aimlessly, while the others had formed a massive heap. They untangled themselves slowly, but the one at the very bottom of the pile lay still. Neyll shouted that he was holding up the action, and prodded the inert figure with his foot. Before the Scot could do any damage, Bartholomew abandoned Gib and ran towards them.
Before he was halfway there, he could see it was Poynton, identifiable by his fine clothes, now sadly stained with mud. He reached the victim and dropped to his knees. But there was nothing he could do to help, because Poynton was dead.
Although fatalities were not uncommon in camp-ball, it was the first time Bartholomew had had to deal with one, and he found it an unsettling experience. He called for a stretcher, and escorted the body from the field. He expected the game to end there and then, and was startled when there was a call for the return of the Indifferent Man so it could begin afresh.
‘But a player is dead,’ he objected, shocked.
‘And the Indifferent Man intends to investigate the matter,’ added Michael.
‘Of course,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘Do not let us interfere. Father William, how would you like the honour of being indifferent, given that Michael declines? You can run fast, I believe.’
‘This is hardly seemly, Prior Leccheworth,’ declared Michael, watching in horror as William trotted out on to the field to oblige. ‘It is–’
‘I dare not stop it,’ whispered Leccheworth, his face white against his black hair. ‘There is nothing in the rules – such as they are – that says a game must be aborted in the event of a death. And people have been looking forward to this match for weeks. There would be a riot!’
‘He is right,’ agreed Etone. ‘There must be upwards of a thousand people here, including the kind of apprentices and students who react badly to disappointment. It will be better for everyone if we let the game continue. But it is a shame the casualty is Poynton: corpses do not make benefactions.’
His fellow Carmelites had a rather more compassionate attitude to the pilgrim’s demise, and they and Welfry were already on their knees, intoning prayers for the dead. They were joined by most of the Gilbertines, although Thelnetham was not among them. He was nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew wondered where he had gone.
Michael wanted Bartholomew to examine Poynton’s body before it was taken away, but the physician had the living to tend. Within moments, he was obliged to bandage a cut in Heslarton’s arm, and apply a poultice to Neyll’s knee. Kendale came to stand next to his fallen Bible Scholar, gripping his shoulder encouragingly. Gib, on the other hand, had recovered from his ‘broken’ leg and had rejoined the game, throwing punches with unrestrained enthusiasm.
‘Treat Neyll gently, physician,’ ordered Kendale, his breath hot on Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Chestre will not countenance any roughness. And you need not bother to tend my injured hand again, because Meryfeld has offered to do it.’