Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘And what is that?’ asked Heslarton doubtfully.

On the other side of the room, Cynric was wound as tightly as a spring, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. Bartholomew tried to brace himself, knowing he had to be ready to help, no matter what the cost to himself.

‘At the camp-ball game today, there will be trouble,’ Odelina was explaining. ‘The hostels will be blamed, and afterwards, the likes of Chestre will be ousted from Cambridge for ever.’

‘Your accomplice wants the hostels discredited?’ Numbly, Bartholomew struggled to make sense of what she was saying. ‘But why?’

‘And we shall be free to enjoy the proceeds of our hard work,’ Odelina continued, ignoring him again. ‘We shall all go to France. But we will never rest easy if this pair are alive.’

Heslarton shook his head, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, but drew his sword just the same. He nodded to the archer, who brought his bow to bear on Cynric, while he advanced on Bartholomew. Odelina watched with eyes that glittered more savagely than her grandmother’s had ever done.

Cynric sprang into action. He hurled one blade at the archer, catching him in the throat, then jammed the other in Heslarton’s side. Heslarton howled in agony and fell to his knees. Cynric was a blur of motion as he raced towards Odelina and gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. Heslarton’s screams alerted the servants, who immediately poured into the room, but Cynric felled two with punches, and the others, unnerved by the fierce, warlike expression on his face, turned and fled. He snatched up Heslarton’s sword, and made for the door.

‘Are you coming?’ he demanded, when Bartholomew made no move to follow, shocked into immobility by the speed and efficiency of the assault.

In the hallway, the surviving bowman ran towards them, sword at the ready. Cynric fended him off with a series of ferocious swipes. Bartholomew lobbed a pot, although it was more by luck than design when it struck the fellow and knocked him senseless.

Then Odelina recovered, and launched herself at the physician, nails clawing wildly at his face. Her weight was more than he could handle, and he fell to the floor with her on top of him. Cynric turned to pull her off, but Bartholomew could hear more feet clattering in the yard below – the servants had summoned reinforcements, probably in the guise of the rough, soldierly men who had helped Heslarton to scour the marshes for the yellow-headed thief.

‘Run, Cynric!’ he urged. ‘Warn Michael.’

‘Not without you,’ muttered Cynric grimly.

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but there was no time. He shoved Odelina away, and when she came at him again, he chopped her in the neck with the side of his hand. She fell back, stunned.

‘She hit me first,’ he protested, aware of Cynric’s startled look. Even so, it was not in his nature to strike women, and he did not feel easy in his mind as he scrambled to his feet. Then he saw Heslarton groaning on the floor with the blade protruding from his ribs.

‘Leave him,’ hissed Cynric. ‘I did not kill him – which is more mercy than he was going to show us.’

He grabbed a sword from the fallen bowman and shoved it into Bartholomew’s hand. Then he raced towards the stairs with one of his blood-curdling battle cries. Heslarton’s men had massed there, and he plunged among them like a madman, driving them back with the sheer ferocity of his charge. Bartholomew jabbed here and there, mostly ineffectually.

Step by step, they fought their way downwards, and eventually reached the door. Bartholomew hauled it open while Cynric, howling all manner of curses and incantations in Welsh, whirled the sword around as though he were demented. Bartholomew was vaguely aware of people in the street stopping to stare as he staggered outside Emma’s domain, and then he was stumbling into the arms of someone who hurried towards him. It was Michael.

Bartholomew watched Michael’s beadles do battle with those members of Emma’s household who had charged into the street after him. When he was sure the beadles would win, he turned to the monk, speaking quickly and urgently, acutely aware that time was of the essence.

‘I have been busy, too,’ said Michael, when he had finished, indicating he was to sit on the edge of a horse trough while they talked. Bartholomew sank down gratefully. His legs were like jelly, and he could not recall when he had felt more wretched. ‘Although only with rioting hostels.’

‘Has there been fighting?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘A little. There might have been more, but Welfry saved the day. Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels were about to set fire to King’s Hall, when he jumped on a wall and screeched a riddle at the top of his voice.’

‘A riddle?’ echoed Bartholomew blankly.

‘One he claimed the hostels could never solve. Needless to say they rose to the challenge, and by the time they had calculated the answer, tempers had cooled. It was a clever ploy, and one that saved lives. I am glad he is our Seneschal. But even so, it took all my diplomatic tact and skills to encourage them to go home afterwards.’

‘Will your arrest of the killer-thief be enough to quell trouble at the camp-ball game now?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially as it is not a scholar?’

‘It is impossible to say. Are you sure we have the right culprits this time? There is no doubt?’

‘No. I mean, yes.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Well, which is it? We cannot afford more mistakes.’

‘Heslarton and Odelina are definitely involved, but they did not work alone. She is not clever enough, despite her claims to the contrary – it was not her idea to shove a wig on Gib and use him to confound your investigation. Likewise, I doubt she or her father would have thought of leaving Yffi in Chestre’s cellar, or of taking Drax to Michaelhouse.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael.

‘Moreover, Heslarton says he is innocent of the thefts, and I believe him. Someone else is responsible for those. I thought it was Celia, but Odelina and Heslarton referred to a man – some fellow who plans to take them to France when his plans reach fruition.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Fen? I said he was a villain, and you should have listened.’

‘There are other possibilities, too,’ said Bartholomew. He looked away, unwilling to list them, because they included people he liked.

Michael had no such qualms. ‘Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Blaston…’

‘Not Blaston – he is not sufficiently cunning. Thelnetham is, though…’

‘Yes, he is, but I cannot see what he would gain from having Chestre blamed for his crimes – or from having his University plunged into turmoil by stoking up anger between Colleges and hostels.’

They were interrupted by a sudden violent skirmish among the prisoners. Cynric had been right when he said he had not hurt Heslarton badly, and the man was engaged in a furious scuffle. When they saw their master’s determined resistance, his henchmen renewed their own efforts to escape, and it took all the beadles, Michael and Cynric to subdue them. Bartholomew tried to help, but was too unsteady and disoriented to be of much use.

‘Where is Odelina?’ he asked urgently, when it was over.

‘Damn!’ cried Michael, looking around wildly. ‘Heslarton’s antics were a diversion! They were to give his wretched daughter a chance to flee.’

‘I imagine she has run straight to her accomplice,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘The one who has some terrible plan in mind for the camp-ball game.’

Michael regarded him in horror. ‘The camp-ball game! I forgot to tell you – it has been brought forward, because rain is predicted later. Vast crowds are gathering, for it is due to start within the hour.’