A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 4

It was not long before Bartholomew ran out of conversation with Philippa, while Abigny grew even more morose. The physician pondered the death of Fiscurtune, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be in Abigny’s position. He decided that living in poverty was preferable, and thought Abigny should leave the Turke household, as it was obviously making him unhappy. But Abigny seemed devoted to Philippa, even to the extent of accompanying her on the pilgrimage, and Bartholomew supposed the situation was more complex than he understood.

With no one to talk to, he was obliged to watch the antics of the Chepe Waits in order to pass the time. After a while, they finished their act and approached the high table. Abigny immediately excused himself and left, promising to return later, while Philippa devoted her entire attention to eating wet suckets – dried fruits soaked in a sugary syrup. Turke was deep in conversation with Wynewyk, who was regaling him with a complex analysis of the College accounts, and Bartholomew supposed the merchant had decided that even a dull subject like institutional finances was preferable to watching the Waits. Langelee tossed the jugglers some silver pennies and told them to go behind the servants’ screen, where food had been set aside.

‘It is not there,’ replied the larger of the two women, whose head of golden plaits formed a tight, artificial-looking helmet around her head.

Her voice was deep, and Bartholomew was startled to note that she needed a shave. With amusement, he realised she was a man. He glanced quickly at the others, and saw that the other woman was also male, with a shadowy chin and a pair of hirsute legs. He could now see that the two ‘boys’ were women, and the moustaches and beards that clung to their perspiring faces were made from horse hair. He recalled thinking there was something odd about them when they had appeared in Langelee’s chamber earlier, and was surprised he had not guessed then. Cross-dressing was a common practice in Christmas entertainment, and he should have expected it.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. He had been talking to Stanmore, and was clearly annoyed to interrupt what might prove to be a lucrative discussion to speak to jugglers. ‘I asked Agatha to leave bean stew, bread and a platter of meat for you.’

Agatha, who was serving the wet suckets, overheard him. ‘Michaelhouse does not provide vagabonds with two meals when the rest of us make do with one,’ she said sternly. ‘They have already eaten their fill of the food intended for you and your guests, Master.’

Langelee turned enquiring eyes on the Wait. ‘Well, madam?’

Langelee was not an observant man, and was infamous for his undiscerning taste in women, so Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised by the fact that the Master failed to notice anything amiss in hairy legs and an advanced beard in the ‘lady’ he addressed.

‘It is a lie!’ said the Wait angrily. ‘We have taken nothing we were not owed.’

Agatha drew herself up to her full height, clearly intending to tell the Waits exactly what she thought of them. Fearing the exchange would offend his guests, Langelee placated her quickly by launching into an effusive monologue that praised her efforts with the feast. Suitably flattered, she moved away to ensure the wet suckets were properly shared out, and that the servants did not leave trails of sticky droplets across the guests’ shoulders.

‘What is your name?’ Langelee asked, turning back to the Wait.

‘Frith of Lincoln.’ The man indicated his associates. ‘These are Jestyn, Makejoy and Yna.’

Langelee raised puzzled eyebrows. ‘Frith is a strange name for a lady, but I suppose it is none of my affair. You have been hired for the Twelve Days, but you can consider our contract broken if you steal again. Do I make myself clear?’

Frith nodded sullenly. Bartholomew was unsettled by the expression of dislike that darkened his face, and hoped the man would not drop dead animals down the well or set the College alight as the scholars slept. His comrades seemed more amenable, however, and led him away before he could say anything else. Agatha leaned over Bartholomew’s shoulder.

‘I saw them steal most of a suckling pig and some comfits. They have no right to be sullen and resentful when Michaelhouse has given them employment. They would have been sleeping in the streets if the Master had not offered them beds, food and a few pennies.’

‘I do not like such people,’ said Philippa, gazing distrustfully at the Waits when Agatha had gone. ‘I would never employ them myself, because I would not want them in my house.’

‘Nor I,’ declared Turke, finally losing interest in Wynewyk’s monologue. ‘Never let it be said that Walter Turke hires inferior jugglers.’

Abigny had had much the same reaction earlier, Bartholomew recalled, although at least he had not been rude enough to imply that his hosts were lacking in taste. They all watched Frith arguing with Cynric at the other end of the hall, until the book-bearer shoved him behind the servants’ screen, presumably to prevent anyone from witnessing the squabble any further. Meanwhile, Bartholomew saw Deynman leering adoringly at the man called Jestyn, and realised the students were already well on the way to becoming drunk. He sincerely hoped the lad would pass out before he discovered the hard way that Jestyn’s tempting bosom was nothing more than artfully packed straw.

The noise in the hall gradually rose, partly because it was necessary to shout over the choir, and partly because the freely flowing wine loosened tongues and vocal cords. Bartholomew’s senses were reeling, and he felt the need to step outside for some fresh air. It was stuffy. The fire was blasting out heat like a furnace and people were crammed into a room that usually accommodated only half that number. He started to stand, but Turke reached out and grabbed his arm. The physician was startled by the strength of the grip that held him.

‘I hope you are not thinking of taking my wife with you,’ said the fishmonger with unmistakable menace.

Bartholomew removed the offending hand politely but firmly. ‘I am going alone,’ he replied, although a number of more colourful responses came into his mind.

‘She is no longer yours,’ said Turke. ‘So do not expect to take up where you left off.’

‘I would not dream of it,’ said Bartholomew icily, thinking Turke need have no worries on that score. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, his Philippa had gone to London and never returned. He did not know the woman who had chosen a husband because he had a roofed latrine.

‘My sister is an honourable woman, Walter,’ said Abigny sharply. He had returned from his sojourn outside and had resumed his efforts to drink himself insensible. ‘And Matt is a man of integrity – unlike most merchants I know.’

Abigny’s words were obviously intended to be insulting, and Turke’s face obligingly flushed with anger as his hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. Bartholomew backed away, seeing the Turke household had some serious problems and he would do well not to be caught in the middle of them.

‘I am leaving now,’ he said. ‘The noise is making my head buzz. If Mistress Turke wants some air, I am sure her husband will escort her.’

‘Normally, I would ask my manservant Gosslinge to do it,’ said Turke. He removed his hand from his dagger and rested it on the table, a wide, strong fist that looked capable of killing. ‘But he disappeared on business of his own five days ago. I know it has been impossible to hire decent servants since the plague, but I expected more of Gosslinge. He has been with me for many years.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Gosslinge was probably justified in fleeing from a man like Turke. There were kinder, more considerate men in Cambridge, who would pay a fair wage for a loyal retainer.

‘We have been in this miserable town for ten days now,’ Turke grumbled on. ‘Philippa’s horse went lame, so we have been obliged to rest it. I could hunt the alehouses for Gosslinge, I suppose, but I have better things to do. Perhaps I should pay some of these good-for-nothing students to look for him. I want him back tonight, because I intend to leave tomorrow.’

‘You will be going nowhere, if this snow continues,’ said Langelee, politely ignoring the insult to his scholars. ‘I hear the London road is already impassable, and the route north is likely to be the same. You may have to remain in Cambridge until milder weather brings about a thaw.’

‘We shall see,’ said Turke importantly, as though snow would not dare fall if it inconvenienced him. ‘But I shall be angry with Gosslinge when he deigns to show his face. I want to complete my business at Walsingham and go home. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.’

‘What does Gosslinge look like?’ asked Michael helpfully. ‘I can ask my beadles to look for him.’

‘That would be acceptable,’ said Turke ungraciously. ‘He is a beggarly-looking man, with thin hair and a mean, pinched face. And he is missing a thumb.’

The following day, just after dawn, a number of people gathered in St Michael’s Church. Walter Turke and Philippa were there to make an official identification of their servant’s corpse. Giles Abigny, nursing a fragile head and looking distinctly unwell, had apparently been pressed into service as Turke’s clerk, lest the procedure require official certification. Langelee was also present, still aiming to secure a benefaction for his College, and keen to let Turke know that Gosslinge’s mortal remains had been respectfully treated at Michaelhouse’s expense.

Langelee was not the only one hopeful of reward: Sheriff Morice had arrived in a flurry of flapping sleeves, clanking spurs and crafty eyes, determined to make Turke aware that Cambridge’s secular authority also took an interest in the corpses of visiting merchants’ servants, and that his men were available to provide coffins, dig graves and erect head-stones – for a price, of course. Michael led them to the south aisle and drew back the sheet that covered the corpse.

‘That is Gosslinge,’ announced Turke grimly. ‘Damn the man! Now what am I supposed to do? Where can I hire another good servant?’

‘Poor Gosslinge,’ said Philippa softly, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the body. ‘I am sorry he came to this.’

‘It is his own fault,’ said Turke harshly. ‘I told him to stay close, and he disobeyed. Look where it has led him.’

‘Servants always think they know best,’ agreed Morice with a grimace of sycophantic sympathy. ‘And their deaths are nothing but an inconvenience.’

‘Gosslinge’s clothes are very shabby for a retainer,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled by the man’s rags. Even if Turke was mean with his wages – which seemed likely – he would not want his retinue dressed poorly, because that would reflect badly on him. The servants of wealthy merchants tended to be a good deal better dressed than Bartholomew was ever likely to be.

‘He sold his livery, I imagine,’ said Turke with tight-lipped anger. ‘Was a purse found on his body? If so, then its contents belong to me. I did not give him permission to dispense with clothes that were purchased at my expense.’

Philippa was obviously embarrassed by her husband’s outburst. ‘Gosslinge wore a black tunic and hose, with a yellow belt,’ she said, addressing Bartholomew as though Turke had not spoken. ‘I suppose someone must have found his corpse and stripped it. These rags certainly did not belong to him.’

‘Were his clothes worth stealing?’ asked Bartholomew, aware, even as he spoke, that it was a stupid question. After the plague, when everyday goods were expensive, virtually anything was worth stealing by those who owned nothing.

Philippa nodded. ‘They were of good quality and very warm. Walter says it is better to buy one good garment than several cheap ones.’

‘I am right,’ asserted Turke. ‘Never let it be said that Walter Turke’s servants are badly dressed.’

‘How many people did you bring with you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Just Gosslinge,’ replied Philippa. ‘It would not be right to go on a pilgrimage with a large retinue, though we did hire a pair of soldiers before we left London – to repel robbers.’

‘Where are they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did they argue with Gosslinge at all?’

‘They barely acknowledged each other,’ said Abigny. ‘The soldiers are rough mercenaries, and Gosslinge was a man who could barely slice his meat without fainting at the sight of the blade.’

‘Blade,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Did Gosslinge own a knife? Could it have been stolen with the rest of his clothes?’

‘He had a dagger,’ replied Abigny. ‘It was too large for a man of his size, and he was clumsy with it.’

‘I do not recall,’ said Turke carelessly. ‘But I doubt it is worth retrieving. I am more interested in his clothes. They were expensive.’

‘We shall look for everything,’ promised Michael. ‘Now, where are these soldiers? It is possible that they stole Gosslinge’s belongings and hid his body. Mercenaries are experienced corpse looters, after all.’

‘I can answer that,’ interjected Morice smoothly. ‘They are in the Castle prison, where they have been residing for the last eleven days. Within hours of Master Turke’s arrival here, they visited a tavern and were involved in a brawl. I shall release them when he leaves, so they can accompany him, but until then they can stay where they are.’

‘I do not want them back, thank you very much,’ said Turke stiffly. ‘I shall hire new ones – ones that can behave themselves. Your prisoners can find their own way back to London.’

‘Pay them what they are owed first,’ advised Abigny practically. ‘We do not want a pair of cheated killers on our trail as we make our way into the wilds of Norfolk.’

‘I suppose not,’ admitted Turke reluctantly. ‘Very well. See they are paid, then dismiss them. Perhaps Morice will keep them locked up until we are safely away.’

‘I might,’ said Morice, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘We can negotiate the cost of their stay later, when we have a little privacy.’

‘Why do you want to know about the soldiers, Brother?’ said Philippa curiously. ‘You said last night that Gosslinge died of the cold. Are you now suggesting he did not, and they might have harmed him in order to snatch his possessions?’

Michael shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest that happened. Matt believes he froze to death, then someone found his body and took the opportunity to strip it.’

Turke sniffed. ‘The thief will be easy to catch, Brother. All you need to do is look for Gosslinge’s clothes.’

‘A thief will not be stupid enough to wear stolen apparel in a small town like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘And given that he hid the body among the albs to cover his tracks, I predict he is not totally witless.’

‘I am sorry Gosslinge was treated so disrespectfully,’ said Philippa, staring down at the corpse. ‘But desperate folk are driven to desperate measures, and it would be wrong to judge a man with hungry children by our own principles. I, for one, do not want to persecute such a person. We shall bury Gosslinge, and there will be an end to the matter.’

‘I want my livery back,’ said Turke. A cunning expression crossed his face. ‘Or, better yet, Michaelhouse can keep the clothes when they are found as payment for Gosslinge’s burial.’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘Suppose they never appear?’

Turke scowled. ‘I am offering you a good bargain. The cost of the clothes will more than pay for a mass and a grave. But if you would rather return the livery to me when I pass through Cambridge on my return journey, then I shall pay you in another way.’

‘Coins are best,’ said Langelee hopefully.

‘I have something better,’ said Turke. ‘He handed Langelee a small leather pouch. ‘That will cover the expense – and more besides.’

Langelee investigated the pouch’s contents gingerly. ‘I am not sure this is sufficient – there is not much of a market for dried slugs in our town.’

Turke gave a gusty sigh that echoed all around the church. ‘It is a relic. It may not look like much, but used properly will bring you great wealth. Never let it be said that Walter Turke is niggardly with his payments.’

Abigny swallowed a snort of disgust.

Langelee tried to hand it back. ‘Coins are better, if it is all the same to you, Master Turke. And if you add a little extra, we will say prayers for your soul, too.’

‘I shall expect those regardless,’ countered Turke. He nodded at the pouch. ‘And that is all the payment I am prepared to give, so you had better make the most of it. It is St Zeno’s finger.’

‘St Zeno?’ asked Langelee resentfully. ‘I have never heard of him.’

‘Then your education is lacking,’ retorted Turke rudely. ‘Zeno is a friend to fishermen, and his finger will allow any who touch it to be successful anglers. It could bring you a fortune.’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Abigny wryly. ‘The river is frozen solid. I tossed a rock on to it this morning, and it skidded clear across the surface like a toy.’

Turke raised his eyebrows, and turned to his brother-inlaw. ‘I had not noticed. But I dislike ice, as you know, and I have better things to do than throw stones on frozen rivers.’

‘St Zeno is associated with fishermen,’ said Michael, addressing Langelee. ‘He was an Italian bishop.’

‘He did not like loud wailing during his masses for the dead,’ added Bartholomew, irrelevantly repeating the only scrap of information he could remember about the obscure cleric.

‘It seems this is a valuable relic,’ said Morice with interest, reaching out to take it. ‘It might be a suitable payment for keeping two dangerous mercenaries out of action while you continue your journey.’

‘No,’ snapped Turke, snatching it from him and thrusting it back into Langelee’s reluctant hands. ‘It should stay here, in a church, where it belongs. I have something else in mind for you – a snail from the Holy Land. It, too, has magical powers.’

‘So do I,’ muttered Michael facetiously to Bartholomew. ‘And they are telling me that Langelee and Morice have just been most brazenly cheated. Incidentally, did you notice that Harysone was decked out in a set of black clothes the day we found Gosslinge dead? He might have been revisiting the scene of his crime, to ensure the corpse was still hidden.’

‘Too risky,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially this week, when the churches are full of people with their holly wreaths and armfuls of greenery.’

‘You are wrong, Matt. Harysone was up to no good when we watched him. I shall find out if he stole Gosslinge’s clothes.’

It had snowed heavily during the night, and all the roads that led to and from Cambridge were closed by deep drifts. Oswald and Edith Stanmore could not return to their estates in Trumpington, and were obliged to remain in Cambridge at their business premises on Milne Street. This pleased Turke, who claimed he did not want to go to some rustic hall, preferring the pleasures of a town to those of the country. Bartholomew saw Stanmore struggling not to make some rude retort, while Edith smiled politely. Philippa closed her eyes, mortified by her husband’s manners, and Abigny stepped forward to give her hand an encouraging squeeze when Turke was not looking. They began to walk to Milne Street together, Turke strutting ahead, and the others following behind.

It was still early. Only a few people had trodden in the snow, and it was still white and powdery as Bartholomew and Michael made their way to the King’s Head to interview Harysone about Gosslinge and the stolen livery. It hid the filth and muck of the Cambridge streets, clung to roofs in thick white blankets, and piled itself in dense clots in the branches of trees. When the wind blew, they fell, scattering on the ground below. The frozen river formed a thin seal across the water, and prevented its unsavoury aromas from permeating the town. For the first time in years, the town air smelled fresh and clean.

‘Look!’ said Michael, gripping Bartholomew’s arm, as he pointed across the street. ‘It is Harysone! He has saved us a walk.’

‘So it is,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the man’s black cloak and broad-brimmed hat. ‘He seems to be emerging from morning mass at St Botolph’s. How very suspicious.’

‘There is no need to be facetious, Matt,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You may be reluctant to acknowledge there is something nasty about him, but I shall not be happy until he is either away from the town or in prison. I am sure if he has not already done something criminal then he will do so soon.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to admit he had experienced similar feelings when Harysone had leered at Matilde in the church the day before.

Michael intercepted Harysone, while Bartholomew sat on the low wall that surrounded St Botolph’s churchyard and waited, listening to the conversation with half an ear as he watched people struggle through the High Street snow.

‘Gosslinge,’ Michael announced without preamble. ‘How do you know him, and why were you meeting him in St Michael’s Church four days ago?’

‘I know no Gosslinge,’ replied Harysone startled, ‘and I can assure you I have met no one in St Michael’s Church. It is always locked, and I have never managed to gain access.’

‘You gained access yesterday,’ pounced Michael. ‘I saw you there at Shepherd’s Mass.’

‘True,’ admitted Harysone. ‘But that is the only time I have been inside it, and I was disappointed. I expected a collegiate church to be pretty, but that one is plain and stinks of mould.’

‘What did you want when you tried to enter it last Thursday?’ pressed Michael coolly. ‘I watched you myself, fiddling with the latch.’

Harysone regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘What is this about, Brother? Has something been stolen? If so, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it.’

‘A student called Norbert was murdered near Ovyng Hostel a few nights ago,’ said Michael, abruptly switching subjects in an attempt to keep his suspect off balance. ‘I do not suppose you know anything about that?’

Harysone’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair as he registered his surprise. ‘Why should I? I do not even know where Ovyng Hostel is. I am a stranger, here only to sell copies of a modest treatise–’

‘Norbert was in the King’s Head before he died,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I understand you are staying there.’

‘But I have not murdered anyone. You must look elsewhere for your culprit, Brother.’

‘Have you been dicing?’ asked Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that Norbert was dicing the evening he died.’

‘Dicing is not illegal. At least, not if goods, rather than coins, are the currency. That is the law, as I understand it.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ demanded Michael impatiently, declining to quibble with the man over ambiguities in the statutes that governed the land.

‘I keep telling you: I am a stranger here. I would not know your Norbert if he spat in my face or gave me a gold noble. I speak to many folk in the tavern – I am a friendly sort of man. But I have committed no crime, and I advise you to leave me alone, or I shall make a complaint to your Chancellor. Now, excuse me. I am busy.’

With dismay, Bartholomew saw Matilde walk through the Trumpington Gate and turn down Small Bridges Street at that precise moment. Harysone was after her in a trice, almost running in his haste to reach her. Bartholomew abandoned Michael and hared after them, catching up just as Harysone was about to offer her a steadying hand. Bartholomew shot between them and took her arm himself, just – but only just – managing to make the whole thing appear natural.

‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed, amused by his sudden appearance. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, hauling her away, while Harysone stood forlornly in the middle of the road with disappointment written clear across his rodent-like features.

‘Oh, it is him,’ said Matilde, glancing discreetly behind her. ‘He seems to be everywhere I look these days. I am told he has penned some kind of treatise on tench and is here to sell it to the unwary.’

‘Do not allow him near you,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Michael thinks he will commit a crime.’

‘Not with me, he won’t,’ she said playfully. ‘Do not worry, Matt; the man makes me uneasy with his huge teeth and glittering eyes. I have no intention of forging a friendship with him. But this is where you and I must part ways: I am going along the towpath to visit poor Dunstan the riverman and you have business back the way you came, I believe. I know you only walked this way to save me from Master Harysone.’

Bartholomew watched until he was sure Harysone would not try to pounce on her again, then retraced his steps back to the High Street. Michael was chuckling to himself.

‘That was quite a manoeuvre, Matt, and it showed Harysone he is no match for a Cambridge man. Your only mistake was that you did not send him bowling into the snow when you shoved him out of the way.’

‘I have just thought of something,’ said Bartholomew, walking with the monk back along the High Street. ‘Matilde gave me the clue: tench.’

‘The fish you saw the night Norbert was killed, and that later reappeared in Clippesby’s loving hands at our breakfast table? What about it?’

‘Matilde said Harysone was writing a treatise on tench; you told me it was about fish. The point is that Norbert was dicing the night he died, and Harysone just intimated he was also gambling, but not for coins. What if he was gaming with salted fish? What if Norbert won one from him?’

‘But your tench was not found with Norbert’s body,’ said Michael. ‘It belonged to whoever pushed you – and he was not the killer, because the scream you heard suggests that Norbert was being killed by someone else at the time.’

‘Perhaps Norbert dropped the thing when he was fleeing for his life, and some beggar pushed me in order to get it. I know from the way his wound bled that Norbert went some distance before he died, so he could have been attacked on the riverbank near Dunstan’s house.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, pleased with the logic. ‘That makes sense. But even better, it tells me I was right from the beginning: there is a link between Harysone and a serious crime. At the very least, he and Norbert gambled together and Harysone lost a fish to him on the night of the murder.’

‘We need evidence, though,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a good theory, but it is based on conjecture, not on facts.’

‘It will do for now.’ Michael pointed down the High Street. ‘But there are Ailred, Godric and their novices, just about to celebrate mass. Let us see whether they have anything new to tell us – although I do not hold much hope. I have interviewed them almost every day since Norbert’s body was discovered, and no one has betrayed himself yet.’

They met the Franciscans outside St Michael’s Church, where the students shivered in their thin habits and stamped their feet to try to keep warm in the biting wind. Ailred told Michael they planned to bury Norbert that afternoon, and asked whether the murderer had been found.

‘No,’ said Michael shortly.

‘Sheriff Morice made yet another arrest this morning,’ said Ailred uncomfortably. ‘Robin of Grantchester. But I do not think he is responsible. Why would the town surgeon kill Norbert?’

‘Because Norbert once called him a bloody-handed lunatic?’ suggested Godric, taking the question literally. ‘No man likes to be insulted or called incompetent.’

‘But it is not a motive for murder,’ said Michael. ‘You are right, Ailred: Robin should not be in prison – not because I do not think he is capable of murder, since he risks that every time he sees a patient, but because he is too cowardly to attack someone with a knife.’

‘He does own knives, though,’ Godric pointed out. ‘Bags of them. And they are always covered in blood, so no one would know whether it belonged to Norbert or a patient.’

‘Robin has been associated with certain acts of generosity,’ said Ailred. ‘He arranged for Bosel the beggar to borrow a cloak for the winter, and he was involved in lending the Carmelites funds to replace habits lost in a fire. It seems to me that Morice has assumed Robin possesses money to buy his freedom, and that is the real reason for his arrest. This could never happen in Lincoln. There are no dishonest officials in that lovely city.’

‘I am sure there are,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘Neither Morice nor his men have been investigating Norbert’s death properly, so they cannot have discovered anything I have not,’ said Michael, interrupting what was likely to be a futile debate. ‘I have worked hard on this case – I owe that to Dick Tulyet.’

‘But you have learned nothing, for all that,’ said Ailred, disappointed. ‘Robin’s arrest is just another of Morice’s ventures for making himself richer, and Norbert’s killer still walks free.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘However, I assure you that Norbert may be dead, but he is not forgotten. I shall–’

‘There is Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew, watching his book-bearer make his way through the snow at a rapid pace. ‘Something is wrong.’

‘I have some bad news,’ said Cynric without preamble when he arrived. ‘Walter Turke tried to skate on the frozen river, just after he identified Gosslinge’s body. The ice was not strong enough, and he fell through.’

‘He should not sit too near the fire to begin with,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that rapid warming could cause the heart to fail. He started to move towards Milne Street, thinking Philippa would want him to tend her husband. ‘And there should be plenty of dry blankets to wrap around him. Warmed milk will help, but not wine.’

‘No,’ said Cynric, catching up with the physician and gripping his arm so that he was forced to stop. ‘They could not save him. He is dead.’

Philippa was distraught. She sat in Oswald Stanmore’s comfortable solar and wept inconsolably. Stanmore hovered behind her, a helpless expression on his face as he tried to hand her some wine. Edith hugged her and let her cry, and Abigny stood near the wall looking sombre. Bartholomew studied him, attempting to gauge the emotions there. Grief? Sadness? Bartholomew did not think so. Guilt or relief? They seemed more likely.

‘I do not believe he went skating,’ Philippa wailed. ‘He could not swim.’

‘You do not need to be able to swim to skate,’ Michael pointed out gently. ‘Most people do not anticipate that they will fall through the ice, or they would not do it in the first place. Walter must have imagined it was sufficiently strong to bear his weight.’

‘But he never skates,’ wept Philippa. She gazed at each one in turn with reddened eyes. ‘You met him. Did he seem to you like the kind of man who would go skating?’

‘She has a point,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He seemed a cheerless, pompous sort of fellow, and I cannot imagine what would induce him to don a set of bones and chance his luck on the river.’

‘A few of my apprentices were out there this morning,’ said Stanmore soberly. ‘But they are small and light, and it was obvious the ice was not strong enough to support an adult. I do not understand what Turke was thinking of.’

‘But he would not do it!’ Philippa shouted. ‘Why will none of you listen to me? He was not a skating man! He was a fishmonger – a respectable and honoured Prime Warden in the city of London. He would never have gone to play on a river!’

‘Where is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the corpse might yield clues that would explain Turke’s aberrant behaviour. ‘Perhaps he was not skating, but walking along the river bank when he fell.’

‘I do not want you touching him,’ cried Philippa, standing to confront her former fiancé. ‘I have seen how you treat corpses, and it is not respectful. I will not have you mauling Walter!’

Bartholomew stepped away from her, his hands raised in apology. ‘I am sorry; I did not mean to cause you distress. Of course I will not touch him, if you do not want me to.’

‘Good,’ said Abigny, speaking for the first time. ‘Walter’s corpse has been through enough indignities. We shall take him back to London and have him buried in St James’s Church on Garlicke Hythe. That is where all the important fishmongers are interred. Perhaps you can suggest someone who will embalm him for us?’

Philippa gave a shriek of grief, and Edith glowered at Abigny, warning him to watch what he said. Abigny grimaced, and his expression became unreadable again. Bartholomew frowned. Why had Abigny seemed pleased Turke’s body was not to be examined? Was it because he knew an examination might reveal some clue as to why the pompous fishmonger had decided to skate on dangerous ice – perhaps something concealed in his clothing or in his scrip? Or was he afraid the evidence might suggest Turke had not skated at all – that someone had coaxed him on to unsafe ice to bring about his death?

‘Turke died at the Mill Pool, near the Small Bridges,’ said Stanmore in the silence that followed Abigny’s remarks. ‘The current is more slack there than in the rest of the river, so it is usually the first part to freeze.’

‘Was he wearing skates?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore gazed at his brother-in-law as though he were insane. ‘Of course he was wearing skates, Matt! How do you think we know he went skating? They were tied to his feet with thongs.’

‘I would like to see,’ said Michael. ‘I might recognise who made them, and then perhaps whoever sold them to Turke might tell us more about–’

‘Hateful things!’ sobbed Philippa bitterly. ‘Take them from his poor body before I see it. Will you do that, Giles?’

‘Walter’s death does not come under your jurisdiction, Brother,’ said Abigny, ignoring her as he fixed the monk with a steady gaze. ‘Walter was not a member of the University, and he did not die on University property. This matter belongs to the Sheriff, and he is sure to want to make his own enquiries.’

‘Summon him, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not questioning anyone’s authority; I am merely trying to help.’

‘I have already sent Morice a message,’ said Stanmore, disapproval thick in his voice. ‘But he says he cannot come until later, so we shall have to wait before we remove Turke to St Botolph’s.’

‘St Michael’s, not St Botolph’s,’ said Philippa in a low voice. ‘The Michaelhouse priests I met yesterday – Kenyngham, Clippesby and Suttone – will give me their prayers. They are decent men, and I would rather have them than people I do not know.’

‘Kenyngham will arrange a vigil,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the officious, selfish fishmonger would need the prayers of a saintly friar like Kenyngham, if he was ever to escape Purgatory. He was surprised Turke’s body was still at the Mill Pool, but understood that Stanmore would not want to remove it before the Sheriff had given his permission. However, Michael pointed out that bodies should not be left lying around until the secular courts deigned to find time to examine them, and suggested they remove him to the church themselves.

‘Morice is a curious fellow,’ said Stanmore, marching down Milne Street towards the Small Bridges with Bartholomew and Michael at his heels. Abigny and Edith had been left to comfort Philippa. ‘He has been after Turke like a lovesick duck ever since he arrived in the town, but now the man is dead, Morice cannot even be bothered to inspect the body.’

‘Not so curious,’ said Bartholomew, who thought the Sheriff’s behaviour was painfully transparent. ‘Turke alive was able to dispense monetary favours; Turke dead is not a source of income, and so not worth the effort. Morice is interested only in events and people that might result in financial rewards for himself.’

‘There is always Philippa,’ said Stanmore. ‘A wealthy widow is easier prey than a miserly fishmonger who was used to sycophants and corrupt officials.’

‘Philippa will not be wealthy until the courts grant her Turke’s fortune,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You know what lawyers are like. It could take months, by which time Philippa will be back in London and Morice will not be in a position to benefit. And how do you know Turke left Philippa his wealth, anyway? She said he had sons from a previous marriage; they may inherit everything, and she may be destitute.’

‘You could be right,’ admitted Stanmore. ‘But I am unsettled by her claim that Turke was not a man for skating. What is she saying, do you think? That she believes someone killed him?’

‘I thought at first that grief was speaking,’ said Michael. ‘You know how people sometimes deny something terrible has happened by snatching at straws. But now I am not sure. She is right: Turke did not seem the kind of man to grab a pair of skates and go dancing on the river.’

‘And there is Gosslinge’s death,’ added Bartholomew.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said he died of the cold.’

‘I believe he did. But do you not think it odd that a servant and his master should die so soon after each other?’

‘It is a pity Philippa ordered you to stay away from Turke’s body,’ said Michael soberly. ‘I would like to know what you think of it.’

‘Giles would not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the reaction of his old room-mate when the physician had agreed to comply with Philippa’s wishes. He had been pleased, almost relieved, and had immediately initiated a discussion about how to transport the body away from Cambridge.

They reached the Mill Pool, where people had gathered to stare at the body. It was covered with a sheet, and a group of boys wearing the livery of Stanmore’s household formed a knot on one side of it, while two of Morice’s soldiers stood on the other. A row of heads peered from the bridge above, braving the cold winds to have a tale to tell over the fire that night. Christmas was a time for stories, after all.

When the boys saw Stanmore, one of them darted up to him. Bartholomew recalled that his name was Harold, a lad of about fourteen years with a freckled face and wide, guileless eyes. He looked angelic. Bartholomew knew he was not.

‘We thought we should wait here until you came back, sir,’ said the boy in a breathlessly childish voice. ‘The soldiers had a poke at him, but no one else has been near.’

‘Thank you, Harold,’ said Stanmore. ‘But go home now and take the others with you. This is no weather to be out loitering. Tell Cynric to hurry up with the stretcher, and we shall remove Turke to the church ourselves.’

‘But–’ began Harold, glancing around at his fellows.

‘Now,’ said Stanmore firmly.

‘I saw–’

‘Go!’ said Stanmore, giving the boy a gentle shove. ‘Your hands are blue, and you are not wearing your cloak. An apprentice with frost-eaten fingers will be no good to me, so home you go. That goes for all of you.’

Reluctantly, the boy walked away, casting resentful glances over his shoulder as he went. Bartholomew did not blame him for wanting to stay. It was not every day that a guest of his master’s died in odd circumstances, and Harold, like most lads of his age, had a ghoulish curiosity.

‘Poor Turke,’ said Stanmore. ‘He died without atoning for his sin – although he never seemed particularly sorry to have taken a knife to one of his colleagues, as far as I could tell.’

‘Dead as a nail,’ said one of the soldiers, approaching Stanmore with a confident swagger and indicating the body with a jerk of a grubby thumb. ‘It is a pity, since the Sheriff had hopes that he might donate a little something for the town. But these things happen. He should not have been skating anyway. The ice is thin, like parchment.’

Bartholomew looked to where he pointed and saw the jagged hole in the centre of the Mill Pool, made by Turke crashing through it. The surrounding ice was cracked and scratched, as though Turke had fought hard to escape, while the snow on the river bank was scuffed and churned where his would-be rescuers had milled around, unable to help him in time. A piece of rope lay nearby, and parallel lines on the ice indicated where Turke had finally been pulled free. The soldier was right: the ice in the middle of the pond was far too thin for safe skating.

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael, pulling the cloth away to reveal the blue features of the fishmonger underneath.

‘I think he is still alive,’ said Bartholomew in horror, noting the slight puff of the lips as the man breathed.

‘I was told he was dead!’ said Stanmore indignantly, struggling to lift one end of Turke’s stretcher, while Michael grabbed the other. Sheepishly, trying to make amends for their mistake, Sheriff Morice’s henchmen stepped forward to seize a corner each, leaving Bartholomew to take the middle. ‘He certainly looked dead – blue and chilled.’

‘That is because he was in cold water,’ said Bartholomew, noting that crystals of ice were forming in Turke’s sodden clothes. He wondered whether he would be able to snatch the man back from the brink of death or whether it was already too late. ‘Hurry!’

He did not want to jostle Turke by ferrying him up the narrow stairs that led to Stanmore’s solar, so they took him to the ground-floor room that Cynric and his wife shared, where the physician knew there would be a fire and space to work. Rachel was startled by the sudden and unannounced appearance of a ‘corpse’ in her home, but fetched blankets and bowls of hot water quickly and without needless questions. Everyone – Philippa, Abigny, Stanmore, Edith, Michael, the two soldiers, Cynric and Rachel – crammed into the chamber to watch, advise or help.

Bartholomew knew it was important to warm his victim as soon as possible, so that vital organs could begin their normal functions again. He also knew that heating a frozen person too quickly would place excessive strain on the heart, which would then stop beating. It was a fine line between one and the other, and he was not entirely sure of the limits of either. It was not uncommon for people to fall through rotten ice in the winter, and so it was an operation he had been called upon to perform on several occasions in the past. Sometimes he was successful, and sometimes he was not.

Watched intently by a distraught Philippa, he removed wet clothes and replaced them with heated strips of linen. He concentrated on the torso first; the limbs were less urgent. When he came to remove the unconscious man’s knee-high hose, Philippa stopped him, and, with an odd sense of decorum, she whisked them off under a sheet. It seemed a peculiar thing to do when the rest of him had been so brutally exposed to view, but the physician supposed she imagined she was doing her bit to preserve her husband’s dignity.

Some of the blueness faded from Turke’s face, and Bartholomew began to hope there might be a chance. Philippa insisted on touching her husband, stroking his brow and murmuring to him. She was often in the way, but Bartholomew hoped her voice might work its own magic and pull the man back from the brink of death. Meanwhile, Abigny watched from the door, an anxious expression on his face, although who the anxiety was for – Philippa, Turke or himself – was impossible to say.

After a while, Turke’s eyelids fluttered and he muttered something incomprehensible. Philippa seized his hand and her soft calls rose to a crescendo as she pleaded with him to speak to her. Turke’s eyes opened a second time, and he stared at the ceiling.

‘I am here, Walter,’ Philippa shouted. ‘Come back to me!’

Turke turned his head very slightly in her direction, and his eyes appeared to focus on her face. He swallowed, then spoke. He uttered two words in a low, hoarse voice that had everyone straining to hear him. And then he died.

Bartholomew spent a long time frantically pushing on Turke’s chest in a futile effort to make the heart beat again, but he knew the situation was hopeless. Eventually, he stopped, rubbing a hand across his face as he did so. It was hot in the room, and his attempts to revive his patient had been vigorous. Sweat stung his eyes and he could feel rivulets running down his back under his clothes.

‘Just like the Death,’ said Philippa softly. ‘Medicine could not help people then, either.’

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘I am sorry, Philippa. I did all I could.’

She touched him on the cheek as tears began to spill from her eyes. ‘It is not your fault. You did your best.’

‘We will have to tell Sheriff Morice what has happened,’ said one of the soldiers nervously. ‘But it should make no difference, should it, whether Turke died now or earlier?’ There was an almost desperate appeal in his eyes.

‘Are you asking whether Morice will be angry with you for sending him word that Turke was dead when he was still alive?’ asked Michael archly. ‘I would not want to be so grossly misled by any of my beadles, but then my approach to these matters is infinitely more professional.’

‘But Turke died anyway,’ insisted the soldier. ‘There was nothing Morice could have done had he been here himself. Was there?’

‘No,’ said Stanmore, evidently wanting the men gone from his house and deciding that telling them what they wanted to hear was the best way to do it. ‘You saw for yourselves he was barely conscious.’

‘We did,’ said the soldier, relieved. ‘We should go and make our report, then.’

‘Will you or Morice be investigating further?’ Edith asked, catching the soldier’s arm as he prepared to escape.

He was puzzled by her question. ‘We have investigated, lady. He was skating and the ice was thin. What else is there to say? It was an accident.’

‘I agree,’ agreed Abigny, a little too keenly for Bartholomew’s comfort. ‘All we can do now is take him home and give him a decent burial.’

‘Very well,’ said Stanmore, nodding to the soldiers to indicate they should be on their way. ‘But tell Morice I expect him to pay his respects to Mistress Turke today. I do not want her to return to London claiming Cambridge men have no manners.’

‘What did Turke’s dying words mean?’ asked Michael curiously after the soldiers had gone. ‘They made no sense to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ said Philippa, straightening her head-dress. This time her grief was controlled. She was the dignified fishmonger’s widow, bearing her lot with grace and stoicism. By contrast, Bartholomew felt drained physically and mentally, and all he wanted was to return to Michaelhouse and lie down. ‘I must buy some black cloth for mourning clothes,’ Philippa added as the physician moved towards the door.

‘I have plenty,’ offered Stanmore. ‘I always keep a good supply of black, because so many scholars and clerics need it and, combined with this new fashion for black clothes to symbolise grief, there is always a demand for it.’

‘I will arrange to have your husband taken to St Michael’s Church,’ said Michael. ‘That is what we agreed before …’ He trailed off, not liking to dwell on the fact that they had discussed Turke’s funeral arrangements while he had still lived.

Philippa nodded. ‘And Matt will ask his friends to say masses for Walter’s soul. I think I will bury him here. I should continue the pilgrimage at the soonest opportunity, and Walter’s corpse will slow us down.’

‘But you must return to London, so that we can inter him at Garlicke Hythe,’ said Abigny, horrified by her plans. ‘You know that is what he would have wanted.’

‘He would have wanted me to complete the pilgrimage for him,’ insisted Philippa stubbornly. ‘His immortal soul is more important than his mortal remains. We cannot go all the way to Walsingham and back to London with him. It would not be practical.’

‘Then we should settle for taking him home,’ argued Abigny.

‘I want to go to Walsingham,’ said Philippa, becoming tearful again. ‘I made promises to saints that I would go, and I do not want to break them, or I may never have a child.’

‘Would you like me to do anything?’ offered Michael kindly, not pointing out that with Turke dead she was free to take a man who might not need divine intervention to produce a baby. ‘It seems Morice’s men regard the matter as closed, but I could make some enquiries, since you had questions earlier about his death. Perhaps I can learn why he was near the river, or discover his state of mind. Sometimes having answers makes a loss easier to bear.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Philippa flatly. ‘Walter is dead, and that is the end of the matter. I do not want you or the Sheriff to look into his personal affairs. I want his memory respected.’

‘Michael would be respectful,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by her sudden change of attitude. ‘But it was you who told us that Walter would not have gone skating. Are you not curious to learn more about that?’

‘No,’ said Philippa firmly. She pointed to two sheep bones that had been tied to Turke’s expensive shoes with pieces of leather. Now they lay on the floor in a sodden heap with the rest of his clothes. ‘I can see he was wearing skates, and so my initial claim was obviously wrong. Please respect my wishes and leave him alone.’

‘She is right,’ agreed Abigny. ‘No amount of questioning will bring him back, and there is no point in causing distress by prolonging the incident. I shall arrange for him to be prepared for his journey to London.’

Philippa stared angrily at her brother for a moment, then took Edith’s arm and strode from the room. Abigny scurried after her, and Bartholomew could hear them arguing as they crossed the yard and climbed the stairs that led to Stanmore’s solar.

‘How strange,’ said Stanmore, watching them in puzzlement. ‘It was not many moments ago that she was so distraught with grief she could barely speak. Now she seems almost cold.’

‘Poor choice of words,’ said Michael, indicating the corpse. ‘But I know what you mean. What can you tell from the body, Matt?’

‘Philippa asked me not to examine it. She made her feelings quite clear about that.’

‘That was before he died. You have just spent an hour poking and prodding at him, so how can she object to a little more now?’

‘Go and ask her,’ suggested Bartholomew. He nodded wryly when Michael hesitated. ‘You see? You do not really believe she will give us her permission.’

‘Michael is right to suggest an examination, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is something odd about this incident. She was convinced that Walter would never skate on the river, and was obsessed by that point earlier. And yet she did not once mention it when we were trying to revive him here.’

‘That is because she saw for herself that he was wearing skates,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But was he actually skating?’ asked Michael, leaning down to inspect them. ‘I doubt he was. If you look here, you can see that one of the leather thongs crosses the blade. Not only would such an arrangement reduce friction and slow the skater, but it would quickly wear through and break.’

Bartholomew stared at the monk in astonishment. ‘What makes you such an expert on icy pastimes all of a sudden? I did not know you could skate.’

‘Of course I can skate,’ said Michael testily. ‘How could I not, growing up in East Anglia, where the land is flat, the water plentiful, and the winters long and cold? And I can tell you that Turke did not travel far on these particular skates.’

‘He travelled far enough to break the ice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

‘Unfortunately, I cannot tell much about these,’ Michael went on, taking one skate and examining it minutely. ‘They are cheap, sold by every butcher in the Market Square in winter. In fact, they are so common that Turke may even have found them abandoned by a previous skater.’

‘They break,’ added Stanmore, to explain the extravagance of disposing of something that could be reused. He, too, was a Fenman and knew about skating in cold winters. ‘They eventually crack when weight is put on them, especially by an adult. You often see them discarded.’

‘Inspect Turke, Matt,’ instructed Michael impatiently. ‘I will lift the covers, if it salves your conscience, so all you have to do is look. But I want to know the exact cause of his death. Oswald is right: there is something odd about this incident.’

As it transpired, there was nothing to see. There was no wound or mark on the body, with the exception of some scratches that had probably been inflicted as Turke was rescued. There was no abrasion or bump on the head, no bleeding and no signs that he had been strangled or suffocated. A hard push on Turke’s chest revealed water in his lungs, although not enough to drown him. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Turke’s death was exactly as it appeared: he had fallen in the river, and had frozen.

‘Does anyone know what Turke meant by “Templar”?’ asked Michael. ‘No Knights Templar exist these days, so I cannot imagine what he was talking about.’

‘I did not hear him say “Templar”,’ said Stanmore, surprised. ‘I heard him say “temper” and “you”. His meaning was quite clear: he was telling Philippa to mind her temper, as a husband’s final piece of advice to his wife.’

‘That would be an odd thing to say to her,’ said Michael warily. ‘She has never struck me as a woman given to sudden rages.’

‘I did not hear “Templar” or “temper”,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I heard “you” though, and I thought the other word was “Dympna”.’

‘It was not,’ said Michael with determination. ‘That would mean there is a link between Turke and Norbert, and that is not possible.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Norbert was murdered after Turke arrived in Cambridge.’

Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘A connection between a wealthy fishmonger and a debauched and worthless idler? I do not think so!’

‘Do not be too hasty to dismiss it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Consider two things. First, Turke was a merchant and Norbert was a merchant’s nephew – both well-connected men with access to wealth and power, even if Norbert did have to go through his uncle for his. And second, Turke was a fishmonger. There was a fish on the ground the night Norbert was murdered.’

‘A fish?’ asked Stanmore, bewildered. ‘What kind?’

‘A tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not think the type is relevant.’

‘Nothing about it is relevant,’ said Michael. ‘You used the fish to connect Norbert to Harysone. Now you are using the same clue to connect Norbert to Turke.’

‘You said yourself there is something strange about Turke’s death, and I think it odd that Turke and his servant should die in such rapid succession,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the three deaths are related. There is nothing to say they are not.’

‘But you said Norbert won the tench from Harysone by dicing, and dropped it as he fled for his life,’ said Michael. ‘How can that possibly have anything to do with Turke? And you told me earlier there was nothing odd about Gosslinge’s death. Have you changed your mind?’

‘I think there is something odd about the timing of Gosslinge’s and Turke’s deaths, not the deaths themselves – they both appear to be accidental and caused by the cold. And I think Turke muttering “Dympna”, the fact that he and Gosslinge were in the fishmongering trade, and that Norbert won a fish indicates all three deaths may be related. Perhaps Harysone is the factor that connects them.’

‘I would like you to be right,’ said Michael. ‘You know how dearly I would like to catch that man doing something wrong. But even I cannot see how he can have anything to do with Turke and his servant, just because Norbert happened to win a tench before he died.’

‘You are wrong about Turke’s last words, too,’ added Stanmore. ‘He did not say “Dympna”.’

‘Temper, Templar, Dympna,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘We all heard different things, and there is no way to prove which of us is right. However, there is one other thing we should consider.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, anticipating what the monk was going to say. ‘We might not know what Turke meant, but Philippa certainly did. Her behaviour changed from grief-stricken to coolly contained almost the instant he spoke to her.’

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived back at Michaelhouse, an afternoon meal was ready, and the students were in a state of excitement; they were going to elect their Lord of Misrule, who would run the College for the Twelve Days. This was an ancient tradition and, although some of the Fellows were keen to have it abolished, the students were equally determined to see it continue. The Lord of Misrule had absolute power over all College members, and everyone was obliged to do what he ordered. Usually, this was confined to ordering the Fellows to serve the students at the dinner table, or obliging them to listen to lectures written and delivered by students for their edification. Sometimes the pranks could be amusing, but sometimes they were a nuisance, and other times they were a genuine menace.

Bartholomew felt guilty about joining a room full of celebrating scholars while the woman he had loved was so fresh in her grief, but there was nothing he could do to help her, and it seemed a pity to curb his enjoyment because of the death of a man he had barely known. Resolutely, he pushed the fishmonger from his mind, and tried to give his full attention to the events unfolding in the hall. With some trepidation the Fellows took their places. The students were already there, and there was an atmosphere of tense anticipation among them. Rather unwisely, considering his unpopularity with the undergraduates, Father William had ordered two of his students to help him up the stairs, keen not to miss anything.

‘I do not approve of this ceremony,’ he boomed, sitting on a bench with his damaged leg propped in front of him as he ate stewed turnips and cold meat left over from the feast. ‘Why can we not elect a Boy Bishop, instead? That would be much more in line with the teachings of the Church, and is what the scholars at Valence Marie do.’

‘There is no difference, as far as I can see,’ said Kenyngham. ‘A Boy Bishop is just as likely to cause mischief as is a Lord of Misrule. It is only the name that is different, not the activity.’

‘But a Boy Bishop is obliged to give a sermon in the church,’ argued William. ‘And a church is the best place for these lads at this time of year.’

‘You would not say that if you heard some of the sermons,’ said Suttone, picking up the remains of an eel and gnawing along its backbone with his large teeth. ‘Believe me, William, it is best to keep this sort of thing well away from the sacred confines of God’s houses.’

‘Let us proceed,’ said Langelee, addressing the waiting students. ‘Who are your candidates?’

‘Gray and Quenhyth,’ called the Franciscan Ulfrid, a mischievous grin creasing his face.

Quenhyth was immediately on his feet, his face flushed with outrage. ‘I will not be party to such a disgraceful spectacle! I have no time for stupid pranks and only want to study. You can leave me out of this!’

‘Silly boy,’ muttered Michael, shaking his head in reproof. ‘He should have accepted the nomination, and taken the opportunity to avenge himself on those who have plagued him since September.’

‘Quenhyth is a dull boy,’ said Suttone, spitting eel bones on to the table, where they landed with a light pattering sound. ‘He talks about his lectures and his reading, but nothing else.’

‘He is unwise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By standing down, he has effectively ensured that Gray is elected. And Gray will make his life a misery over the next twelve days.’

‘Gray had better not try to make my life a misery,’ said William threateningly. ‘I will not be harassed by a group of boys.’

‘You have no choice,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘You must bide by any decisions the Lord makes, while at the same time promising no retribution in the future. You know this; we have been through it before.’

William growled something incomprehensible, and snapped his fingers for Cynric to fetch him some wine. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Gray, and neither did Cynric’s long-suffering grimace. Bartholomew was certain William would soon pay for his abrupt treatment of the servants.

‘I nominate me,’ said Deynman, loudly and rather unexpectedly. For a moment, no one spoke, and everyone in the hall stared at the lad whose limited intelligence would never see him pass his disputations.

‘You cannot nominate yourself,’ said Gray eventually. ‘It is not done.’

‘Who says?’ demanded Deynman, uncharacteristically pugilistic. ‘Just because it has not been done before does not mean that it cannot be done now. And anyway, you were Lord of Misrule last year, and I do not want you again. This year it should be me.’

Several of the students began to cheer his audacity, while Gray looked as black as thunder. ‘But I have made arrangements,’ he said in a low, angry voice. ‘I will ensure that no one will ever forget my last Christmas at Michaelhouse: my reign will be remembered for decades to come.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in alarm. ‘I do not like the sound of that. It does not bode well for us Fellows, of that you can be sure.’

‘I do not care about the Fellows, only that we still have a College at the end of it,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Gray’s idea of a memorable time might be to set the place alight and dance in the flames.’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of the student who had been with him since the plague. ‘He knows there are limits. I cannot say the same for Deynman, however, so you had better hope Gray wins the election.’

But Gray did not win the election. The students were amused by the fact that Deynman had issued a direct challenge to Gray, who was a bully, and the vote for Deynman was almost unanimous. Gray was furious, and slouched on his bench with a face that could curdle milk.

‘Good,’ said Deynman, rubbing his hands together. ‘Give me your tabard, Master Langelee. I shall wear it until Twelfth Night, so that everyone will know that I am in charge.’

‘Very well, but you had better not spill anything on it,’ said Langelee, reluctantly handing over the garment. ‘I want it back clean.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Deynman carelessly, indicating that Langelee would be unlikely to be able to wear the item again. He turned to address his new ‘subjects’. ‘There are some things I should make clear. First, you have to do anything I say … ’

‘Within reason,’ cautioned Ulfrid warily. ‘You cannot ask us to do anything dangerous or too nasty. For example, I refuse to be the one to remove Father William’s habit and wash it.’ The chorus of cat-calls and laughter made William gape in astonishment. Ulfrid hastened to explain to the bemused Fellows. ‘That was on Gray’s list of things to do during the Twelve Days. It is something that should happen, but none of us wants the task.’

‘Brother Michael can do it,’ said Deynman. ‘He is big, strong and used to unpleasant sights.’

‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Bartholomew hastily, anticipating that Michael would refuse to undertake such a gruesome task, which might result in all manner of chaos. ‘If William will relinquish it willingly, then Michael can take it to Agatha–’

‘I will not have that filthy thing in my laundry,’ came Agatha’s voice from behind the servants’ screen, where she had been listening and probably enjoying herself – at least, until she had been mentioned in connection with William’s infamous robe. ‘The bonfire is the best place for that.’

‘I will buy a new one,’ said Deynman generously. ‘And then no one need touch it. That is my second command: William’s vile habit shall never again make an appearance in Michaelhouse.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began William indignantly. ‘This is a perfectly serviceable garment. I admit it is marred by one or two stains–’

Whatever he had planned to say was drowned by laughter. The students hefted their new leader on to their shoulders and carried him to the conclave, which they evidently intended to wrest from the Fellows for the next few days. Gray followed them, a thoughtful expression on his face. His train of thought was obvious to anyone who knew him: Deynman was fond of Gray, and would listen to anything he suggested. So, while Gray might not be Lord of Misrule himself, being the friend of one was the next best thing. Gray would have his power after all.

‘You cannot take the conclave!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, his usually benign face filled with dismay. ‘It is where the Fellows go in the evenings.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The Gilbertine was not a man who usually cared much about personal comforts. Indeed, Bartholomew would not have been surprised if Kenyngham had failed to notice that the conclave was unavailable, so immersed was he in spiritual matters.

‘The Fellows can use the hall instead,’ said Deynman carelessly, struggling out of his friends’ grasp and walking towards the friar. If he was annoyed to have his authority contested quite so soon after his election, he did not show it. ‘That is what this season is all about – changing things and breaking customs.’

‘But I might want to go into the conclave,’ protested Kenyngham, becoming distressed.

‘Do not worry, Father,’ said Deynman kindly, after glancing questioningly at his friends to ensure he had their support. Everyone liked the Gilbertine, and there were nods and smiles all around. ‘You can come in any time you like. The other Fellows are banned, though.’

Kenyngham raised a blue-veined hand as he muttered a blessing. Deynman gave him a conspiratorial wink, then followed his colleagues. Several stumbled over the loose board as they went, unused to the conclave floor’s irregularities.

‘What was that about?’ Bartholomew asked Kenyngham, as they walked together across the hall to the spiral staircase that led to the yard. ‘You do not usually care about such things.’

‘I find the conclave more peaceful than the hall.’

‘You will not if it is full of celebrating students,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he felt the friar was not being entirely honest with him.

He watched Kenyngham head towards his room, then went to his own chamber, intending to leave Michaelhouse before Deynman had time to flex his new muscles of power and ask him to do something inconvenient or silly. The other Fellows had the same idea, and there was a concerted dash for the gate. Bartholomew decided to visit Dunstan, partly because he wanted to see whether there was anything he could do to help the old man, but partly because he hoped Matilde might be there. As he walked along the river bank towards the crumbling huts, he thought about Turke, and wondered what the death of her husband would mean for Philippa and her comfortable life on London’s Friday Street.