The Killer of Pilgrims (9 page)

‘Have you found it?’ demanded Poynton without preamble. His florid face made him look unwell, and Bartholomew wondered again
whether illness had prompted his pilgrimages. ‘My token from the Holy Land?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied Michael. ‘Although I spent the entire morning making enquiries. So has my colleague here. Can you
see how he is limping? That is caused by the blisters earned from the distances he has walked on your behalf.’

Bartholomew looked at the ground, uncomfortable with the lie. He had been limping, but it was because he had fallen off a
horse the previous October, and the cold weather was creating an ache in a bone that was not long healed. It had happened
when he and Michael had been travelling to Clare in Suffolk, and had been ambushed by robbers. Michael had decided the incident
was God’s way of telling them they were not supposed to go, and had insisted on turning back. But Bartholomew liked what he
had been told about the place, and intended to visit it later that year, when spring came.

‘We are very grateful for your efforts,’ said Fen politely.

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We shall continue our labours later, despite the fact that this is a holy day and we should be at our
devotions. As should you.’

‘I know how to make my devotions,’ snarled Poynton. ‘I have been on twenty-two pilgrimages, and do not need a monk to direct
me.’ He looked the Benedictine up and down in disdain.

‘We are on our way to the chapel now,’ said Fen, laying
a warning hand on Poynton’s shoulder. ‘So we shall leave you to your business.’

‘I do not like them,’ said Michael, when they had gone. ‘Poynton is nasty, but Fen is worse. He pretends to be reasonable,
but you can see the cunning burn within him. You think I say this because I despise his wicked profession, but you are wrong.
I feel, with every bone in my body, that there is something untoward about that pardoner.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew.

He resumed his walk to Horneby’s chamber, reluctant to discuss it. Michael was always accusing pardoners of devious or criminal
behaviour. Of course, he was often right – he had accumulated a lot of experience with felons as Senior Proctor, and his intuition
did tend to be accurate. But Bartholomew had detected nothing odd about Fen, and thought the monk was letting his prejudices
run away with him. Fen seemed perfectly amiable to him.

John Horneby did not look like a famous theologian. He was young, and his boyish appearance was accentuated by the fact that
he was missing two front teeth. It was not many years since he had been an unruly novice, who preferred brawling to books,
and Bartholomew was not the only one who had been amazed by his sudden and wholly unanticipated transformation into a serious
scholar.

‘Bartholomew,’ he croaked, as the two scholars were shown into his room. There was nothing in it except a bed, a table for
studying and a hook for his spare habit. The table was piled high with books, though. ‘I hope you can help me, because I cannot
lecture like this.’

While Bartholomew inspected the back of Horneby’s throat with a lantern, Michael examined the tomes on the table. Books were
enormously expensive, and the fact that Horneby had been allocated so many at one time was
testament to the high esteem in which he was held by his Order.

‘You have the theories of Doctor Stokes,’ Michael said, picking up a manuscript. ‘The Dominican. I cannot say I admire his
scribblings.’

‘He is dry,’ agreed Horneby. ‘But his thinking on the Indivisibility of the Holy Trinity is—’

‘Do not speak,’ advised Bartholomew. He adjusted the lantern, then turned to the lay-brother who had escorted them to the
room. ‘This lamp flickers horribly. Is there a better one?’

‘That is the best light in the whole convent,’ replied the servant. ‘And I tested them all myself, because Prior Etone wants
Master Horneby to be able to read at night. The honour of the Carmelites rests on the lecture he is to give, so we are all
doing everything we can to ensure he is ready for it.’

‘And I am sure it will be superb,’ said Michael warmly, smiling at the Carmelite. ‘I have heard you speak on several occasions,
and I know you will do your Order and our University justice.’

The monk possessed a fine mind himself and did not often compliment people so effusively, so Bartholomew could only suppose
Horneby had reached heights he had not yet appreciated. Horneby started to thank him, but stopped when he caught the physician’s
warning glance.

The friar’s throat was red, although Bartholomew could not see well enough to tell whether there were also the yellow flecks
that would be indicative of infection. He decided to assume the worst, and prescribed a particularly strong medicine to rectify
the matter. Horneby sipped the potion, and nodded to say the pain was less. Bartholomew left him to rest, cautioning the lay-brother
to keep him quiet, and not to let him engage in unnecessary chatter.

As Bartholomew and Michael headed for the gate, the monk pulled a disapproving face when Poynton, Fen and the nuns sailed
past the queue that had formed to pay homage to Simon Stock’s scapular, and pushed themselves in at the front. There were
indignant glances from the other pilgrims, but no one seemed inclined to berate them for their selfishness, perhaps because
Poynton and his companions were the Carmelites’ honoured guests. Idly, Bartholomew wondered whether the White Friars would
be quite so accommodating if the quartet were not so obviously rich.

‘Do you think that scapular is genuine?’ Michael asked, speaking softly so as not to be overheard and offend anyone. ‘I find
it hard to believe that a saint who lived almost a hundred years ago, and who died in some distant foreign city, should have
left a bit of his habit in Cambridge.’

‘I am not qualified to say,’ replied Bartholomew. The notion that half the town considered him a warlock made him wary of
voicing opinions that might be construed as heretical, even to Michael. ‘Prior Etone showed it to me yesterday, though. It
looked old.’

‘So do I at times, but that does not make me an object to be venerated. Personally, I am uncomfortable with this particular
shrine. For years, St Simon Stock’s vision was said to be a legend, with no actual truth to it, but all of a sudden here we
are with a holy place of pilgrimage. And it is attracting pardoners, which cannot be a good thing.’

‘And thieves, if yesterday was anything to go by.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘The shrine will draw scoundrels as well as benefactors, and Poynton will not be the last visitor
to fall prey to sticky fingers.’

By the time they returned to the College, it was nearing the hour when the rite of Purification would begin, so
Bartholomew went to change into his ceremonial robes – a red hat and a scarlet gown that were worn only on special occasions.
Unfortunately, both were looking decidedly shabby, but he could not afford to buy replacements when there was so much medicine
to be purchased.

‘Ask your sister for new ones, sir,’ suggested Valence. ‘She can well afford them.’

It was true enough, and Edith was always pressing gifts of food and money on her impecunious brother, but he was acutely conscious
of the fact that he was rarely in a position to reciprocate. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he disliked being so often
in her debt.

‘She will give you whatever you want,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘And you repay her in kind, by turning out
every time one of her husband’s apprentices has a scratch or a snuffle. She told me the other day that she was lucky to have
you.’

‘Did she?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. Edith’s good opinion was important to him.

‘Yes, because she does not like any of the other physicians. She says Rougham is arrogant, Gyseburne is sinister, and Meryfeld
does not know what he is talking about.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, deflated. He jammed the hat on his head, and supposed people might not notice the state of his clothes
if the light was poor – it was an overcast day.

‘The feast this afternoon promises to be good,’ Valence chatted on happily. ‘Agatha has cooked a whole pig! We have not had
a decent pile of meat in weeks!’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. But his mind was on medicine, pondering how he had struggled to see Horneby’s sore throat with the
Carmelites’ best lamp. ‘Are you friends with Welfry the Dominican? I have seen you with him several times.’

Valence immediately became wary. ‘He lives in his friary, sir. And Master Langelee prefers that we do not fraternise with
men from other foundations, so we rarely meet.’

‘He prefers that you do not visit taverns, either, but that does not stop you from doing it,’ Bartholomew remarked tartly.
‘How well do you know Welfry?’

‘I may have had a drink or two in his company,’ acknowledged Valence. He coloured furiously when he realised what he had just
admitted. ‘Not in a tavern, of course.’

‘Of course. Did he tell you how he managed that trick with the flaming lights last week? The one where St Mary the Great was
illuminated as if by a vast candle?’

‘That was not Welfry, sir. Kendale from Chestre Hostel did that.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you sure? Lighting up St Mary the Great seems too innocent a stunt for him. I imagine
he would have devised something more … deadly.’

‘The Dominicans
are
notorious pranksters,’ acknowledged Valence. ‘And the affair at the church
is
the kind of escapade they love. But they are innocent of that particular jape.’

‘You seem very sure. Can I assume you were with Welfry at the time? In a tavern?’

‘We may have enjoyed an ale in the Cardinal’s Cap, now you mention it,’ admitted Valence reluctantly. ‘He is an intelligent
man, and I enjoy his company. But the Cap is not really a tavern. It is more a society, where gentlemen gather for erudite
conversation.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. There was no point in remonstrating. Valence knew the rules, and if he was willing to risk being
fined by the beadles – Brother Michael’s army of law-enforcers – then that was his business. The same went for Welfry, too.
He considered the friar. ‘I cannot
imagine why he took the cowl. I do not think I have ever encountered a man less suited to life in a habit.’

‘Many clever men take holy orders because it is the only way they can be among books. But he is a
good
man, sir – generous to the poor, and endlessly patient with the sick.’ Valence grinned. ‘He does love to laugh, though. His
Prior-General ordered him to Cambridge in the hope that an abundance of erudite conversation would quell his penchant for
mischief, but …’

‘But his Prior-General miscalculated.’ Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Some of his tricks have been very ingenious, though – such
as his picture of stairs that always go up and never down, and the tiny ship inside the glass phial. That is why I assumed
it was he who lit up St Mary the Great.’

‘Kendale is ingenious, too – Welfry’s equal in intellect, although it galls me to say so, because he is a vile brute who hates
the Colleges. But why are you interested in the church incident, sir? Do you plan a similar trick yourself?’

Bartholomew laughed at the notion. ‘No! I struggled to inspect a swollen throat with a flickering lamp today. If the brilliance
of Kendale’s illumination could be harnessed, it might be possible to devise a lantern with a steady gleam – and that would
make our work much easier.’

Valence considered. ‘I suppose it would. Of course, Kendale’s real aim was to set Gonville Hall alight – sparks went very
close to their roof, and everyone knows he waited until the wind was blowing in their direction before he ignited his display.
Has Brother Michael guessed the culprit?’

‘Not yet.’

Valence sniffed. ‘Welfry and I inspected the church afterwards. He thinks Kendale put buckets of black sludge at strategic
points, linked by burning twine, so they would all
go up at more or less the same time. The sludge contained brimstone, which is why it burned so bright.’

‘What else was in it?’

‘Welfry said it was probably charcoal and some kind of oil. He asked Kendale for the formula, but the miserable bastard refused
to tell him. The Colleges answered Kendale’s challenge well, though, do you not think? Our trick showed we are just as clever
as the hostels.’

‘You put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. But I thought Welfry was behind that – and he is not a member of a College,
so should not be attempting to best hostels.’

Valence raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Have you not heard? The Dominicans and Carmelites are on the Colleges’ side, because
we are all permanent foundations with endowments. The Gilbertines decided to back the hostels, on the grounds that they are
poor and they feel sorry for them.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do the convents’ priors know about this affiliation, or is it something that has been decided
by novices?’

Valence smirked and declined to answer. ‘It is only a bit of fun, sir. Cambridge has been dull since the University and the
town have buried the hatchet. Moreover, most of the criminals have been ousted by Emma de Colvyll, so nothing ever happens
now. The rivalry between the Colleges and the hostels will keep us amused until we have a real spat to occupy us.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, amazed he should admit to holding such an attitude.

‘Unfortunately, Kendale is trying to turn our harmless competition into something nasty,’ Valence continued. ‘He encourages
hostel men to yell abuse at College members in the street, and relations between us grow more strained every day.’

Bartholomew was worried. ‘Will the Colleges respond to Kendale’s trick involving the crated bull?’

‘Of course,’ replied Valence. ‘But it will not be with anything violent, careless or stupid.
We
are not savages.’

When Bartholomew arrived at St Michael’s Church, his colleagues were in the chancel, discussing last-minute details for the
Purification ceremony. As he walked up the nave to join them he saw a large number of people he knew, which included some
he would not have expected to have been there. Among the latter were Emma and her family. Heslarton had brought a chair for
her, and was fussing around it with cushions. Odelina and her mother stood to one side, and Bartholomew was surprised to see
Celia with them, looking bright and inappropriately cheerful.

‘I find consolation in religion, Doctor,’ she whispered, when her eyes happened to meet his. Her expression was brazenly insincere.
‘As do many recent widows.’

Bartholomew inclined his head, although it had been on the tip of his tongue to retort that most had the grace to wait until
after the funeral before going out with friends. As he resumed his walk, his heart sank when he realised many of the congregation
were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. And they all exuded an aura of tense anticipation, which strongly indicated they were
planning to make what they liked to call music.

The choir was a large body of men – and some women – who had joined because they wanted the free bread and ale that was provided
after practices. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and they prided themselves on being one of the loudest
phenomena in the shire,
audible over a distance of two miles, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.

‘They are not going to sing, are they?’ Bartholomew asked, glancing behind him at the assembled mass.

‘Yes,’ replied Michael stiffly. He was protective of his ensemble, although as a talented musician himself, he was fully aware
of its limitations. ‘They are a choir, and singing is what choirs do.’

‘They are a rabble,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘Here only for the free food.’

Bartholomew spoke before Michael could reply to the charge. ‘There seem to be more of them than usual. Do we have enough to
feed them all?’

‘I will manage,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if you donate the three pennies you earned from inspecting Drax.’

‘But I need that for medicine,’ objected Bartholomew in dismay.

‘Food is more important than remedies,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Did you hear that the price of grain has risen again? A loaf
of bread now costs more than a labourer can earn in a day.’

It was a dismal state of affairs, and Bartholomew wondered how many more of the poor would starve before winter relinquished
its icy hold.

‘Celia Drax is here,’ remarked Thelnetham, surveying the congregation critically. ‘It did not take
her
long to recover from the news that her husband was murdered.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But she said she finds consolation in religion.’

Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘Yffi is here, too. Incidentally, I still think he is involved in what happened to Drax. I
will interview him again tomorrow, and have the truth. I would have done it today, but the wretched man did not appear for
work this morning.’

‘But he has taken all the tiles off the roof!’ exclaimed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘If it rains, we shall have water cascading—’

‘Believe me, I know,’ interrupted Michael. ‘My ceiling currently comprises a sheet nailed to the rafters. I almost froze to
death last night. But we shall discuss this later – the rite is starting.’

Michaelhouse was good at ceremonies, because so many of its Fellows were in religious Orders. Thelnetham presided, ably assisted
by Clippesby and Suttone, all attired in their best habits. Father William, in his grubby robes, was relegated to the role
of crucifer, while Michael was in charge of music. Bartholomew, Langelee and Ayera were only obliged to stand in the chancel
in their scarlet gowns, and watch.

Thelnetham began by blessing a large number of beeswax candles, which, Bartholomew recalled, had been donated by Drax. Then,
after sprinkling them with incense, he lit them, and the choir swung into action. Bartholomew knew it was the Nunc Dimittis,
because that was always chanted at this point, although it was unrecognisable as such. He exchanged an amused grin with Ayera,
then struggled for a suitably reverent expression when Michael glanced in his direction.

It was difficult to remain sombre, though, when Emma and her household were open-mouthed in astonishment at the cacophony
– with the exception of Heslarton, who was nodding in time to the rhythm, such as it was. As the volume grew, despite Michael’s
frantic arm-waving to indicate this was not what he wanted, their incredulity intensified, and Bartholomew was aware that
both Langelee and Ayera were shaking with laughter next to him.

Thelnetham processed slowly down the aisle when the choir began to wail the antiphon
Adorna thalamum
tuumSion
, followed by every Michaelhouse scholar, each carrying one of the candles. Deynman opened the door, and the procession moved
into the cemetery, the scholars shielding the lights with their hands to prevent them from blowing out. The daylight was fading
as the short winter afternoon drew to a close, so the candles were bright in the gloom. Similar services were being held in
every other church in the town, and the beautifully harmonic voices of St Mary the Great were carried on the wind, melodic
and mystical in the dying day.

Unfortunately, the Michaelhouse Choir heard them, and this was not to be borne. There were some glares of indignation, and
Isnard raised his arm to indicate the matter was to be rectified. Michael tried to stop them, but to no avail: a challenge
had been perceived, and it was going to be answered. The tenors launched into the Nunc Dimittis again, but the basses preferred
an Ave Maria, while the higher parts flitted from piece to piece as and when the fancy took them.

Isnard’s conducting grew more urgent, and the volume rose further still. The racket brought the High Street to a standstill,
as carts careened into each other. Several dogs started to howl, although they could not be heard over the din, and neither
could the whinnies of frightened horses.

Thelnetham stepped up the pace of the ceremony, eager to be back inside so the clamour could be brought to an end. The Fellows
hurried to keep up with him, while the students at the very end of the line were obliged to break into a run. Several were
helpless with laughter, and by the time Thelnetham had circumnavigated the churchyard and was heading back up the aisle, his
procession was in shambles.

He blessed the image of the Holy Child that Suttone was holding, then read the canticle
Benedictus Dominus Deus
Israel
before the choir could sing that, too. But there was one more musical interlude to be performed, and scholars and congregation
alike were relieved when Michael shot his singers a glance that told them they had better not join in, and chanted the
Inviolata
himself.

Bartholomew closed his eyes as the monk’s rich baritone filled the church, enjoying the way it echoed around the stones. When
the last notes had faded away and he opened his eyes again, it was to find the church filled with flickering gold light. Then
it was plunged into darkness as the scholars blew out their candles. The ritual of Purification was over.

‘I have heard worse,’ said Bartholomew consolingly, as he walked home next to Michael. The High Street was still in chaos,
with two broken wagons and a man wailing over the fact that his sheep had been frightened into a stampede. ‘They were not
as bad today as they were at Christmas.’

‘They were louder, though,’ said Michael. He grinned, a little wickedly. ‘How many other foundations do you think we managed
to disrupt this time? At Christmas, we received complaints from five, but I think we may have surpassed ourselves this afternoon.’

‘It would not surprise me to learn that they disrupted the Pope in Avignon. Can you not tell them that producing that sort
of din is bad for the ears? It hurt mine, and I was some distance away. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be among
them.’

Michael’s expression was pained. ‘I do tell them, but my advice is forgotten once they are in public. You should have heard
them practise the Ave Maria last week. It was beautiful – moving.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted it, but said nothing. He could hear the sounds of merriment behind him, as the
singers, delighted with the impact they had made, shared the bread and ale Michael had provided. He was glad they would have
at least one good meal that day, and began to look forward to the feast, aware that it was some time since he had eaten well,
too.

But he was to be disappointed, because when he arrived at Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting with a message. The singing had
aggravated Emma’s toothache, and she wanted him to visit immediately, to see what might be done about it.

‘You will have to go,’ said Langelee, overhearing. ‘I appreciate that your inclination will be to ignore the summons and enjoy
the feast, but you must put duty first.’

‘I never ignore summonses from patients,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Even when I know that patient will continue to
be unwell until she agrees to have her tooth removed.’

‘Well, do what you can for her,’ instructed Langelee. ‘I know you disapprove of me accepting her charity, but I did what had
to be done, and you must make the best of it.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Have you found out who killed Drax yet? He was a benefactor,
too, and I do not want it said that helping Michaelhouse is dangerous.’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But tomorrow I shall learn from Yffi whether he created a diversion so the body could be dumped
here – and if he did, I shall have the name of the killer.’

‘And if he did not?’ asked Langelee.

‘Then I shall have another word with Celia. I sense there is a lot more to be gleaned from her.’

Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew
was
sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and the
noonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.

‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light,
her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called
music seared right through me.’

‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he
wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.

‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief.
If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’

‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’

‘You are
not
pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’

‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work,
and
a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.

She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’

Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs,
although it was a temporary solution at best.

‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether
they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’

He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.

‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot
stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’

‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man
was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be—’

‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you
will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up
to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’

She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire,
heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry,
but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.

It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even
dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword
at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.

‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured
her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’

Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They
were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the first time, Bartholomew
wondered what made them so obviously fond of each other.

‘We are waiting for second opinions,’ explained Emma. ‘Although the Doctor has given me medicine to ease my pain. That horrible
choir should be deemed a hazard to health!’

‘I rather enjoyed their performance,’ said Heslarton, going to stretch his hands towards the fire. ‘I cannot be doing with
silly, warbling melodies, and that was music for
real
men.’