‘Why did you sign Kendale’s writ?’ he asked tiredly, slumping on to a bench.
‘Because he came with his loutish students and frightened the life out of me,’ replied Tynkell, nervously defensive. ‘And then he showed me letters from his kinsmen, who are close to the King, and said they would be displeased if I refused him.’
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Who cares about what they think?’
‘I do, and so do you. They might persuade the King to favour our sister University at Oxford, and then where would we be?’
‘We may not have a University if this game takes place,’ Michael pointed out. He reached for pen and inkpot. ‘You will issue a declaration withdrawing permission. You have the perfect excuse, in that it is on the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You can claim the conflict slipped your mind. No one will hold it against you.’
‘It is too late,’ said Tynkell miserably. ‘Kendale has already made his intentions public, and people are looking forward to the free drinks. If we cancel now, the town will see us as a spoiler of fun, and we shall have a riot anyway.’
‘But the Carmelites will be livid,’ cried Michael. ‘The lecture is an important event for them, and they will not want a large chunk of their audience enticed away by sport.’
‘The kind of lad who likes camp-ball is unlikely to be interested in theology,’ began Tynkell, but Michael overrode him, blasting on as though he had not spoken.
‘Worse, they may assume the Gilbertines are responsible, because they lost the last game, and we shall have a feud between the two Orders into the bargain.’
‘There will be no trouble if the event is properly policed,’ argued Tynkell, although with scant conviction. ‘We shall provide plenty of beadles and all the players will be searched, to ensure they have no weapons.’
‘You will have to search the spectators, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I imagine there will be as much fighting off the field as on it, especially if Kendale aggravates the situation with rumours about martyrs – or worse, with another dangerous joke, like the crated bull.’
There was a polite knock on the door, and Horneby entered, wearing an enormous woollen scarf to protect his throat.
‘I am sorry, Horneby,’ said Michael, before he could speak. ‘I would not have interfered with your sermon for the world, and–’
‘It is all right,’ said Horneby, holding up his hand to stop him. ‘Prior Etone is outraged, but I do not want trouble. So I have come to suggest a solution.’
‘You have?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Then let us hear it.’
‘If my sore throat returns, I cannot give my address – it will be postponed regardless of whether or not there is a camp-ball game. No one can take offence at that.’
‘But you are better,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The swelling is gone.’
Horneby smiled. ‘Then you are going to have to tell a small lie, Bartholomew. You must inform anyone who asks that I need another day to recover. I shall keep my end of the bargain by staying in my room. I do not mind – it will give me more time to prepare.’
‘That would work,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘The vicious scrimmage between hostels and the Colleges will still continue, but at least we will not have to worry about warlike Carmelite novices starting a fight because they feel they have been slighted. It is a good idea, and very gracious of you, Horneby.’
‘Actually, it was Welfry’s idea,’ the friar admitted, ‘He abhors bloodshed.’
‘Perhaps he will not make such a bad Seneschal, after all,’ said Michael approvingly.
Chapter 8
‘My efforts to prevent the hostels going to war with the Colleges are interfering with my hunt for the killer-thief,’ said Michael the following day, as he and Bartholomew walked home from the church after dawn prayers. It was Sunday, which meant the ceremonies had lasted longer than usual.
Bartholomew yawned. It had been another dismal night, with the wind whipping through the missing window and water continuing to ooze through the missing roof despite Langelee’s declarations that there would be trouble if they were not mended. As a result, he had slept badly again, and his wits were still sluggish.
‘That is unfortunate,’ he said, ‘because Drax’s murder should not be too difficult to solve, when you think about it. A corpse was brought to our College in broad daylight, so someone must have noticed it being toted around. It is almost certainly just a case of locating a witness.’
‘You are right,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious reflection. ‘We will talk to Blaston.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Not Blaston. Leave him alone.’
‘I shall not accuse him of anything, but he was closer to where Drax was left than anyone else. There may be a detail he forgot to mention that will allow us to solve this case. Will he be at home, do you think?’
‘No,’ repeated Bartholomew, sure the monk would not confine himself to innocuous questions, and Blaston was a friend. ‘Please, Brother. You hurt his feelings the last time we spoke.’
‘I said nothing that was not true, and it is our duty to explore the matter fully – to clear his name of any suspicion, if nothing else.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But take care not to offend him, or you may find yourself with leaking windows in revenge. And it would serve you right.’
‘Do not jest about leaks,’ said Michael, following him towards the High Street, where Blaston owned a house that was far too small for his enormous family. ‘You can stay with your sister, should life at Michaelhouse become unbearable, but I have nowhere else to go.’
‘You have plenty of refuges,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he had not thought of Edith the previous night. ‘Your Benedictine brethren at Ely House are always pleased to see you, and you have friends in other Colleges.’
‘And let people know Michaelhouse is below par?’ sniffed Michael. ‘That would be disloyal.’
‘There is Edith,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw his sister walking towards them with her husband. ‘She was at the camp-ball game yesterday, but I was too busy to talk to her.’
‘I was not – she is an observant lady, and I hoped she might be able to tell me who killed Poynton. Unfortunately, she could not. She is carrying a parcel. I wonder if there is any food in it.’ The monk surged forward. ‘Edith! What a pleasant surprise! Is that a pie in your–’
‘It is for Matt,’ said Edith, jerking the package away from his questing fingers.
‘We are worried about him,’ explained Stanmore. ‘He is always thin and pale these days – a combination of too much teaching, too many patients, and the slop your College claims is food.’
‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, wishing they would not fuss so.
‘You will take this pie, and eat it all yourself,’ instructed Edith, pressing it into his hand. ‘No sharing with greedy Benedictines. Do you promise? And there is something else, too. You know Oswald and I went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham last year?’
‘To see what the Blessed Virgin could do about the fact that your son seduced the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what was coming next.
Edith’s expression hardened. ‘She was the one who did the seducing, but that is beside the point. Which is that my badge has been stolen. I only left my cloak – the nice dark red one – unattended for an instant, but when I turned around, it had gone. And the token was gone with it.’
‘We believe the culprit is a scholar,’ Stanmore went on. ‘That is why we were coming to see you. At first, in the interests of town–University relations, we decided to overlook the matter, but then we heard that others have fallen victim to his light fingers, so we thought we had better mention it.’