Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

Unfortunately, Odelina was still strong, while the aftereffects of Bartholomew’s concussion had rendered him more feeble than he had appreciated. Instead of defeating her immediately, a furious tussle ensued, during which he felt himself losing ground.

When he saw what was happening, Horneby went into action again. He rolled into a ball, and this time Bartholomew grasped his plan a good deal more quickly. He shoved Odelina towards him, so she tripped over backwards, to land with a crash that drove the air from her lungs. While she fought to catch her breath, Horneby removed the rope belt from around his waist.

‘Go,’ he said urgently. ‘I will secure her, and stay here until you send help. I am too weak to dash out and help you confront Welfry, but I can do this. Go!’

With grim resolve, Bartholomew began to stagger to where he could see Michael moving through the spectators. He was obliged to jig away sharply when the camp-ball game surged towards him, and then was slowed by the same gamut of shoves, pokes and jostles that had delayed him on his way out. He was alarmed to note that scuffles had broken out in several places, and the beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were hard pressed to quell them.

By the time he reached Michael, he was dishevelled, breathless and his legs threatened to deposit him on the ground. He gasped out his explanation, leaning on the monk’s shoulder for support as he did so.

‘Welfry,’ said the monk heavily, dispatching two beadles to rescue Horneby. ‘But why did he order Horneby to steal your brimstone concoction? What does he intend to do with it?’

‘He is ingenious, as his practical jokes have shown,’ said Bartholomew, fighting off another wave of dizziness. ‘He will find a way.’

‘Horneby must be inside the priory,’ gabbled Thelnetham, dashing up to them. ‘It is cold today, so our new Seneschal has persuaded Leccheworth to serve the free wine and ale in the refectory. Horneby and his diabolical substances will be in there.’

‘The culprit is not Horneby,’ said Michael. ‘It is Welfry himself.’

Thelnetham gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! He is a lovely man, all smiles, compassion and goodness. Well, and a little malice, too, if the truth be known. His trick with the eggs made Agatha a laughing stock–’

‘There is no time for chatter,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Come, both of you. We must stop him.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, gesturing to the field. ‘There are skirmishes breaking out everywhere, and the Senior Proctor needs to be seen doing his duty here . It will not matter if Welfry blows up the refectory, if there is a massive bloodbath among the spectators first.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Michael in agitation.

‘That you stay outside, and keep the peace. Thelnetham and I will hunt for Welfry in the priory. You can come to help us as soon as you have the situation here under control.’

Michael screwed up his face, disliking the choice he was being offered, but he knew the importance of the Senior Proctor’s visible presence when scholars were of a mind to fight.

‘Can you do it?’ he asked, looking doubtfully at his friend. ‘You will not collapse on us?’

‘I will help him if he does,’ said Thelnetham. ‘We will stop this villain together.’

‘Very well. But be careful. The University needs its Corpse Examiner.’

‘And one of its most talented lawyers,’ added Thelnetham dryly. ‘However, remember that it is only conjecture that Welfry is inside. We may not be able to find him.’

‘You must,’ urged Michael. ‘The game will not last much longer, and then everyone will charge towards their free drinks. You must apprehend him before that happens.’

‘But if we cannot, you must insist that everyone disarms before entering the refectory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That should cut down the potential for violence.’

‘My beadles will see to it.’ Michael sketched a blessing at them. ‘Now, go.’

Bartholomew took considerable care as he eased through the crowd, anxious not to provide the spark that would ignite a full-blown brawl. The lads from Batayl Hostel jostled him as he passed, but he ignored them, even when one shove was hard enough to send him sprawling on to his hands and knees. Thelnetham hauled him to his feet, and dragged him on, looking neither to left nor right.

‘If they do that to a Michaelhouse student, there will be a riot for certain,’ he muttered. ‘Langelee ordered all the Fellows to stay with them today, to keep them away from provocation, but our colleagues will not find it easy.’

‘Then perhaps you had better go and help them,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the Gilbertines’ buildings and experiencing a flutter of dread in his stomach. ‘This is not your fight.’

‘Of course it is my fight!’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘It is my University, is it not? And the confrontation with this deranged monster is going to take place in the refectory of my own Order! I am terrified out of my very considerable wits, but I am not leaving you to do it alone. Father William is always talking about College loyalty, so here is my chance to prove myself.’

‘Why should you need to prove yourself?’

Thelnetham looked away. ‘Because it was me who told Celia Drax that you were a warlock. I was being flippant, but she took it to heart, and you lost a wealthy client because of it. I have tried to make amends with small gestures of friendship, but you have been suspicious of them. So I shall have to put my life at your disposal instead.’

‘Be careful, then,’ said Bartholomew, supposing a guilty conscience might well explain Thelnetham’s recent curious behaviour towards him.

‘I am always careful,’ said Thelnetham with a rueful grin. ‘And I am wearing a new habit – I do not want it damaged by whatever diabolical substance you and your medical colleagues invented.’

Bartholomew pushed open the refectory door and stepped inside. It was a massive room, with great, thick rafters, dark paintings on the walls and a flagstone floor. One or two lamps had been lit, although they did little to illuminate the place: it was dim and shadowy, a combination of an overcast day and narrow windows. Long tables had been set out, and there were buckets of ale and jugs of wine on them, along with baskets of bread and cakes. There was no sign of Welfry.

‘He is not here,’ said Thelnetham. He sounded relieved.

‘He must be,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I can smell brimstone. He must have brought it here.’

‘Then where is he? He is not under any of the tables, and this is a single room with no pillars to hide behind, or chests in which to seek shelter.’

Bartholomew saw he was right. Perhaps Welfry had given up when Odelina had been caught, and had fled, taking his pilgrim badges with him to pay for a new life. Bartholomew sagged, feeling that the Dominican had beaten him. Then he saw a small, sticky stain on the floor.

He stepped towards it and crouched down. It was definitely the potion he had helped to create in Meryfeld’s garden. Very slowly, he looked upwards, to the rafters.

‘He is here,’ he said softly to Thelnetham.

The Gilbertine peered to where he was pointing. ‘Ropes and pulleys!’ he exclaimed. ‘Half hidden among the shadows and the darkness. But what are they for?’

‘Another practical joke,’ guessed Bartholomew. ‘Except this one will not be amusing, and will end in death and mutilation. I believe he intends to shower the people who come for their free drinks with a burning substance that cannot be extinguished – a ruthlessly vicious variation on the trick at the Dominican Priory, which saw him brained with a basket.’

Thelnetham turned white, and crossed himself. ‘Horrible! Can you see him?’