A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 2

Bartholomew woke in an uneasy mood the next morning, with Philippa Abigny at the forefront of his thoughts. It was the last day of Advent – the period of fasting and prayer before Christmas – and the time when people readied themselves for Christmas. Long before dawn, Michaelhouse buzzed with activity. Servants scurried here and there, carrying pots, pans and supplies of various kinds, watched over by the critical, all-seeing eyes of that most illustrious and feared of College servants, Agatha the laundress.

Women were rarely employed by the University, because it was a domain inhabited by men, many of whom had taken priestly vows of celibacy. In order to avoid unnecessary temptation, the University ensured that contact between scholars and ladies was minimal, and its beadles patrolled assiduously, aiming to prevent long-deprived students from straying to taverns or other town venues where they might encounter members of the opposite sex.

Laundresses, however, were a necessity, and to surmount the problem, the University stipulated that any ladies hired should be so physically unattractive that they would repel even the most desperate of scholars. Ugly, but competent, washer-women were highly prized commodities, and Colleges and hostels guarded them jealously. Michaelhouse had Agatha, a mountain of a lady with a bristly chin, powerful arms, mighty hips and an unshakeable conviction that she had survived the plague because she was a favourite of God’s. She took her College duties seriously, and, as the Twelve Days approached, no member of Michaelhouse could expect to find himself exempt from running her errands or from becoming embroiled in her frenzied arrangements.

The scholars left the early-morning chaos and attended mass. On the way back Michael fretted that the fuss was likely to mean a delayed breakfast, but he had underestimated Agatha, who was quite capable of producing meals and overseeing festive preparations at the same time. The undercook rang the bell to announce the beginning of breakfast at precisely seven o’clock, just as Master Langelee was leading his scholars through the gate into Michaelhouse’s yard.

When the College had been founded in 1324, no expense had been spared by Hervey de Stanton in establishing the institution that he hoped would pray for his soul in perpetuity. It comprised a pair of accommodation wings, each two storeys high, linked by a central hall. Below the hall were kitchens and a selection of storerooms and pantries. The servants’ wing stood behind these, along with outbuildings that included a barn, a brewery, a bakery and a series of sheds that were used for storage. Thirty years had taken their toll, however, and some of the once fine buildings were in dire need of repair. The north wing, where Bartholomew lived, had a leaking roof and faulty guttering, so that students and their masters were regularly doused with icy water in wet weather, and the walls were so slick with damp that mould marched up them in thick green columns.

While Bartholomew studied some loose tiles on the stable roof, Michael headed for the hall, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the door beyond which his breakfast was waiting. He was not happy to find his progress interrupted by the appearance of Beadle Meadowman. Meadowman was looking flustered. In one hand he held the arm of a student, while the other gripped a smirking woman. The woman was called Una, and she was one of the town’s prostitutes, while the student was one of Bartholomew’s aspiring physicians. Bartholomew regarded the lad with weary resignation. Martyn de Quenhyth was always in some kind of trouble, although the physician thought that even dealing with Quenhyth’s silly scrapes was preferable to dwelling on his impending encounter with Philippa.

Quenhyth had arrived in Cambridge the previous September, determined to become a physician. Langelee had accepted him at Michaelhouse because he was able to pay the requisite fees, but Bartholomew had been less than impressed, and found Quenhyth arrogant, intense and joyless. The lad was no more popular with his fellow students, and was constantly the butt of their practical jokes. Bartholomew suspected that the teasing would stop if Quenhyth made an effort to be pleasant, but Quenhyth was just not the pleasant type.

He was tall and gangly, with long, ink-stained fingers that were tipped with gnawed nails. A thatch of brown curls had been hacked with a knife to reduce it to the length required of scholars, and his uniform was worn exactly according to the College’s prescription. He possessed a mean, thin nose and a pair of pallid eyes that he turned accusingly on a group of his classmates, who just happened to have gathered nearby to study a psalter – something that immediately aroused Bartholomew’s suspicions. He guessed they had adroitly manoeuvred themselves into a position where they would be able to hear what was happening. Among them were Sam Gray, a bright student with a cruel sense of humour, and Rob Deynman, a dull-witted lad who was tolerated at Michaelhouse because his wealthy father paid double fees.

‘What have you done this time?’ Bartholomew asked of Quenhyth, glancing at Una and hoping it was nothing too indecent. She giggled and winked at him.

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ declared Quenhyth primly. ‘I am sure you know who is to blame, and it is not me!’ He cast another venomous glower in the direction of the sniggering lads who vied for positions around the psalter. ‘Your other students do not appreciate that I am here to learn, not to take part in their pranks. They are always trying to get me into trouble.’

‘And what have they done now?’ enquired Michael, giving Gray and Deynman a glare of his own to indicate what he thought about behaviour that kept him from his breakfast.

‘They put a whore in my bed while I was asleep,’ replied Quenhyth resentfully, giving Una a look that was every bit as black as the ones he had given the students. ‘She was there when I awoke this morning.’

‘I am not a whore,’ objected Una hotly. The amused smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of righteous indignation. ‘We call ourselves “Frail Sisters” these days. That means I have a trade, and am every bit as good as any other craftsmen. Lady Matilde – you know her, Doctor.’ Here she gave Bartholomew a lascivious leer. ‘She organised us into a proper guild, and said we should not let people look down at us when we are only earning an honest crust.’

‘Frail Sisters?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Una uncertainly. ‘I have not heard that expression before.’

‘It is nicer than “whore”.’ She glowered at Quenhyth.

‘The Honourable Fraternity of Frail Sisters should have told you that scholars are off limits for your many charms,’ said Michael drolly. ‘And so are the insides of Colleges and hostels.’

Una waved a dismissive hand. ‘We are in and out of those all the time, Brother. Why should Michaelhouse be any different?’

‘Because it is the place where both the Senior and the Junior Proctor reside,’ replied Michael mildly. ‘And unless you want to lose your night’s earnings in fines, you would do well to remember that.’ He snapped his fingers at the sniggering Gray. ‘See the Frail Sister off the premises, Sam. And if I catch her here again, I shall hold you personally responsible.’

Quenhyth shot Gray a triumphant sneer when he saw that Michael had correctly identified the author of his troubles. Una blew Michael a salacious kiss before flouncing away on Gray’s arm, accompanied by whistles and cat-calls from the psalter-reading students.

‘I went to bed after compline – as Master Langelee said we should – and when I awoke she was there,’ explained Quenhyth unpleasantly as Una left. ‘She told me she had been there all night, and that we had had all manner of fun. She is lying, of course: I would remember doing the things she described.’ He gave a fastidious shudder, and Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.

‘I caught him trying to usher her out through the back gate,’ said Meadowman disapprovingly. ‘He spun me this tale about finding her when he awoke, but that does not sound very likely to me. A red-blooded man does not sleep when there is a handsome whore in his bed, especially a fine, strong lass like Una. Do you not agree, Brother?’

Wisely, Michael declined to enter that sort of debate while there were students listening with unconcealed delight. He fixed the hapless Quenhyth with a glare. ‘You shall spend the day in the proctors’ prison, while we shall give this matter some thought. Take him away, Meadowman.’

Quenhyth’s indignant wails could be heard all across the yard as he protested his innocence to anyone who would listen, and a good many others besides.

‘I do not know how you tolerate that self-righteous youngster in your classes without boxing his ears,’ said Michael to Bartholomew as he resumed his walk to the hall. ‘And I do not blame Gray and Deynman for trying to cut him down to size.’

Bartholomew wholly agreed with him.

The bell had finished chiming by the time the scholars had ascended the spiral staircase to the hall. A huge fire roared in the hearth, so that the room felt airless and stuffy after the chill of the morning. Fresh rushes were scattered across the floor in readiness for Christmas, and the sweet scent of them mingled pleasantly with the aroma of burning wood and the baked oatmeal that was being readied behind the servants’ screen. Bartholomew and Michael walked to the dais and took their places at the high table, facing the ranks of assembled students in the body of the hall.

Presiding over the meal was the Master, Ralph de Langelee. He was a powerfully built man, who looked more like a mercenary than a scholar, and many who knew him believed he should have remained a soldier and left the business of education to those capable of independent thought. But despite his intellectual failings, Langelee was proving to be a fair and capable Master, which surprised many people. The College had been infamous for its mediocre food and chilly, fireless rooms before Langelee had arranged for himself to be elected. Two years on, Michaelhouse had wood and peat aplenty for the common rooms, and the quality of the food had improved. This was due at least in part to the fact that he had delegated the College finances to Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, John Wynewyk, who was good at driving hard bargains with the town’s tradesmen.

To Langelee’s left was Thomas Kenyngham, an elderly Gilbertine friar with fluffy white hair, a dreamy smile and a mistaken belief that all men were as good and kindly as him. The cadaverous theologian Thomas Suttone perched on Kenyngham’s left, turning his unsmiling face towards the students, like Death selecting a victim. At the end of the table sat the Dominican music and astronomy master, John Clippesby. It was common knowledge that Clippesby was insane, although Langelee maintained there was no reason why this minor inconvenience should interfere with his teaching duties.

Bartholomew and Michael sat on Langelee’s right, with Father William, who was also Michael’s Junior Proctor. William was a stern, uncompromising Franciscan, whose inflexible beliefs and bigoted interpretation of the rules he was paid to enforce were swelling the University’s coffers to the point of embarrassment. Michael confided to Bartholomew that William had fined more students in his first month of office than most other junior proctors caught in a year. However, Bartholomew also noticed that neither Michael nor the Chancellor had made any serious attempts to curtail the Franciscan’s fiscal enthusiasm.

On Bartholomew’s right was the last of the Fellows, Wynewyk. Wynewyk had been elected at the beginning of the Michaelmas Term, and was still clearly bewildered by some of the customs and practices of his new College. That day, he seemed puzzled by the fact that Clippesby had a fish under his arm. The other Fellows were used to Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies, and Bartholomew found that he only noticed them if someone else pointed them out.

‘Put it away, Clippesby, there’s a good fellow,’ said Langelee, following Wynewyk’s gaze to where glazed eyes and a gaping mouth leered from beneath the music master’s tabard. ‘You know we do not allow animals to join us for meals.’

‘This is not an animal,’ said Clippesby, placing the thing carefully on the table. Bartholomew saw Wynewyk glance uneasily towards the door, as if wondering whether he would be able to reach it unimpeded, should it become necessary. The other scholars were merely impatient, giving the impression they wanted Clippesby to have done with his antics so they could get on with their meal.

‘Is is an animal,’ argued Father William immediately. He detested Clippesby, partly because William was not a man to waste his meagre supplies of compassion on lunatics, but mostly because Clippesby was a Dominican, and William did not like Dominicans. ‘It is a fish, so of course it is an animal. It is not a stone or a vegetable, is it?’ He leaned back and folded his arms, pleased with this incisive piece of logic.

Clippesby did not concur. ‘This is an interesting philosophical question,’ he said, turning his mad-eyed stare from the fish to the friar. ‘Is a dead fish an animal? Or, since it no longer possesses life, is it something else?’

‘Just because it is dead does not mean that it has changed,’ argued William, determined not to be bested.

‘But it has changed,’ pressed Clippesby, waving the fish in the air, oblivious to the rotten scales that fell from it. ‘A dead fish cannot be the same as a live one.’

‘I agree with Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a hostile glare from Michael for prolonging the debate, and an equally irate one from William for supporting his opponent. ‘If you accept Aristotle’s philosophy, you would argue that the fish has undergone what he termed “substantial change”. This can occur in all substances that are composed of matter and form in the terrestrial region and, of course, all these forms and qualities are potentially replaceable by the other forms and qualities that are their contraries. That is what has occurred in Clippesby’s fish.’

‘It is?’ asked Langelee doubtfully, clearly having forgotten his Aristotelian natural philosophy.

Bartholomew was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! While one form is actualised in matter, its contrary is said to be in privation but is capable of replacing it. Obviously, each potential form or quality must become whatever it is capable of becoming, otherwise it would remain unactualised and that would be a contradiction.’

‘Well, that shut everyone up,’ said Michael gleefully, in the bemused silence that followed. ‘Well done, Matt. Now let us say grace and eat.’

‘Oremus,’ began Langelee hastily, before someone could ask his opinion of the physician’s postulations. He professed to be a philosopher, but was invariably confounded even by that discipline’s most basic theoretical tenets. ‘Spiritum nobis Domine, tuae caritatis infunde: ut, quos sacramentis paschalibus satiasti, tua facias pietate concordes. And so on. Dominus vobiscum.’

‘About time,’ grumbled Michael, as he sat. ‘I am starving, and I am tired of all this Advent fasting and abstaining from meat. It is not natural.’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, wondering whether the monk had genuinely forgotten the meaty meals he had devoured over the past few weeks or whether his intention was merely to deceive his colleagues into believing he had been following the season’s dietary prohibitions – similar to those of Lent, although not quite so long.

‘There is only one more day for you to endure,’ said Kenyngham kindly. ‘And then it will be time for feasting, as we celebrate the birth of our Lord.’

‘Cynric told me that Philippa Abigny’s brother, Giles, is here, too,’ remarked William, somewhat out of the blue. He beamed at Bartholomew in a friendly fashion, as though he imagined the physician would be pleased to chat about the presence of his old fiancée in the town.

Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he realised that even if he managed to put Philippa from his mind, his colleagues’ interest was such that they would be constantly raising the subject. Giles Abigny, after all, had known them, too.

‘Do you remember Giles, Michael?’ the friar went on airily. ‘He was Matthew’s room-mate during the Death.’ He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. ‘I recall him very well. He was a flighty fellow with long yellow hair. I would have fined him, if I had been Junior Proctor then.’

‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Bartholomew. He did not know how the Franciscan dared to be so strict with others, given his own appearance. William’s habit was so stiff with filth that it was virtually rigid, while there were circles of ancient dirt under his cracked, yellow fingernails. He was too mean to pay a barber to shave his tonsure and opted to do it himself, which resulted in an irregular oval that sprouted hairs in varying stages of growth. The spiky curls that surrounded the tonsure were brown and thick with grease.

‘Short of stature,’ added Michael, recollecting Giles Abigny, as he reached for the ale jug. ‘But with the same fair complexion and blue eyes as his beautiful sister. You were a fool to let her go, Matt. You should have married her while you had the chance.’

‘She married someone else,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘I had little say in the matter.’

Michael scratched his head as memories floated back to him, most more than slightly distorted by time. ‘Philippa went to London after the Death, because she was restless in Cambridge and Giles was no longer here to look after her.’

‘He did not look after her, anyway,’ said William pedantically. ‘She was at St Radegund’s Convent, under the watchful eye of the abbess. I recall that there was some pressure on her to take holy vows and become a nun, so that the convent could keep her dowry.’

‘That was not going to happen as long as Matt was courting her,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But, fortunately for Philippa, parents and abbess died during the plague, and Giles left her free to choose her own destiny. She followed him to London, doubtless anticipating that Matt would not be long in joining her. What happened to Giles, Matt? He was never a very committed scholar.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. He had tried to put his entire association with the Abigny family behind him. He had liked the flighty and unreliable Giles, but Philippa’s defection to another man had not encouraged him to maintain a correspondence with her brother.

‘He became a law clerk,’ said Michael, snapping his fingers as fragments of memory drifted back to him. ‘Although the post was not an especially prestigious one.’

‘Why did you not marry Philippa, Matthew?’ asked William bluntly. ‘I was under the impression it was a sound match.’

‘The problem arose with Philippa herself,’ said Michael, carelessly dispensing the details of Bartholomew’s failed love affair as he might give a public lecture. ‘Once she had sampled the delights of London, she realised she could not bear to spend her life as the wife of an impoverished physician, so she married a wealthy merchant instead. And that was the end of Matt’s hopes for wedded bliss – with her, at least.’

‘You are better off here, with us,’ said William, in what was meant to be a consoling tone, but served to make Bartholomew wonder where he had gone wrong.

He pictured Philippa’s merry eyes and grace. He could have been celebrating Christmas with her that year, surrounded by their children. But even as the cosy image entered his mind, he knew the reality would have been different. Michael was right: Philippa had set certain standards for her life, and Bartholomew’s haphazard way of collecting fees from his patients would never have met them. He would have made her miserable with poverty, while she would have nagged him to spend time with wealthy clients who needed an astrologer rather than a physician. Abruptly, the image faded to a chamber with a meagre fire, occupied by a discontented wife and dissatisfied children. He supposed he should be happy with what he had: his teaching, Michaelhouse, his poor patients with their interesting diseases, and Matilde. The thought of Matilde coaxed a smile to his face.

He tried to analyse his thoughts rationally, to determine why Philippa’s presence in the town should matter to him. Logically, he knew he should not care, but illogically, the prospect of encountering her filled him with dread, and he seriously considered visiting a friend in some nearby village until she had gone. But he enjoyed Christmas, with its feasts, games and entertainment. And he liked the chaos that ensued when the students elected their Lord of Misrule, who would dictate what happened in Michaelhouse over the Twelve Days. It would be a pity to miss that, just because a woman he had once loved happened to be passing through.

Or would it? Michael would drag him into Norbert’s murder investigation, while Gray was almost certain to be elected Lord of Misrule. Because Gray was Bartholomew’s student, he suspected that he might be held responsible for some of the lad’s wilder schemes – and Gray could be very wild indeed. Perhaps it would be a good time to renew friendships with folk who lived somewhere other than Cambridge. But then hard pellets of snow pattered against the hall’s glass windows, and he was reminded that it was no time to be considering journeys into the country.

‘We should not be discussing this lady here,’ said Kenyngham sympathetically, breaking into his thoughts. ‘It is never wise to dwell on matters that were once painful.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael, as though he had many jilted fiancées of his own to consider. ‘Now, what were you saying earlier about unactualised forms and qualities, Matt?’

‘I do not hold with talking at the table,’ said William, who did not want to resume a debate that he would probably lose. ‘The season for chatter at mealtimes is not yet upon us, so summon the Bible Scholar, Master, and let us consider some religious text.’

Langelee snapped his fingers, and the student who received a free education in return for reading from the scriptures during meals stepped up to the lectern. The lad opened the book and rested his elbows on the edge of the stand, then gave a howl of alarm as the whole thing toppled to the ground with a resounding crash. After the initial shock, the other students started to laugh.

‘God’s blood!’ swore Langelee. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone has taken a saw to it,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the tell-tale striations in the wood from where he sat. He found himself looking at Gray, whose face revealed nothing, and Deynman, whose expression bespoke abject guilt. ‘I suppose this was one of the tricks planned for the Season of Misrule.’

‘William will have to do without his Bible today,’ said Langelee. ‘And if the lectern is mended, I may be prepared to overlook this sorry incident.’

Deynman puffed out his cheeks in a sigh of relief, although, predictably, there was still no reaction from Gray. Bartholomew thought Gray should choose his accomplices with more care; Deynman had given them away almost at once. But it would not matter for much longer, because Gray planned to leave Michaelhouse soon, to take up a prestigious post in Suffolk. Bartholomew was certain he would be successful – the lad was too sly and manipulative to do otherwise.

‘What have you been doing to produce such a healthy appetite?’ said Langelee of Michael, watching the monk peel three hard-boiled eggs and eat them whole, one after the other. ‘Another murder? You have not had one of those for a year now – although I suppose you solved some in Ely last summer.’

‘Tulyet’s cousin,’ replied Michael, selecting the largest piece of bread in the basket. ‘He was found murdered in St Michael’s Lane.’

‘I heard,’ said Langelee. ‘That is too close to Michaelhouse for my liking. I hope you catch this killer quickly.’

‘Then there is the puzzling case of the body in the church,’ Michael continued. He leaned back to allow a servant to ladle a quantity of oatmeal into the bowl in front of him. ‘Go on, man! Fill it! A dribble is no good for a man of my stature.’

The butler’s face was expressionless as he spooned the thick porridge into Michael’s bowl until there was a glutinous meniscus across the top. Only then did the monk incline his head to acknowledge that it was sufficient.

‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew automatically, as the monk fell on the food like a starving peasant. ‘There is enough for everyone, and this is not a race.’

‘Huh!’ muttered Michael, not bothering to hide his contempt for the physician’s advice, since he knew perfectly well that Michaelhouse occasionally ran out of food before everyone had been served. And the fastest eaters were invariably the ones who secured seconds.

‘Norbert’s case will not be difficult to solve,’ declared William, giving his horn spoon – still stained from his previous meal – a cursory wipe on the sleeve of his filthy habit. ‘He was a vile lad, and Ovyng is well rid of him, although Ailred will miss the fees. But what about this other case – the body in the church? I have not heard about that. Is this another murder? You have not mentioned it to me – your Junior Proctor.’

‘Matt said it was natural,’ replied Michael, ignoring the reproachful tone of William’s voice.

‘I did not,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I said he probably died from the cold. That is not the same thing.’

‘So, he could have been frozen deliberately,’ mused William with relish. ‘That would be murder in my book. I shall set about making enquiries immediately.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, alarmed by the prospect of the Franciscan on the loose, accusing all and sundry of a murder that had never happened. ‘We must find out who he was first. Will you do that? He was a beggar, who perhaps sought sanctuary from the weather in our church, and–’

‘In our church?’ interrupted Langelee in horror. ‘You mean St Michael’s?’

‘No, the other one,’ mumbled Michael facetiously. He spoke more loudly. ‘He was hidden among the rotten albs, Master, although Matt thinks he had wrapped himself up for warmth. I was going to tell you about it yesterday, but it slipped my mind.’

‘You must discover the identity of this man immediately,’ said Langelee, alarmed. ‘I cannot have unnamed corpses appearing in my church. And just before Christmas, too. I shall have to have it resanctified.’

‘I shall do that – after I discover the killer,’ offered William generously. ‘Do not worry, Master. I shall have the whole matter resolved by nightfall. I shall begin by asking the Dominicans what they know about the matter.’

‘You will spend your time discovering this beggar’s name,’ ordered Michael sternly. It would not be the first time the Franciscan used a crime to indulge his hatred of Dominicans, and Michael could not afford wild and unfounded accusations to damage the fragile truce between the Orders.

‘We cannot sit here and chatter all day,’ said Langelee abruptly, standing to say the final grace. He was a fast eater, and disliked sitting for longer than necessary when a busy day lay ahead of him. ‘We all have work to do. Pax vobiscum.’

Several students looked at their full bowls in dismay, realising too late that they should have eaten instead of eavesdropped on the lively conversation at the high table. Michael’s spoon made a harsh scraping sound as he reached the bottom of his dish – he was not a man to fall victim to Langelee’s disconcerting habit of cutting mealtimes short – while Bartholomew and the others hastily drained theirs. Langelee dismissed the assembled scholars, marching purposefully from the hall in order to begin the many tasks that fell daily to the Master of a Cambridge College. Wynewyk hurried after him, muttering officiously about documents that needed to be signed if the scholars wanted food, drink and fuel for the Christmas season.

Michael reached for another piece of bread before the servants cleared the tables. ‘I am glad I did not listen to your advice about how to eat, or I would be facing a morning without breakfast.’

‘Gobbling is not good for you,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘It unbalances the humours and gives rise to pains in the stomach.’

‘Christmas is a wonderful time for men with healthy appetites,’ said Michael, thinking fondly of the gobbling that was to come. ‘Twelve days with no teaching and plentiful food and wine.’

‘But then come January and February,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I dislike those months, They are dark and cold, and it is painful to lose patients from afflictions of the lungs – like Dunstan the riverman. He will not see Easter.’

Michael was silent. Dunstan had been a loyal, if toneless, member of his choir for many years, and he was fond of the old man. It was hard for him to see Dunstan’s suffering and be powerless to help.

‘These are strange times,’ announced Suttone, walking out of the hall with them. ‘The Devil stalks the land, and God and His angels weep at what they see. Sinful men fornicate in holy places and debauchery, lust and greed are all around us. The river freezing in November is a testament to the fact that the end of the world is nigh. Things were different when I was a boy.’

‘People always think the past was better than the present,’ said Bartholomew, who had grown used to the Carmelite’s grim predictions. ‘But I do not think they are very different now – except for the Death, of course.’

‘The Death,’ pronounced the Carmelite in a booming voice that was sufficiently sepulchral to send a shiver of unease down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It will come again. You mark my words.’

‘But not before Christmas,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We shall at least have a good feast before we die.’

Bartholomew found he could not dismiss Philippa from his thoughts, and barely heard Suttone regaling Michael with details of the plague’s return as he walked across the yard to his room. He recalled how she had admired the fine oriel window in the hall, but had thought Bartholomew’s chamber cold and gloomy. He remembered walking with her through the herb garden, when the summer sun warmed the plants and sweetened the air with their fragrance. And he was reminded of the times he had climbed over the College walls like an undergraduate after the gates had been locked, because assignations with her had made him late.

‘I thought you might like this,’ said the insane Clippesby shyly, breaking into his thoughts by sidling up and offering him a stained and lumpy bundle. Bartholomew could see a glistening tail protruding from one end of it. He was being offered the fish that Clippesby had taken to breakfast.

‘He has just eaten,’ said Michael. ‘He does not need to consume a squashed pike just yet, thank you. And anyway, it has been dead far too long already. It stinks.’

‘It is a tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where did you find it, Clippesby?’

Clippesby was pleased by the physician’s curiosity. ‘On Milne Street, near Piron Lane. It had been tossed there, probably by someone walking past.’ He turned a resentful gaze on Michael. ‘Matt knows perfectly well that I am not bringing this for him to eat. It is common knowledge that tench have healing powers.’

‘Do they?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Pliny says that tench applied to the hands or feet can cure fevers, jaundice, head pains and toothache. But, more importantly, I am sure this was the fish I saw the night Norbert died. Whoever pushed me over grabbed it before he escaped.’

‘Then how did it end up abandoned on Milne Street?’ asked Michael. ‘It is a wretched thing – already rotten, despite its salting. Why would your attacker risk capture for it?’

‘Perhaps he did not know its state when he acted,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He only learned it was bad when he took off the wrappings – at which point he discarded it.’

‘It was thrown into some bushes,’ added Clippesby helpfully. ‘I would not have noticed it, but one of the cats mentioned it was there, so I went to look.’

‘A cat told you to ferret about behind some shrubs?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, man. You do not know what you might unearth, foraging around in places like that.’

Bartholomew surmised that Clippesby had observed a cat expressing an unusual interest in the spot where the fish had been thrown and had gone to investigate. The mad musician’s claims about talking to animals nearly always had some rational explanation behind them.

‘We have already deduced that Norbert’s killer and the man who pushed me were not the same,’ the physician mused. ‘So, I suppose this means that the tench is also irrelevant.’

‘Probably,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to dispense with evidence prematurely. Will you store it in the basement, Clippesby? Hide it well, or we may find it served up for dinner in a week. You know how Michaelhouse’s nasty policy of “waste not, want not” works these days.’

Smiling amiably, Clippesby wandered away with his fishy prize, stopping to exchange pleasantries with the porter’s cockerel as he went.

‘Do you really think the tench might be significant to Norbert’s case, or was that just a ruse to remove Clippesby and the rank odour of fish?’ Bartholomew was laughing.

Michael remained sombre. ‘Both. William thinks it will be simple to solve Norbert’s murder, because it will be easy to identify people who did not like him. But he is wrong: I think it will be very difficult to isolate the real culprit. Perhaps your assailant had nothing to do with Norbert, but I will keep him in mind until I am absolutely certain. And since he considered the fish sufficiently important to grab before he ran away, we shall keep that, too.’

‘Look,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the front gate as it was suddenly flung open and an important visitor was ushered inside. ‘There is Sheriff Morice, waving to catch your attention. He is all yours, Brother. I have work to do, and I should probably pay my respects to Phillippa …’ He faltered. Meeting the woman he had almost married was not something he wanted to do at all.

‘Wait,’ said Michael, shooting out a fat, white hand to prevent Bartholomew from escaping. The physician did not bother to shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’

‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar, were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.

‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’

Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description. ‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’

‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’

‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar myself?’

‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented by townsfolk.’

Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries. I will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned on his heel and stalked across the yard.

‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’

‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’

‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the town.

Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’

Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent tracking down a killer.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in the hall.

It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial, the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged to be at the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section, but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael, who had been hastily draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he would sleep that night.

‘Philippa Abigny,’ said Michael again, setting his cup near the hearth so that the flames would warm it, then leaning back in his chair.

‘Are you two going to spend all night just saying her name over and over?’ snapped Bartholomew testily. ‘I have said I would rather talk about something else – like Norbert’s murder. What did you learn today, Brother?’

Michael’s expression became sombre. ‘After Norbert left Ovyng the night he died there is an hour unaccounted for until he arrived at the King’s Head. He met a woman there, but of course no one will tell me who she was.’

‘Was he drunk and free with his insults?’ asked William. ‘If so, then the case is solved: one of the patrons in the King’s Head is the guilty party.’

‘He was drunk, but apparently no more insulting than normal. I understand some kind of gambling was in progress, but, again, no one will tell me who Norbert played. However, the innkeeper hinted that Norbert lost more than he won, so there is no reason to think he was killed by a disenfranchised gaming partner. He apparently left in reasonable humour.’

‘That can change fast,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Even a small insult is sometimes enough to turn tipsy bonhomie into enraged fury. Men soaked in wine are not rational people.’

‘True, but there is nothing to suggest that happened to Norbert. He left the King’s Head at midnight, and no one who lives between the tavern and Ovyng admits to hearing any affray.’

‘So, now what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where will you go from here?’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not know. Morice’s men followed me today, so I decided to concentrate on the taverns. I was afraid they would conclude that the killer was at Ovyng if I spent too much time there. Damn Morice! He will make my work much more difficult.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William meaningfully.

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean? I want no help from him or his men – I could not trust anything they told me.’

‘But his soldiers would be more than happy to spend an afternoon in a tavern with free beer,’ said William. ‘And Morice would agree that his mother killed Norbert, if the price were right.’

‘You mean Michael should bribe the Sheriff?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

William shrugged. ‘It would not be the first time, and the fines I have imposed on rule-breakers means that the proctors’ chest is nicely full at the moment. We can afford it, and I would like to see Norbert’s death properly investigated by men like me, who know what they are doing, without the “help” of Morice and his men.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael, horrified. ‘You have bribed Morice before? You should be careful, Brother! Corrupting a King’s official is a criminal offence, and you may find that Morice is the kind of man to accept money, then make a complaint about you.’

‘Believe me, I know,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But the man is impossible to reason with, so we may have to resort to desperate measures if no answer to this crime is forthcoming. He is making no serious effort to investigate himself, but is concentrating on thwarting me. He does not care about avenging Norbert, only about seeing whether he can turn the situation to his advantage. We have not had a corrupt Sheriff for so long that I barely recall how to deal with them.’

They were silent for a while, each thinking his own thoughts. Michael and William considered the problem of an awkward Sheriff and a difficult murder, while Bartholomew found his mind returning to Philippa’s pretty face, flowing golden curls and slender figure. He was disconcerted to find he could not remember certain details – what her hands looked like, for example – although other things were etched deeply in his memory. He knew how she laughed, that there was a freckle on the lobe of her left ear, that she liked cats but not dogs, and that she hated the smell of lavender.

The hour candle dipped lower. A little less than three hours remained before Angel Mass marked the beginning of Christmas Day, and there was an air of expectation and excitement in the College. Bartholomew opened a shutter and gazed through the window. Lights burned in almost every room, as scholars elected to remain awake, rather than rise early. Snow was in the air again, and came down in spiteful little flurries that did not settle. It had snowed when the Death had come, too, he recalled, and the bitter weather had added to the miseries of both patients and the physicians who tended them. Philippa had disliked the cold. She preferred summer, when the crops grew golden and the land baked slowly under a silver-white sun.

‘Did you discover the identity of the man we found dead among the albs?’ he asked of William, pulling his mind away from his reverie.

‘No one knows him. Not even Bosel the beggar, who works on the High Street.’

‘You have spoken to Bosel?’ Michael was disappointed. ‘Damn! He was my best hope.’

‘I even asked the Dominicans whether they had killed him,’ William went on airily.

Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘But there was nothing on the body to suggest he was murdered. I told you I thought he had died of the cold.’

‘How did the Dominicans respond to this subtle probing?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Did they confess?’

William grimaced. ‘They did not. However, unlikely though it may seem, I believe they were telling the truth.’

‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael, amused.

‘Because most have not been outside their friary since this sudden cold spell began,’ replied William. ‘Dominicans are soft and weak, and need to crouch in their lairs with roaring fires and plenty of wine.’ He took a deep draught of his claret and stretched his feet closer to the flames with a sigh of contentment.

‘I can cross the Dominicans off my list of suspects, then,’ said Michael wryly. His expression hardened. ‘However, there is one man I cannot dismiss: Harysone.’

‘Not this again,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to think that Harysone had anything to do with this death, either.’

‘Only the fact that we saw him go into the church, and then moments later we discover a corpse in it. What more do you want?’

‘We did not see him go into the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We saw him fiddle with the lock, but then we went to see Norbert’s body and we do not know if he entered or not. The latch sticks, and Harysone would not be the first would-be visitor to be thwarted. He may have given up and gone elsewhere.’

‘Well, it was not to another church,’ said William authoritatively. Bartholomew and Michael stared at him questioningly, and the Franciscan looked pleased with himself. ‘I made a few enquiries about that, too. I asked in all the churches whether a man matching Harysone’s description had visited on Thursday, and was told he had not.’

Bartholomew was doubtful. ‘But most would have been empty,’ he pointed out. ‘It was daytime, and people were working.’

‘Not so,’ said William, bristling with pride at his cleverness. ‘It is Christmas, and the time when peasants deck out the churches with greenery. All of them were busy, except ours: in a scholars’ church like St Michael’s such pagan practices are not permitted.’

‘I heard Langelee giving my choir – which comprises mostly townfolk – permission to deck it out this evening,’ said Michael wickedly. ‘It will be as green with yew and holly as any other, come tomorrow.’

William shot out of his chair and looked set to stalk to the hapless building and strip it bare there and then. He faltered when Michael pointed out that there was a frost outside, but a fire and wine inside. It did not take much to persuade the Franciscan to sit and resume their discussion.

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘We do not know why Harysone wanted to enter St Michael’s, but we do know that he did not visit another church. Therefore, I suspect that he did enter St Michael’s, and that his business there was successful.’

‘You cannot be sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the monk was allowing his dislike of the man to interfere with his powers of reason. ‘And anyway, if folk were merrily pinning holly to rafters, who knows what they did and did not see? Harysone is not particularly noticeable; he could easily slip past people unobserved.’

‘We will know tomorrow, Brother, because you have me to help with the enquiry,’ said William confidently. He stood and stretched, unsteady from the amount of wine he had drunk. ‘But we should go to bed, and snatch an hour of sleep before Angel Mass. Tomorrow you and I will catch a killer, and Matthew can face the woman who should have been his wife.’

Bartholomew winced and went to fill his cup again, feeling that he needed yet more wine to dull the peculiar sensation of unease and dissatisfaction that gnawed at him. He heard a sudden yell, and whipped around just in time to see William shoot across the floor in a blur of flapping habit and windmilling arms. The Franciscan collided with the door and went down hard. For a moment, no one said anything, then William released a litany of curses that would have impressed the most foul-mouthed of stable-lads. Bartholomew exchanged a startled glance with Michael, wondering how the friar had acquired such an extensive vocabulary of secular oaths.

‘My leg,’ shouted William, more angry than in pain. ‘It is broken!’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting it. ‘It is bruised.’

‘But you do not know the agony it is giving,’ bellowed William, outraged. ‘It is growing more painful by the moment.’

‘Bruises are painful,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But it will feel better in a day or two.’

‘It is broken,’ said Michael with a wicked smile. ‘You will be confined to College for the next two months while it heals, William. What a pity! It will be hard to lose my Junior Proctor for so long and the fines chest will suffer. Shall I fetch wood and bandages for a splint?’

‘It is not broken,’ declared Bartholomew, wondering what the monk thought he was trying to achieve by contradicting his diagnosis. ‘So it does not need a splint.’

‘It is and it does,’ said William firmly. ‘And I shall want crutches, too, although I cannot venture out of the College as long as there is ice on the ground. I might slip and do myself an even greater mischief.’

‘Just splint it, Matt,’ advised Michael, preparing to fetch the equipment the physician would need. He lowered his voice, so that William could not hear. ‘You will be doing us all a favour. I do not want his “help” to solve Norbert’s murder, and this is a perfect chance for me to be rid of him without embarrassing tantrums.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew set about immobilising the damaged limb, becoming even more certain as he worked that William was exaggerating the seriousness of his injury. William made a terrible fuss, however, and his unfriarly shrieks soon had scholars hurrying to the conclave to see what was happening. The other Fellows formed a silent circle around the stricken friar, while the students jostled each other at the door in an attempt to see what was going on.

‘Langelee will pay for this!’ William howled, snatching with ill grace the goblet of wine Suttone offered him. ‘I told him he should pay a carpenter to mend the floor, and not just hide the damage with a rug.’

‘I will hire one tomorrow,’ said Langelee tiredly. ‘We can probably raise the funds somehow.’

‘We cannot,’ said Wynewyk immediately. ‘We have spent every last penny on supplies for the Twelve Days, and our coffers will be empty until Ovyng pays us rent for next term.’

‘Hiring a carpenter will not be necessary,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I had some training with wood before I became a friar. I shall mend the floor – but not until the Twelve Days are over.’

‘Very well,’ said Langelee, although he did not seem happy with the notion of entrusting saws, hammers and nails to the other-worldly Gilbertine, even if it would save the College some money. He turned to William. ‘Your leg will confine you to your room for some days, but we shall have the floor mended by the time you have convalesced.’

‘Convalesced,’ mused William with a gleam in his eye. ‘I shall certainly convalesce – with good food and wine! But I cannot abandon Michael completely. He can bring suspects for interrogation here, to Michaelhouse.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael hastily. ‘We do not want criminals and miscreants in the College, thank you very much!’

‘We do not,’ agreed Langelee firmly. ‘I am sure we can find some administrative duties to occupy your time, Father. There is always teaching. That will not require you to walk.’

‘It will,’ cried William, seeing that he was about to exchange duties he enjoyed, for ones he did not. ‘I cannot teach unless I pace. However, I am sure I can do something to help Michael.’

‘Yes, you can, actually,’ said Michael. ‘You can deal with the beadles’ claim for more pay that we have been avoiding all year. Thank you for your kind offer. I accept most gratefully.’

William’s face was a mask of unhappiness as he was carried from the conclave.

After William had been settled in his room with a jug of wine, Bartholomew retired to his own chamber to nap until Angel Mass. He slept well, despite his fears that he would not manage a wink, and wondered whether he owed that to the wine or to the fact that William’s leg had allowed his pre-sleep thoughts to concentrate on medicine.

Just before midnight he woke, when the sky was at its darkest. He hopped across the icy flagstones in his bare feet, aiming for the water Cynric left for him each day. The temperature had plummeted since he had retired, and the water had started to freeze so he was obliged to smash a crust of ice with the heel of his boot. He lit a candle, then began to shave, jumping from foot to foot in a futile attempt to stave off the painful, aching sensation in his legs that always accompanied standing on Michaelhouse’s stone floors in the winter.

Shaving completed, he donned shirt and hose, then tugged on a pair of shoes – new ones in the latest fashion that were fastened with an ankle strap and had stylish pointed toes. Over the shirt, he drew on a laced gipon – a garment with long sleeves and a padded body that was thigh length and very warm. His scholar’s tabard went over that.

Quietly, so as not to wake the scholars who were still sleeping, he headed across the courtyard to see William. The friar’s snores were loud enough to have made sleep impossible for the two students who had been instructed to stay with him that night. One was Quenhyth, who sat selfishly close to the lamp as he read some medical tract; the other, a Franciscan novice called Ulfrid, was rolling gambling bones on the windowsill to pass the time. Both looked up when Bartholomew arrived, and Quenhyth went through an elaborate pantomime designed to ensure that his master knew he had been working.

‘William will fine you if he catches you playing with those,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, addressing Ulfrid and trying to ignore Quenhyth.

Ulfrid slipped the bones inside his scrip, although he did not appear to be disconcerted to be caught breaking the College’s rules about games of chance. He was a pleasant lad, with a scarred face resulting from some childhood pox.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But I won these bones in a bet with a man in a tavern, and it is hard to resist playing with things that are new.’

Bartholomew struggled not to smile, thinking about the various Franciscan and University rules the student had just blithely admitted to breaking – frequenting taverns, gambling and enjoying possessions. ‘What kind of bet?’ he asked conversationally.

Ulfrid was dismissive. ‘The fellow had written an essay – he called it a book – about fish, and claimed that Galen’s cure for infected wounds was to allow a living crab to eat out the rotten parts. I told him that Galen recommended an oyster, not a crab, and that it was but one of many remedies for that particular condition.’

Bartholomew was impressed. ‘You are not a student of medicine, yet you know Galen?’

Ulfrid grinned. ‘Your description of cures for infections last week was so vivid and horrible that you claimed the attention of every student in the room, even though most were supposed to be listening to different lessons. You will not find a scholar in the College who does not know Galen’s solutions for festering wounds. It served me well, though: it won me a pair of dice.’

‘I am glad to hear it was of some use,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what he should deduce about his teaching skills from Ulfrid’s careless confidences. ‘The man who wrote this essay – was his name Harysone?’

Ulfrid nodded. ‘He is staying at the King’s Head while he persuades people to buy his book. However, if his knowledge of Galen is anything to go by, I think folk should save their money.’

Bartholomew was inclined to agree. ‘Why was he making bets?’

‘He wants to make lots of people aware of his book,’ said Ulfrid disapprovingly. ‘You know how it is: if people know about a thing they are more likely to buy it, regardless of whether it is good or bad. The same thing happened last year with gum mastic – it was said to remove the scent of wine from the breath and was an excellent glue. People’s obsession with it faded after a while, but not before enough had been sold to float the ark.’

‘So, Harysone is selling his wares,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It seems he was telling Michael the truth. He said he was here to dispense copies of his work.’

‘He dances,’ said Ulfrid, more disapprovingly than ever. ‘In a way I have never seen before. I did not know whether to laugh or be offended. It reminded me of a Turkish whore I once saw in Bath. His display certainly seized everyone’s attention – which I imagine was what he intended.’

Bartholomew took his leave of Ulfrid, and wandered into the yard. There were three masses planned for Christmas Day, a pattern that would be repeated at churches, friaries and abbeys all over the country. At midnight there was Angel Mass, a pretty occasion, with candles filling the church with golden light, and the building rich with the scent of freshly cut branches. Bartholomew went to his room to don his ceremonial gown and hat, then waited in line with his colleagues until Langelee led the procession to St Michael’s.

Wynewyk went first, struggling under the weight of an immense cross that was part of the College’s treasury and that had been a gift from a wealthy benefactor. Bartholomew hoped he would not drop the thing – at least, not while the townsfolk were looking – and was grateful it only made an appearance on special occasions.

Behind Wynewyk walked Langelee, resplendent in his best robes. He cut a fine figure, his broad shoulders and barrel-shaped body made even more impressive by the addition of ample gold braiding and tassels. Bartholomew thought he looked like a wall hanging, and preferred the simpler style of the Fellows’ ceremonial gowns. These were ankle-length, and tied with a belt at the waist. They were made of scarlet worsted cloth, and the hem and neck were trimmed with fur – ermine for most, although Bartholomew’s was squirrel. The hats matched, and formed a ‘hood turban’ once they had been twisted around the head and the folds arranged properly.

The students followed the Fellows, also dressed in their finery, and bringing up the rear were the servants. Agatha the laundress was at the very end, doubtless believing that the best had been saved for last. She wore a sleeved surcoat that was designed to hold the contours of the body. In Agatha’s case this was unfortunate, given that those contours should have been reserved for her eyes only. She had persuaded the barber to arrange her hair in the latest fashion, which comprised vertical plaits running from the temples to the jaw and held in place by a net. It made her face appear even larger and more square, and Bartholomew saw several onlookers gape at the spectacle as she strode majestically past them.

‘Langelee has hired jugglers for the Twelve Days,’ said Clippesby to no one in particular as they walked. Talking while processing to mass was frowned upon, but without William’s disapproving presence, the scholars were more inclined to break the rules. ‘They are due to arrive tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Kenyngham, surprised. ‘We have never had jugglers before.’

‘Jugglers, singers and dancers,’ elaborated Suttone disapprovingly. Since arriving at Michaelhouse, he had adopted some of William’s more austere habits and had become increasingly humourless and dismal. ‘It is wrong, in my humble opinion. The Twelve Days should be a time for prayer and contemplation, not for heathen rites.’

‘We have been praying and contemplating all through Advent,’ commented Michael bitterly. ‘I think it is an excellent idea to hire a few entertainers. After all, King’s Hall does it.’

‘King’s Hall is a secular institution,’ argued Suttone. ‘It is a training ground for men who will eventually work as clerks for the King. Michaelhouse, however, is a College noted for the religious vocations of its Fellows and masters.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Clippesby brightly. ‘Matt has not taken major orders, and neither have Langelee and Wynewyk.’

‘Nonetheless, I feel it is inappropriate to demean our celebrations by adding a secular element to them,’ insisted Suttone primly. ‘I want no jugglers, dancers or singers at any feast I attend.’

‘The jugglers are not very talented,’ Clippesby went on, ignoring him. ‘I saw them performing in the Market Square, before Langelee secured their services for Michaelhouse.’

‘Heaven help us!’ breathed Wynewyk uneasily. ‘If you find fault with them, they must be dire indeed. You are not a critical man.’

‘Do you mean the troupe who wear red and gold?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby, recalling that he had watched them from behind a tombstone when Michael had been stalking Harysone. ‘You are right: they are not very good.’

‘There are four of them,’ Clippesby went on. ‘Two men and two women.’

‘Women?’ gasped Suttone in a horrified screech. ‘Women?’

‘Excellent,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together in gleeful delight. ‘That should liven the place up a little.’

‘You will be disappointed with their work,’ warned Clippesby, as if he imagined that the monk’s pleasure derived solely from anticipation of the troupe’s artistic talents. ‘However, the election of the Lord of Misrule will provide us with a good deal of enjoyment.’

‘Do not tell me Michaelhouse permits that dreadful custom, too!’ groaned Suttone, holding one bony hand to his head in despair. ‘I thought we were above that kind of thing.’

‘We are not, thank God,’ said Michael vehemently. ‘Who will the students elect? Do you know, Matt?’

‘I hope it is not Gray again,’ replied Bartholomew uneasily. ‘He is too clever, and knows exactly how to create the most havoc. We would be better with someone more sober – like Ulfrid – who would temper his excesses with common sense.’

‘You sound like William,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Where is your sense of fun, man? This is the season when conventions are abandoned and regulations are relaxed. It has its purpose: the easing of rules makes people understand why they are there in the first place, and actually serves to enforce the proper order of things when the celebrations are over. And anyway, it does not hurt for convention to be flouted for a few days each year.’

‘It depends on what exactly is being flouted,’ Suttone pointed out. ‘But we shall see. How are your enquiries proceeding over the death of Norbert?’

‘They are not,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I spent yesterday trawling the taverns in search of anyone who might be able to tell us about Norbert and his woman – Dympna. But I discovered nothing I did not already know.’

‘Dympna?’ asked Kenyngham, startled. ‘But she is a saint.’

‘You know her?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Who is she? Why do you imagine her to be saintly? She cannot be that virtuous if she was dallying with Norbert.’

‘No, I mean she is a saint,’ repeated Kenyngham. ‘She was a princess in ancient times, who allowed herself to be slain rather than succumb to the unwanted attentions of her incestuous father. She was kind to the poor and especially understanding of the insane.’

‘Clippesby should petition her, then,’ said Suttone matter-of-factly.

‘I doubt a long-dead princess has been sending Norbert notes,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘I need to know about a real, living Dympna, not someone who died centuries ago.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to pass to Dick Tulyet – at least, nothing I feel I can tell him. Norbert had huge debts, and I have learned that if women were not available to satiate his needs, then men would do. This means that I cannot even be sure that Dympna is a lady. She could be anything, even an animal.’

‘Animals do not arrange to meet their lovers by writing notes, any more than do dead saints,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So, I think you can safely confine your enquiries to living humans.’

Angel Mass passed without incident, and Bartholomew forgot Philippa as he admired what the parishioners had done to the church. Every window boasted a woven wreath of yew and rosemary, and someone had managed to climb up to the rafters to hang bunches of herbs from them, so that the church was sweetly fragrant with their scent. It even masked the stale odour of the old albs. Mistletoe, being a pagan plant, was, of course, banned from churches, although Bartholomew saw white berries hidden among one or two of the wreaths, as the townsfolk staged a discreet rebellion. As he watched Michael and Kenyngham celebrate mass at the high altar, the latter’s aesthetic face rapt as he performed his sacred duties, the physician wondered what Christmas would bring to Michaelhouse and its scholars that year.