She took her brother’s arm and marched away towards Milne Street, so Abigny was obliged to hobble and stumble to keep up with her. Bartholomew could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was agitated, and he was curious. Was it because she did not like Michael probing into secrets she would rather keep concealed? Did she know Gosslinge’s death had not been natural, as had first been assumed, and was determined the truth should not come out? What was the nature of the odd relationship between Turke and his servant? It did not sound as though either was a man who inspired or gave loyalty for no reason. Bartholomew wondered what that reason might be.
Deynman decreed that all Michaelhouse scholars and servants should take part in a game of camp-ball that had been organised for the town that afternoon. It was not good weather for such an activity, and Bartholomew anticipated he would be busy later with patients who had cuts and broken bones. Camp-ball was a vicious event anyway, but it would be worse with ice on the roads and piles of hard snow everywhere.
The game had been Sheriff Morice’s idea, and had been planned for weeks. People were looking forward to it, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. To him, camp-ball was another word for ‘riot’, and it was not unknown for folk to be killed while taking part. The game was played with two sides, and the aim was to put an inflated leather bag between twin posts that marked the ‘goal’ of the opposing team. There was no limit to the number of people who could play, and the teams were sometimes hundreds strong. The ball could be kicked, but it was mostly thrown. This year, Morice had set one goal at the Barnwell Gate, and the other at the Castle. People complained these were too close together – in the past, the goals had been as far apart as the Castle and the village of Trumpington, some two miles distant – but the Sheriff pointed out that most roads were closed by snow, and if folk wanted to play, then the event had to take place in the town, where at least some of the streets were navigable.
Knowing the game could turn into a competition between townsmen and scholars – and then into something that had nothing to do with sportsmanship – Michael petitioned Morice to ensure both sides contained a mixture of town and gown. Michaelhouse scholars were to play for the side called ‘Castle’, who were supposed to drive the ball to their opponents’ goal at the Barnwell Gate. Meanwhile, ‘Gate’ were supposed to stop them, and carry the ball to Castle’s goal. Any method to achieve this was acceptable, although use of weapons was not permitted. There were no other rules.
The teams massed in the Market Square, where there was some reasonably good-natured shouting and bantering, and much quaffing of the powerful church ale that was for sale in the graveyards of St Mary the Great and Holy Trinity. The apprentices were out in force, and so were scholars, all wearing their warmest clothes in anticipation of a long afternoon in the cold. Morice sat on his horse, and addressed the crowd, informing them it was illegal to use anything other than fists while attempting to gain possession of the ball – and anyone aiming a crossbow or drawing a sword could expect to be arrested on sight – and everyone should take care not to trample small children. The prize to the winning team was a groat for every man, half a groat for every woman, and a penny for boys. Girls, Bartholomew assumed, should expect to be disappointed or should lie about their age or sex.
There was a cheer of delight as the Sheriff raised the camp-ball over his head. Michael glanced around warily, watching the vintner’s apprentices fix the scholars of Valence Marie with meaningful intent that had nothing to do with a leather bag. He nodded to Meadowman, and several beadles appeared, jostling the scholars until they were obliged to move away. The vintners were deprived, at least temporarily, of their prey.
Bartholomew saw the Michaelhouse contingent instinctively move closer together. Everyone was there: every student, all the Fellows (except William) and the servants. Cynric had dispensed with the Welsh hunting knife he always carried – it was not unknown for folk to be stabbed by scabbarded weapons when there was a scrum for the ball – and had replaced it with something smaller and less menacing. Agatha clutched a heavy stick, pretending to use it for walking through the snow, although it was obvious that the ‘Gates’ had better watch themselves when she was near.
‘I think I must be the oldest player here,’ said Kenyngham, glancing around in dismay. ‘Spending a whole afternoon chasing a ball is not a good use of my time. I would rather pray.’
‘So would I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘So, why are you here, Father? This is too rough for you.’
‘Deynman ordered everyone at Michaelhouse to take part,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Even the Waits. He wants us to be on the winning team, and thinks numbers may make a difference.’
