Then there was a disbelieving silence, as every eye was fixed on the spectacle of the town’s one and only camp-ball firmly embedded in the mouth of one of St Mary’s more impressive gargoyles. It was so high up that Bartholomew suspected there were few – if any – ladders that would reach it. Gradually, people looked away from the ball and turned to Agatha. There was discontented mumbling, and bitter disappointment was written clear across the face of every man who had been looking forward to an afternoon of violent fun. Michaelhouse’s laundress suddenly found herself the centre of some very hostile attention.
‘What?’ she demanded belligerently, hands on hips.
That evening, while the students caroused in the conclave, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the kitchen to avoid being asked by the Lord of Misrule to provide musical entertainment. Once settled with mulled wine and a dish of dried fruit, they discussed the day’s events. Bartholomew was tired and distressed about Dunstan, and was grateful that Agatha was not in her domain that night, sewing by candlelight as was her habit on winter evenings. She had gone to the King’s Head, to give her own version of the camp-ball incident to a host of wary admirers.
Michael was in Agatha’s wicker throne, while Bartholomew had drawn a stool as close to the fire as it was possible to be without actually setting himself alight. It was another bitterly cold night, and the physician felt he should probably be grateful that Dunstan did not have to live through it with lungs that were irritated both by the cold and by the smoke from his fire.
The Waits were also out, having been offered a non-optional night off. Gray had bluntly informed Deynman that he needed to provide a change in entertainment, because everyone was bored with poor music and lack-lustre juggling. Agatha had wholeheartedly agreed, and informed Deynman that even the Fellows could put on a better show than the Waits. Deynman had taken her literally, and the Fellows had been instructed to perform that night.
Surprisingly, most were pleased to be asked. William offered to sing some troubadour ballads, learned while persecuting heretics in southern France. Kenyngham read a religious poem – but just the one; the students declined a second on the grounds that they only had until dawn before the evening’s entertainment was over. Clippesby’s tavern songs were by far the most popular turn, while Suttone’s peculiar jig, he claimed, had been copied from a Castilian sailor. Wynewyk played his lute to the Carmelite’s ponderous, uncoordinated moves.
Deynman wanted Michael to sing, and Bartholomew to perform the magic tricks he used to distract or cheer sick children. Gray, however, had heard about Dunstan, and with uncharacteristic sensitivity had instructed Deynman to excuse them. Bartholomew had experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards Gray as he and Michael left the noisy revelry of the hall for the steamy, yeasty warmth of the kitchen.
There were cobwebs on the ceiling, Bartholomew noticed, as he tipped his head back and listened to the distant rumble of William’s singing. Bunches of herbs hung there, too, tied with twine and drying for future use. The wall behind the hearth glistened black with grease and soot, and the kitchen smelled of ancient fat, wood-smoke and burnt milk. All around were pots and pans, some half filled with the remains of the evening meal, and others already scoured clean for the following day. Vast ladles lay in a neat line on the scrubbed table, and flour had been weighed and sifted into bowls, ready for baking the morning’s bread. It was a scene simultaneously chaotic and organised.
The College cat rubbed itself around Bartholomew’s legs, so he picked it up and set it on his lap. Immediately it began digging its claws into his thigh. Bartholomew had always been puzzled by the fact that cats often found themselves a comfortable spot, only to lose it by their painful habit of clawing. He set it back on the floor, and it went to try its luck with Michael. The monk allowed it into the cradle formed by the sagging habit between his knees and at once began to sneeze. He chuckled as he wiped his nose on a piece of fine linen.
‘It was dusk by the time they retrieved the camp-ball. Agatha will be remembered for that particular trick for a very long time. Apparently, when Cynric finally managed to reach it, it was so deeply jammed into the gargoyle’s maw that he was obliged to use his knife to prise it out.’
‘I heard that Morice declared the game a draw, and said neither Castles nor Gates should have the prize money. He was almost lynched, and has been obliged to set a date for a rematch.’
‘He was going to keep the money for himself. Foolish man. Some of his unorthodox ways of accumulating wealth can be ignored, but not brazen appropriation of funds on that scale. People will be watching him constantly now he has revealed himself to be openly dishonest. He has done himself a grave disservice.’
