‘Yes, he has,’ agreed Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘I have heard him myself. What of it?’
‘Did Meryfeld mention anything missing after Horneby had burst into his home?’ demanded Bartholomew urgently.
‘He said the cauldron we used to make our lamp-fuel was gone, along with some pitch, quicklime and brimstone.’ Gyseburne paled when he understood what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘You believe Horneby intends to use that vile abomination at the camp-ball? No! It is too terrible, and he is a friar! He would never…’
‘I think he might,’ said Bartholomew soberly. Was it his imagination, or had Thelnetham’s tonic given him a sudden burst of energy? Or was it simply the challenge of preventing such a terrible atrocity that filled him with strength and determination?
It was not long before they reached the camp-ball field, and Bartholomew was horrified by the size of the crowd that had gathered – it was far larger than the one for the game between the Carmelites and the Gilbertines. Those who were scholars had formed themselves into blocks, some sporting red banners that declared them members of hostels, and others carrying blue for the Colleges or convents. Red was by far the dominant colour, although it did not deter the blue from bellowing insults and abuse.
Bartholomew’s heart sank further still when he saw the factions were separated by groups of the kind of townsman who enjoyed rough sport. If there was any off-the-field skirmishing, they would join in, and the trouble would escalate to the point where Tulyet’s soldiers and Michael’s beadles would be unable to control it. Then the peace they had enjoyed for the past few weeks would be shattered, and town and University would be back at each other’s throats again.
There was an enthusiastic roar from the crowd as the teams trotted on to the field. Bartholomew was appalled when he saw how many students had elected to play. There were at least sixty on each side, and many were lads who had already been involved in the rivalry – Essex, Maud’s, Batayl and Cosyn’s hostels, along with King’s Hall, Gonville and Valence Marie for the Colleges.
‘No one from Michaelhouse, thank God,’ said Michael, following the direction of his gaze. ‘Although our students are among the supporters, and will join in any fight that starts.’
Bartholomew watched Kendale, smug and arrogant in his capacity of organiser, stroll on to the field after the players amid a chorus of cheers from the hostels. This was immediately countered by boos and hisses from the Colleges, and Bartholomew saw the smile slip a little.
‘Mingle,’ Michael ordered his beadles and volunteers, as Kendale beckoned the competitors forward and began to outline the rules. ‘Look for Horneby, and listen for any fighting talk. And if you succeed in either, come to me – do not attempt to tackle it on your own. You will almost certainly fail, and then Horneby will have his riot.’
They hurried away to do as they were told. Bartholomew aimed for a large contingent of Carmelites, huddled in their cloaks and shivering in the cold. Their hoods were up, shielding their faces, and it occurred to him that it was the perfect place for Horneby to hide. But when he arrived, and they turned to greet him, he saw the young friar was not among them. Etone was, though, looking old, drawn and tired.
‘Have you seen Horneby?’ Bartholomew demanded.
As one, the Carmelites shook their heads. ‘Not since dawn,’ said one. ‘When Prior Etone announced that he was well enough to resume his duties.’
Etone regarded the physician with a bleak expression, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would ever recover from the loss of his relic.
There was another cheer as the two teams separated and the Indifferent Man took up position. The honour had been awarded to Chancellor Tynkell, who was puffed up with pride – until he realised what the appointment entailed, at which point he began to look frightened. Panicked into resourcefulness, he effected a powerful dropkick, which propelled the ball away from him. The players veered after it, leaving him to depart the field with his dignity intact.
Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle and looked around desperately, wondering where Horneby might be. He spotted Rougham, appointed Official Physician for the day. The Gonville medicus looked stately and confident in his academic robes, although his hubris faded when the first two players limped from the field with deep cuts.
‘Help me, Bartholomew,’ he commanded, regarding the wounds in distaste. ‘Kendale said this game was not to be savage-camp, so there would be no serious injuries. I would not have accepted the commission had I known there would be blood involved.’
‘Have you seen Horneby?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the order.
‘Yes – haring towards Edmund House just a few moments ago,’ replied Rougham, gesturing to the derelict building on the far side of the pitch. ‘But never mind him. I need your expertise, because these wounds need stitching.’
‘Then stitch,’ suggested Bartholomew shortly, forgetting Michael’s warning about not tackling the villain alone as he began to run around the edge of the field.
Progress was not easy. Bartholomew wore no red or blue ribbon to declare his allegiance, but this attracted aggravation from both sides. He was shoved, jostled, tripped and prodded the whole way around, and each time he stumbled, he felt more of his energy leach away. It felt like an age before he reached the house and staggered around it until he found the door. He opened it gingerly, and stepped inside, immediately aware of the stale, earthy aroma of neglect. He listened intently, trying to hear where Horneby might be, but the shouts and cheers from the field drowned out any sounds the friar might be making.
The ground floor looked as though no one had been in it since the plague, with its curtains of cobwebs, crumbling plaster and mildew-encrusted walls. A flight of stairs led to the upper floor, which Bartholomew was astonished to find furnished. Grimly, he supposed Celia had declined to romp in a ruin, and had obliged Heslarton to provide her with some basic comforts.
He pushed open the first door, alert for any sign that Horneby was waiting to ambush him, but the room was empty. Heart pounding, he did the same to the second, and saw someone lying on the floor.
It was Horneby, blood seeping into his hair from a wound on the side of his head. Bewildered, Bartholomew eased him on to his back, watching his eyes flutter open as he was moved. The injury was nasty, but not life threatening. However, someone had hit him extremely hard.
‘Bartholomew,’ Horneby breathed. ‘You have to stop him!’
‘Stop who?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘The loss of life will be terrible,’ Horneby went on weakly, ‘and I tried to persuade him to abandon it, but he outwitted me. Odelina must be his lover.’
‘His lover?’ echoed Bartholomew stupidly, wishing his wits were sharper.
‘Yes, although it is hard to believe he would break his vows for such a woman.’ Horneby shot Bartholomew a sheepish glance. ‘Being such close friends, we sometimes discussed ladies. I said Odelina was too venal for my tastes, and he agreed. He lied to me!’
‘You mean Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew, his mind a dazed whirl. ‘But he rejected her advances. I saw it myself.’
Horneby swallowed hard. ‘He did not reject them earlier today. He has captured her heart, and she is like clay in his hands. He knows enough of romantic ballads to understand what will tie her to him. How could I have been so blind?’
‘Odelina is Welfry’s accomplice? But…’
But it was certainly possible, Bartholomew thought, as he trailed off. Welfry was handsome and witty, and Odelina was not the sort of woman to let priestly vows stand in the way of what she wanted. Moreover, Welfry might well have been the fleet-footed thief in the yellow wig whom Bartholomew had chased along the High Street – far more likely than the heavier, slower Horneby.