The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  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.

  ‘They are chilled to the bone, Brother,’ said Horneby, seeing what he was thinking. ‘It has been a long afternoon, and the wind was biting. I understand why they are eager to find a fire.’

  Welfry agreed. ‘They are running to warm themselves, not to paw through Poynton’s things.’

  My poor friend!’ said Horneby, regarding the Dominican sheepishly. ‘You came today because I promised you some fun, to make up for the distress of losing your signaculum, but I suspect you feel you have been most shamelessly misled.’

  Welfry nodded unhappily. ‘Watching men punch and kick each other is not my idea of entertainment, and I am sorry for Poynton. There was nothing to
laugh about this afternoon.’

  ‘Then let us remedy that,’ said Horneby. ‘Father William has given me a theological tract to read – one he penned himself. I warrant there will be something in that to bring a smile to your face.’

  Welfry did not look convinced, but allowed himself to be led away, leaving Michael alone with Poynton. The monk stared down at the arrogant, unattractive face for a long time, grateful the death was an accident, and not something else he would have to investigate. Eventually, Bartholomew arrived, looking for him.

  ‘You had better examine Poynton,’ Michael said tiredly. ‘The Gilbertine Priory counts as University land, because some of its canons are scholars. His death comes under our jurisdiction.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically. ‘I am cold, wet and tired.’

  ‘So am I,’ snapped Michael. ‘But I will need a cause of death for my records, and I would like the matter concluded today. Then I can concentrate on catching the killer-thief and preventing the Colleges and hostels from tearing each other apart.’

  With a sigh of resignation, Bartholomew obliged, but soon forgot his discomfort when he discovered what lay beneath the fine garments. He had suspected Poynton was ill, but he was appalled to learn the extent to which disease had ravaged its victim. He regarded the pilgrim with compassion, feeling it went some way to explaining why Poynton had been so irascible. It also explained why he had devoted so much time to pilgrimage – and why he had been so distressed when his signaculum had been stolen. Doubtless he knew he was living on borrowed time and would soon need any blessings such items might confer on their owners.

  ‘Well?’ Michael asked, impatient to be gone. ‘Which was it? Crushing or a broken neck?’

  ‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew, tearing his thoughts away from Poynton’s sickness to more practical matters. ‘He died from a knife in the heart.’

  There was silence in the Carmelite chapel after Bartholomew made his announcement. In the distance, Welfry was laughing, his voice a merry chime above Horneby’s deeper chuckle. Etone and some of his friars were chanting a mass in the shrine, and a cockerel crowed in the yard.

  ‘I have spoken to dozens of witnesses who tell me otherwise,’ said Michael eventually.

  ‘I cannot help that, Brother. The fact is that his neck is not broken, and there is no significant damage to his chest – other than the fact that someone has shoved a knife through it. He was also mortally sick, although that has no bearing on his demise.’

  ‘Murder?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘In front of a thousand spectators and sixty players?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Or accident. The competitors were ordered to disarm before the game, but most managed to keep hold of at least one weapon. Then, during that colossal scrum, a blade may have slipped from its hiding place and into Poynton without its owner knowing anything about it.’

  ‘But it is equally possible that he may have been killed on purpose?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But Poynton’s body cannot tell us which.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘I do not believe in coincidences, and it seems suspicious to me that he should be the one to die – a victim of the signaculum-snatcher. Or an alleged victim, at least.’

  ‘He was on your list of suspects as the killer-thief,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘On the grounds that he poked his head around our College gates the morning Drax was dumped there.’

  ‘Along with Fen and those two horrible nuns.’ Michael sighed, and closed his eyes wearily. ‘Damn! The Carmelites will be outraged when they learn a potential benefactor has been unlawfully slain, and may blame the Gilbertines – Yffi, Neyll and Langelee, all members of the Gilbertines’ side, were the first to jump on Poynton, after all. There will be trouble for certain.’

  ‘Heslarton jumped on him, too, and he was playing for the Carmelites. But to be honest, I do not think anyone cared who was on whose team. The whole thing was just an excuse for a brawl.’

  Michael’s anxieties intensified. ‘The Carmelites have always sided with the Colleges, while the Gilbertines prefer the hostels. Etone and Leccheworth – both sensible men – usually intervene if the rivalry turns sour, but if rabble-rousers like Kendale learn what happened to Poynton, the ill feeling between the two convents may escalate beyond their control.’

  ‘Then we had better keep the matter to ourselves until we understand exactly what happened. If we ever do – this will be not be an easy nut to crack. Incidentally, I heard Trinity Hall discussing Jolye again today.’

  ‘Jolye?’ asked Michael. ‘The lad who drowned after playing the prank with the balanced boats?’

  ‘Yes. You recorded it as an accident, but Trinity Hall is now braying that he was murdered by a hostel. I told them there was no evidence to suggest such a thing, but you know how these rumours take on a life of their own, especially when fuelled by unscrupulous men.’

  ‘Men like Kendale,’ sighed Michael. ‘So who killed Poynton, do you think?’

  Bartholomew considered carefully before replying. ‘Just before the fatal scrimmage, Gib claimed to have broken his leg. He made a terrible fuss, although there was nothing wrong with him, and within a few moments he was back on the field.’

  ‘What are you saying? That he created a distraction, to allow an accomplice to commit murder?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neyll was one of the four who first hurled themselves on Poynton. However, although a lot of people watched Gib’s curious antics, not everyone did – so if it was a diversion, it was not a very effective one. I am not sure what to think, Brother. Perhaps Gib is just one of those players who enjoys making a scene over a scratch.’

  Michael looked tired. ‘But regardless, we have another suspicious death to investigate?’

  ‘If it was suspicious. Accidents are not uncommon in camp-ball.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what someone hopes we will think. But the Senior Proctor will not be manipulated. If Poynton was murdered, I shall find out.’

  They left the chapel just as the three pilgrims were emerging from the refectory, one nun still chewing vigorously. Clearly, Poynton’s death had not deprived the visitors of their appetites. The trio began to hurry towards the guest house, where smoke billowing from a chimney said a fire had been lit within. Michael muttered to Bartholomew that he had not yet had the chance to interrogate them properly, and intercepted them.

  ‘Were any of you watching the camp-ball when Poynton died?’ he asked, after some strained pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘Or were you more intent on talking to devious characters like Kendale?’

  ‘Is Kendale devious?’ asked Fen in surprise. ‘He is a scholar, so I assumed he was decent.’

  Bartholomew looked hard at him, wondering if he was being facetious, but found he could not tell. Michael’s eyes narrowed, though.

  ‘What were you discussing?’ he demanded.

  ‘That is none of your business,’ replied Fen sharply. Then he rubbed his face with a hand that shook. ‘Forgive me. It is shock speaking – as I said, Poynton and I have travelled together for a long time, and his death has distressed me. Kendale asked whether I could locate Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo for him. I deal in books occasionally, you see.’

  ‘It is true,’ said the nun called Agnes. Or was it Margaret? She pulled a disagreeable face. ‘The conversation went on for some time, and we were ignored.’

  Michael changed the subject abruptly. ‘What did you see when Poynton died?’

  Margaret smiled coyly. ‘Very little, because we were huddled inside Master Fen’s cloak.’

  ‘When he was in it, too,’ simpered Agnes. ‘It meant our vision was limited.’

  Fen cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Most of my attention was on Kendale, but I did happen to glance at the field during the fatal skirmish. Unfortunately, all I saw was a flurry of arms and legs. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. And now I shall bid you good evening.’

  He bowed politely, and walked towards the guest house.
The two nuns scurried after him, trying to catch up so they could cling to his arms. Michael watched them go, hands on hips.

  ‘Fen is a liar,’ he declared. ‘Moreover, he intends to deflower those silly ladies, if he has not done so already. I could see the lust shining in his eyes.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is not interested in them, and the gleam you saw was tears of grief. He was fond of Poynton, and is genuinely distressed by his death.’

  ‘Rubbish! You are too easily swayed by a pleasant face and courtly manners.’

  ‘And you are too easily influenced by a man’s profession,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Not all pardoners cheat their customers, and Fen is a pilgrim. Pilgrims generally avoid committing crimes while they are conducting major acts of penitence.’

  ‘How do you know Fen is a genuine pilgrim? Perhaps his real intention was to befriend Poynton and lay hold of his signacula the moment this disease claimed his life.’

  ‘I do not believe it. And Fen can have nothing to do with Poynton’s death, because he was on the sidelines when Poynton was stabbed.’

  ‘Killers can be bought,’ argued Michael. ‘And for a small fraction of what Fen stands to earn from selling Poynton’s signacula. He is implicated in this death, Matt. I am sure of it.’

  Their debate was cut short by the arrival of Cynric. He was mud-smeared, and Bartholomew suspected he had been enjoying a celebratory ale with the camp-ball players in the King’s Head.

  ‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Michael, putting out his hand suddenly. ‘Rain! My room will be awash!’

  ‘It will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because the sheet over your ceiling will not repel anything more than a shower, and I suspect we are in for a good downpour tonight.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But I came to tell you that Emma de Colvyll has summoned you, boy.’

  ‘She is no longer my patient,’ said Bartholomew, glad to be able to refuse her. ‘Meryfeld—’

  ‘The messenger said Meryfeld needs a second opinion. He wants you to go, too.’