Neyll grinned malevolently. ‘I told him I would burn down his house if he refused, and he was not sure whether I was in jest or not. He agreed, just to be on the safe side.’
Bartholomew ignored them both, too busy to bandy words. When Michael saw Kendale looming over his friend in a manner he deemed threatening, he hurried over.
‘Step away, Kendale,’ he ordered. ‘And incidentally, I expect our gates to be returned by this evening. If you do not oblige, I will see Chestre closed down, and your pupils sent home.’
‘Will you indeed?’ drawled Kendale. ‘Well, unfortunately for you, you have no evidence that we are the culprits, and you cannot suppress a hostel on a suspicion. If you even attempt it, I shall inform the King – I have kin at court, so you can be sure my threat is not an idle one. Besides, we are innocent.’
‘Then who is responsible?’ demanded Michael.
Kendale shrugged. ‘I imagine a brash College like Michaelhouse has all manner of enemies, and Chestre is not the only hostel that would like to see it cut down to size.’
Michael glared at him, then turned on Neyll. ‘What can you tell me about Poynton’s death? You were on the field, so what did you see?’
A spiteful expression suffused the Bible Scholar’s face. ‘I saw Master Langelee paying rather close attention to Poynton before the mishap. Perhaps you should question him. I, however, was nowhere near the pilgrim when he died.’
‘Neyll is lying,’ said Bartholomew, after Kendale had helped his student limp away. ‘He was near Poynton, because he was one of those extricated from the pile. I saw Yffi help him up.’
‘Why should he lie?’ asked Michael worriedly. ‘Did he crush Poynton deliberately and is trying to ensure we do not prosecute him? Of course, malicious intent would be difficult to prove, given the level of violence on the field today.’
‘Difficult to disprove, too,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But Neyll was right about one thing: Langelee was by Poynton during the fatal skirmish. If we accuse Chestre, they will almost certainly respond with similar claims about our Master.’
‘And anyone who knows Langelee will be aware of his penchant for savagery,’ concluded Michael. ‘Damn them! They will use Langelee’s wild reputation to protect themselves.’
Chapter 7
It felt like an age until a bell rang to announce the game was over. The uninjured players – down to about ten per team – left the field slapping each other’s shoulders in manly bonhomie. Langelee, smeared in blood, though none of it was his own, came to greet his colleagues with a beaming grin.
‘By God, I enjoyed that,’ he declared. ‘I am sorry about Poynton, though. Was his neck broken or was he crushed? I have known both to happen before, which is why I am careful never to end up on the bottom of those piles.’
‘You enjoyed it?’ cried Thelnetham in disbelief. ‘But our team lost! You only managed three goals, whereas the Carmelites scored ten. It was what is known in military terms as a rout.’
‘Rubbish!’ cried Langelee. ‘We were the better players. Goals are not everything, you know.’
‘I think you will find they are,’ countered Thelnetham. He brushed himself down fussily, and Bartholomew wondered again where he had been earlier, when his brethren had been praying over Poynton’s corpse. ‘At least, they are if you are trying to win.’
‘Were there goals?’ asked William. ‘I did not see any. And to be honest, I would not have known who had won, either, if Prior Leccheworth had not announced the result. As far as I could tell, it was just a lot of skirmishing. Indeed, I am not even sure the ball was involved in the last part. It seemed to be lying forgotten at the edge of the field.’
‘Did any of you see what happened to Poynton?’ Michael asked.
‘He caught the ball, and went down under a wave of men,’ replied Thelnetham promptly. ‘The first four to reach him were Master Langelee, Yffi, Neyll and Heslarton.’
‘Heslarton?’ asked William. ‘But he was on Poynton’s side! Why should he join the scrum?’
‘One forgets these niceties in the heat of the moment,’ explained Langelee. ‘But do not ask me about it, Brother. There were so many scrimmages today that I cannot recall one from another.’
Michael walked to where Yffi was standing with his apprentices, being commiserated because his team had lost.
‘At least we killed one of the bastards,’ Yffi was saying viciously. ‘And I am not sure I believe Prior Etone’s claim that his team got ten goals, because I did not see any of them. Of course, I did not see the three we had, either…’
‘You were among the first to reach Poynton when he caught the ball,’ said Michael, launching immediately into an interrogation. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Yffi scratched his head with a rough, callused hand. ‘Langelee, Neyll and I raced to get it back. So did Heslarton, although he was on Poynton’s side, and was supposed to be protecting him. But it is difficult to remember who is who on these occasions, so you should not hold it against him.’
‘Right,’ said Michael, thus indicating he would think what he pleased.
‘Then others hurled themselves on the pile, and I suppose Poynton could not breathe under the weight of the bodies,’ continued Yffi. ‘It would not be the first time, nor will it be the last.’
While Bartholomew treated a staggering array of gashes, grazes and bruises, assisted none too ably by Rougham, Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Michael continued to ask questions. Everyone’s story – players and spectators alike – was the same: Poynton had died because the human body was not designed to be trapped under so much weight.
When the monk had satisfied himself that there was no more to be learned from witnesses, he turned his attention to the body, only to find that Welfry and Horneby had organised a bier, and were already carrying it to the Carmelite Priory. He hurried after them, arriving just as they were setting the corpse before the altar. Fen and the two nuns were with them, and when they had finished, the pardoner stepped forward and gently laid a badge on Poynton’s chest.
‘That is a Holy Land cross,’ said Horneby softly, eyeing it in awe. ‘From Jerusalem.’
‘It was his favourite,’ said Fen in a broken voice. ‘We have been travelling together for years, and I shall miss him terribly. I shall undertake to return his belongings to his family myself, especially his signacula. It is what he would have wanted.’
‘Would he?’ asked Horneby. ‘You do not think he might prefer to leave one or two of the valuable ones here? He was talking about helping us rebuild our shrine, and I speak not because I want his money, but because we must ensure that we follow his wishes.’
‘Right,’ murmured Fen flatly. ‘But we should let his kin decide how to honour him.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘As a pardoner, you sell pilgrim tokens, do you not?’
Fen regarded him coolly. ‘On occasion, but I assure you, that is not the reason I want to assume possession of Poynton’s. My motives are honourable.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Welfry soothingly, speaking before Michael could respond. ‘But this is not the place to discuss such matters. Will you join me in a prayer for his soul?’
Without appearing insensitive, no one had any choice but to agree, so Michael, Horneby, Fen and the nuns knelt while Welfry began to intone several lengthy petitions. It was cold in the chapel, and the three surviving pilgrims were openly relieved when at last he finished. They took their leave quickly, and Michael watched them go with narrowed eyes.