A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 5

There were more celebrations in Michaelhouse that night, with the Lord of Misrule sitting in Langelee’s seat for the St Stephen’s Day supper. Predictably, the Fellows had been instructed to serve, while Deynman was surrounded by his friends at the high table. Agatha, of course, was considered far too venerable to sit with the rabble, so she was placed at Deynman’s right hand, looking pleased with herself as she swilled back plentiful quantities of wine.

The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, and everyone seemed to be enjoying himself – although one or two Fellows were grim faced. This merely increased the students’ amusement. Warned by Langelee that the College wine supplies were low and would not support a season of continuous drinking, Deynman had solved the problem with large sums of money. The cellars had been restocked, and the kitchens received a welcome boost of new and interesting victuals.

‘Now we shall have the Chepe Waits,’ decreed Deynman, standing and waving a slopping cup to give emphasis to his instruction. ‘And everyone has to talk while he is eating – English or French, not Latin. We will have no silence or Bible-reading at any meal for the next two weeks.’

‘Twelve days,’ corrected Suttone grimly, struggling with a bowl of leeks. ‘Let us not lose count, please. William knew what he was doing when he broke his leg – at least he is not being submitted to this kind of indignity.’

‘He is also unable to protect himself,’ said Michael, striding past him bearing a platter loaded with meat. His hands and mouth were greasy, and it was clear that he had been working on the ‘one-for-you-and-one-for-me’ principle. ‘Because he could not move, those students were able to rip that habit off him and replace it with a new one. As you can imagine, he complained bitterly.’

Bartholomew could imagine. ‘His leg is not broken, you know,’ he said in a low voice to the monk. ‘If I were to remove the splint, he would be able to walk perfectly well.’

‘Leave the splint where it is, if you please,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want William incapacitated while I am investigating Norbert’s death. I do not want him “helping”. And anyway, you know he hates the Misrule season. It is better for everyone if he stays in his room.’

‘I am surprised the Chepe Waits are still here,’ said Clippesby, arriving with a bowl of nuts. ‘Frith had a fight with Agatha, and they have all been questioned by the Sheriff about a theft from the King’s Head. I thought they would have been dismissed.’

‘Apparently, the King’s Head victim declined to take the matter further,’ said Michael, helping himself to a thick slice of pork before flinging a considerably smaller one on to Cynric’s trencher. ‘Did you want that, Cynric? If not, throw it across to Quenhyth; he needs a bit of flesh on his bones. So, the Waits were released without being charged. I cannot help but wonder whether they bribed Morice to drop the investigation.’

‘Frith outwitted Deynman shamelessly this morning,’ said Suttone, doling out leeks into the bowls that were shared by two people on the high table, and four people in the body of the hall. ‘He threatened to leave Michaelhouse immediately unless Deynman signed a statement promising to hire the troupe for the entire Misrule season. The boy was dismayed at the prospect of being unable to supply entertainment for his “court”, and quickly agreed to Frith’s terms.’

‘That was a low trick,’ said Bartholomew, angered partly by Deynman’s gullibility, but mostly because the Wait had used Deynman’s dull mind to get what he wanted. He had not been impressed by the entertainers’ talents or their manners, and he had intended to advise Deynman to dismiss them. Now it seemed he was too late.

The Waits, assured of employment for the foreseeable future, were complacent. Their tumbling was less energetic, and they dropped their balls and sticks with greater frequency than before. They looked dirty, too, and neither of the ‘women’ had shaved. One had dispensed with the annoyance of his yellow wig, and the resulting combination of large bosom, balding head and bewhiskered face was not attractive. They did not bother with a lengthy performance, either, and it was not long before Frith announced they were going to rest. They retreated behind the servants’ screen, and Bartholomew arrived in time to catch Jestyn drinking from one of the wine jugs.

‘That is not for you,’ he said coolly, taking the receptacle from the entertainer’s hands. ‘And it is rude to drink from the jug, anyway.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Jestyn, unrepentant. ‘I am I hungry, too. What is there to eat?’

‘They have already had their meal,’ said Michael, coming to refill his meat tray. ‘They cannot be hungry again already.’

‘How would you know what we feel?’ demanded Frith insolently.

‘You had better keep a civil tongue, or I shall see you throw no more balls and coloured sticks in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael sharply.

‘We have been hired for the whole festive period,’ said Frith gloatingly. ‘We have an agreement with Deynman, and we will only leave if he dismisses us. What you think is irrelevant.’

‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Michael with cold menace. Frith regarded him silently for a moment, and apparently realised it would not be wise to antagonise a man like Michael. He recanted, forcing a grin on to his unwholesome face.

‘Take no notice of us, Brother. We have been in rough company for so long that we have forgotten our manners. I am sorry if I offended you. We mean no harm.’

‘We do not,’ agreed one of the women. She had dispensed with false beard and moustache in the interests of comfort, although her hair was still gathered under her cap in the manner of a young man. She was a robust lady, with a prominent nose and a pair of shrewd green eyes. She wiggled her hips and effected a mischievous grin ‘My name is Matilda, but my friends call me Makejoy. Would you like me to show you why, Brother?’

‘He is busy,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to do all the work while Michael frolicked behind the screens with the likes of Makejoy. He could tell from the expression on the monk’s face that he was interested. ‘Come on, Brother. There are people waiting for their food.’

‘In a moment,’ said Michael, perching a large rump on one of the trestle tables and folding his arms. He was clearly in no hurry to resume his labours. ‘I have questions for these good people.’

‘What kind of questions?’ demanded Frith, instantly wary. ‘If you are referring to that theft at the King’s Head, then yes, we were in the tavern that night, and no, we did not take the gold. The Sheriff agreed there was not enough evidence to make a case against us, so do not think you will succeed where he failed.’

‘Gold?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Would this be the gold Cynric saw you counting?’

The Waits exchanged uneasy glances. ‘No one saw us count anything,’ said Jestyn unconvincingly.

‘Really?’ asked Michael sweetly. ‘You sleep in the room above the stables. Were you aware that it adjoins the servants’ quarters, and that a previous master drilled a series of spy-holes in the walls to allow a watchful eye to be kept on visiting strangers such as yourselves?’

‘We must have been counting the coins Deynman gave us,’ said Jestyn quickly. ‘He threw us a handful after our performance last night.’

‘He gave you silver, not gold, and I can assure you Cynric knows the difference. Now, I shall say nothing of this to Morice, but there is a price: I want some information.’

Bartholomew was amused by Michael’s tactics. He suspected that Morice knew perfectly well the Waits were guilty of theft, and, since even a hint of criminal behaviour was normally sufficient for the wrongdoer to be expelled from the town – or worse – it was obvious that Morice had been persuaded to overlook the matter. The physician wondered how much of the stolen gold had been left in the Waits’ possession once Morice had taken his share.

However, it also stood to reason that the corrupt Sheriff would be keen for the incident to be buried and forgotten. He would not be pleased if Michael presented him with irrefutable evidence of the Waits’ guilt. Morice would never allow Frith to reveal Morice’s own role in the affair, and it was not unknown for people to be stabbed in dark alleys or to disappear completely. Morice was a dangerous man as far as the Waits were concerned, and Michael had them in a nasty corner by threatening to go to him.

‘When you first arrived in the town, you stayed at the King’s Head,’ said Michael, fixing Frith with the unwavering stare he usually reserved for unruly students. ‘Now, there was another guest present at the time called John Harysone. What can you tell me about him?’

‘Who?’ asked Makejoy nervously.

‘Come, come,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know the tavern was busy, but you must have noticed Harysone. He is a bearded fellow with teeth like a horse and an oily, malevolent character.’

‘The one who dresses in black?’ said Frith sulkily. ‘I know nothing about him – only that he hired a private room. We, on the other hand, slept in the hayloft with other less wealthy patrons.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or see him talking to anyone else?’

‘No,’ said Makejoy. ‘And we would tell you if we had; we owe nothing to the man, so it does not matter whether we say anything that would land him in trouble. He arrived here the same time as us – eleven days ago now, because we came on the fifteenth day of December. I noticed him immediately. His long teeth make eating difficult, you see, so his noonday meal was a curious thing to watch – and I have seen him in the tavern since.’

‘But you have not exchanged words?’ asked Michael.

Jestyn shook his head. ‘I nodded at him, as fellow travellers do, but he did not acknowledge me. He stared straight through me, then turned his attention to his duck pie. In fact, he spoke to no one. He declined all company, even that fishmonger’s wife.’

‘Do you mean Philippa Turke?’ asked Michael. ‘I heard she and her family took a room in the King’s Head before they went to stay with Stanmore.’

‘We wondered why they had left,’ said Frith. ‘But while they were there, your black-cloaked fellow failed to show them any of the courtesies usually exchanged between fellow travellers. Perhaps that is why they abandoned the King’s Head – to seek more pleasant company elsewhere.’

Makejoy frowned thoughtfully. ‘Their servant sat with Harysone, though. Remember?’

‘They shared a table, but did not speak,’ said Frith. ‘It was busy that night, and all the other seats were taken. Harysone was displeased that he was forced to share, and cut short his meal. He took his wine with him. I remember that, because I was hoping he would leave it behind.’

‘That would be Gosslinge,’ said Michael in satisfaction. ‘In company with Harysone. You were right, Matt: there is a connection between them.’

‘They shared a table, but not words,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It does not sound like a meaningful encounter to me.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael, pleased with the discovery nonetheless. He addressed the Waits again. ‘Did you know that Gosslinge is dead? He died in our church, where someone relieved him of his clothes. I would not find them if I looked among your travelling packs, would I?’

‘You would not,’ said Makejoy huffily. ‘And I resent the implication that we are thieves.’

‘But you are thieves,’ Michael pointed out. ‘We have already established that – it is why you are answering my questions, remember?’ He heaved his bulk off the table and picked up his tray. ‘However, while I am prepared to overlook a theft from the King’s Head, I will not be so lenient if anything disappears from Michaelhouse. Do I make myself clear?’

The Waits nodded resentfully and Michael left, taking his meat with him. Bartholomew filled his jug with wine from the barrel.

‘So,’ he said conversationally. ‘You never met Gosslinge or Harysone before you arrived in Cambridge?’

‘We told you: we have never set eyes on Harysone before,’ replied Frith.

Bartholomew straightened. ‘And Gosslinge?’

‘Tell him, Frith,’ said Makejoy, after more uncomfortable glances had been exchanged. ‘If you do not and he finds out, he will assume we have done something wrong. And we have not.’

‘We knew Gosslinge,’ admitted Frith reluctantly. ‘But when we heard he was dead, we were afraid to tell anyone about it. You can see why: that monk immediately accused us of stealing his clothes, even though we are innocent.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘We were hired to perform for Walter Turke in London,’ said Makejoy. ‘We juggled and sang at a feast he held for his fellow fishmongers. It was Gosslinge who told us where we could change and provided our food.’

Bartholomew stared at her, his mind whirling. ‘When was this?’

Frith blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘June or July, I suppose.’

‘Who hired you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Turke himself?’

‘His wife,’ replied Frith. ‘She sat next to you at the Christmas feast.’

Bartholomew frowned in puzzlement, recalling that when he had discussed the Waits with Philippa she had announced, quite categorically, that she did not like such people and never employed them. As the two of them had been struggling to find things to talk about, her recognition of folk she had met before surely would have been a godsend as a conversational gambit. Yet she had not mentioned her previous encounter with them. Why? Had she forgotten them? Was their performance an unpleasant memory that she had suppressed?

Her brother’s reaction had been equally odd: Abigny had claimed he disliked jugglers, and had left Langelee’s chambers as soon as they had arrived, then had excused himself when they had approached the high table later in the hall. And Turke? They had jostled him and spilled his wine, but he had declined to make a fuss. What did that say about his relationship with the Waits? That he knew them but was loath to admit it to people he wanted to impress? That he declined to indulge in an undignified squabble with menials? Bartholomew supposed the Waits could be lying about being hired by the Turke household, but he saw no reason why they should.

‘Did you speak to Gosslinge, here in Cambridge?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Frith bitterly. ‘I asked him if he would recommend us to potential employers, since it was proving difficult to find a situation for the Twelve Days. We had offered ourselves to virtually every merchant in the town, you see, but they had already made other arrangements and had no need for us. But Gosslinge refused to help.’

‘Now we shall have marchpanes,’ declared Deynman, standing again and deluging Suttone with wine as he waved his goblet around. There was a chorus of laughter, while the morose Carmelite surveyed the red stains on his robes with weary resignation.

‘That pale wool is an impractical colour for a habit,’ said Deynman defensively, blushing with embarrassment. He was not a naturally rebellious lad, and his antics so far had been tame compared to the stunts that Gray had arranged the previous year. However, Gray was sitting near to his friend at the high table, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before matters took a turn for the worse. Gray was clearly plotting something. He leaned towards Deynman and was constantly muttering in his ear.

Wynewyk and Clippesby emerged from behind the servants’ screen carrying a huge tray on which sat a huge marchpane image, dressed in blue and white cloth. It was the Virgin Mary. It was fairly large, reaching mid-thigh height, and its face was swathed in a veil. It was not uncommon for Michaelhouse to buy carved marchpanes for the Christmas season, but none had been so finely wrought as this one. Students, Fellows and servants alike watched its progress through the hall in awed silence, and even the Waits were impressed – Frith began a stately march on pipes and tabor to accompany it. Clippesby and Wynewyk set the image on the high table and stepped away.

‘Good,’ said Deynman approvingly. ‘But we cannot see the detail on her with all these clothes and veils. Let us take them off.’

‘For the love of God, no!’ cried Suttone, leaping forward to prevent such a sacrilege. ‘What are you thinking of, boy? You go too far!’

Deynman faltered, unsettled by the vehemence of Suttone’s protest, while the silence in the hall was so thick that Bartholomew could hear an insect buzzing in one of the windows. Gray gave Deynman a none too gentle prod in the ribs to prompt him.

‘But we must,’ said Deynman, agitated. ‘It is part of the performance.’

‘I will not stand by and see you haul the vestments from our Blessed Virgin,’ declared Suttone, drawing himself up to his full cadaverous height. ‘Lord of Misrule you may be, but I will not permit heresy to take place in my College. What would the Bishop and Head of my Order say when they learn what sort of revelries Michaelhouse condones?’

Gray came slowly to his feet. ‘You will not permit it, Father? How will you stop us?’

Suttone was taller and probably stronger than Gray, but it did not take much to intimidate the friar from his pedestal of self-righteousness; he was a coward at heart. He appealed to his colleagues. ‘Come to my aid,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I am right and this cannot be allowed. And tell Gray to sit down, Matthew. I do not like him glowering at me like a tavern brawler.’

‘The Lord of Misrule can do what he likes,’ declared Gray. He snatched up his goblet and gave his friends a grin that was full of mischief. ‘We will not allow the Fellows to renege on their agreement to allow us free rein, will we?’ There was a chorus of nervous agreement, and Gray jumped on to the table, hands on hips as he gazed around him with naked disdain. ‘This is the Twelve Days,’ he declared, glaring at his cronies until they met his eyes. ‘You have been looking forward to it for months. It is our time, when we are free to amuse ourselves and have fun. We will not allow a Carmelite to stand in the way of the best Christmas celebrations Michaelhouse has ever known, will we? Well? What do you say?’

This time the chorus of voices was stronger, and several students came to their feet, raising their goblets in a sloppy salute to Gray.

‘But this is different,’ objected Suttone feebly. ‘Stripping the Virgin!’

‘We shall play “Strip the Virgin” later,’ promised Gray, referring to a well-known game that was popular in venues like the King’s Head. The students cheered in delight. ‘But now we shall strip the marchpane.’

‘Matthew!’ cried Suttone, turning beseechingly to the physician. ‘Gray and Deynman are your students. You must prevent them from doing this.’

But the high table was some distance away, and Bartholomew’s path was blocked by Gray’s friends. The physician knew they would stop him if he walked in their direction, and he did not want to start a fight he could not win. He glanced around for Langelee, but the Master was not in the hall, and Bartholomew supposed he had gone to the cellars for more wine. Michael was as hesitant as Bartholomew to interfere with Gray’s plans, and merely stood near the servants’ screen, drinking the wine he should have been serving.

Meanwhile, Gray started to sing a tavern song, and the words were immediately picked up by the other students and the servants. Bartholomew noticed that even Clippesby was joining in, although the lyrics were obscene, and should not have been in the repertoire of a Dominican friar. The song involved a good deal of cup banging, and the hall was soon awash with noise. Gray leaned towards Deynman and muttered something in his ear. Deynman shook his head, but Gray was insistent, and Deynman’s hand started to move towards the marchpane Madonna.

Suttone’s frantic protests were inaudible through the singing, as Gray had doubtless intended. Deynman’s fingers tightened around the veil and cloak and, with a flourish, he whipped them off. Underneath, the figure was no Madonna. It was a model of Father William, complete with filthy habit, grimy hands and a tonsure that was irregular, bristly and made from real hair. The sculptor had captured the fanatical gleam of the friar’s eyes and the pugilistic pout of his lips. A miniature wineskin dangled at his side, and one foot was resting on a copy of the Rules of St Dominic, the laws and ordinances by which the Dominican Order was governed. In one of his hands was a vast purse with the word ‘fines’ written on it, while the other grasped a book that had ribald songs inscribed on its tiny pages.

There was an appreciative roar of delight from the students, and Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a grin of relief. Suttone rubbed a hand over his face and left the hall, while Clippesby laughed long and hard. Langelee was suddenly among them, holding a casket of wine in his powerful arms. He gaped at the figure, set down his barrel and traced a forefinger down the line of its habit, clearly impressed.

‘Good God!’ he muttered in amazement. ‘It looks real!’

‘It is William in every respect!’ cried Clippesby, perching on the high table to inspect the figure in greater detail. William did not like Dominicans, and Clippesby had been on the receiving end of a good many unprovoked insults. He was obviously delighted that the dour friar had been the butt of the students’ joke. ‘I wish he could see it. Shall we take it to him?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Gray wisely. ‘He will not see the amusing side and will fine us all for worshipping graven images or some such thing.’

‘I can assure you we will not be praying to it,’ said Langelee, standing back to admire the statue and its clever details. There was even a broken sandal strap, just like William’s. ‘But you are right. He will not see the humour. Who made it?’

‘It was–’ began Deynman.

‘That we shall never reveal,’ said Gray, interrupting firmly. ‘William is vengeful, and I do not want to see someone mercilessly persecuted for what is only a little fun. But shall we just stand here and look at it, or shall we eat him?’

‘Eat him!’ yelled the students as one.

Deynman grabbed a knife and began paring away sections of the model, enjoying himself enormously. The students cheered as he worked, particularly when he attacked the head.

‘Who will eat this?’ he cried, waving his trophy in the air.

‘Not me,’ said Michael in distaste, although he was not normally a man to refuse something edible. ‘It has hairs in it. Real ones.’

‘Of course it has hairs,’ said Deynman. ‘It is a head. Will you eat it if I remove them?’

‘Well …’ said Michael, clearly tempted. William’s head represented a sizeable chunk of marchpane, and the monk would have a larger share if he accepted it. He adored the expensive almond-flavoured paste, and such a generous portion was not an offer to be lightly dismissed.

‘Give it to me,’ said Clippesby, snatching the head from Deynman. He broke it in half, and gave part to Michael. Then he began to pull away smaller pieces, handing them to the students. ‘We shall all partake of William’s head.’

‘You have given me the bit with the hair in it,’ said Michael, aggrieved, but making no move to share. ‘They are not his hairs, are they? If so, then none of us should be eating it.’

‘They are from a horse,’ said Deynman. ‘We wanted William’s own, but I could not bring myself to gather them, even when he lay in a drunken slumber after he had broken his leg.’

It was not long before everyone had been given a piece of William – with the notable exception of Gray. The Waits had also been left out, although all four stuck out their hands hopefully when the tray came past. Deynman held up his portion, and a respectful silence fell over the assembly.

‘To William,’ he announced, and thrust the treat into his mouth. The students, Fellows and servants repeated his words and followed suit. Bartholomew did not, suspecting that there was a good reason why Gray had declined his share.

There was. Within moments, the hall was full of gagging and spitting sounds.

‘Horrible!’ cried Michael, flinging away his piece so hard that it disappeared from view near the conclave door. He stuck out his tongue and began to wipe it with a piece of linen, pulling the most disagreeable of faces as he did so. Others were not so genteel. A good many mouthfuls ended up on the floor, and Bartholomew saw Quenhyth being sick.

‘Salt,’ said the physician, taking a careful lick of his own piece, ‘instead of sugar.’

Gray sat in his chair and laughed until he wept, and Bartholomew saw he had had his revenge on the College that had declined to elect him its Lord of Misrule. Gray was not the only one to indulge in spiteful laughter. Bartholomew looked towards the servants’ screen and saw the Waits were equally amused.

Quenhyth was waiting for Bartholomew the following morning when the physician emerged from the kitchens, where he had been helping the other Fellows to clean up after breakfast. Deynman had decreed that the servants should spend the day in the conclave, while the Fellows scrubbed the trays and pans used at the feast the night before. No one was happy with this arrangement: the servants complained that the Fellows would make more work by not cleaning their utensils properly, and the Fellows had not performed such base chores for years and did not want to start now. But Deynman’s orders were law, and they were all obliged to obey them.

‘Are you better today?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that it was Quenhyth who had vomited after eating the salty marchpane.

Quenhyth grimaced. ‘No thanks to Gray. He might have made someone seriously ill with that prank. I hope Master Langelee sees he pays for his irresponsible behaviour.’

‘What did you want?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that Langelee would do nothing of the kind. The Master had thoroughly enjoyed the joke, and considered a mouthful of salt a small price to pay for such rich entertainment.

‘I am consigned to gate duty,’ said Quenhyth resentfully. ‘Deynman says Walter the porter is to deliver a lecture on creation theology, while I am to guard the door.’ He pouted angrily. ‘I have a disputation in a few weeks and I must study. I cannot afford to waste time on foolery like this.’

‘Just do it, Quenhyth,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘If you rebel, you will only find yourself in trouble. Your fanatical attitude to your studies has not endeared you to your fellow students, and you would be wise to do as they ask until the Twelve Days are safely over.’

‘I will not permit them to dictate the pace of my studies,’ declared Quenhyth hotly. ‘Education is a sacred thing, and it is not for the likes of Deynman to tell me when I can and cannot read.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing that his advice was wasted. ‘But why are you telling me all this? There is nothing I can do to relieve you of your gate duties.’

‘I did not imagine there would be,’ said Quenhyth unpleasantly. ‘No man can control that pair of louts – not even their teacher. But I came because you have been summoned by a patient. He wants you to attend him at the King’s Head.’

‘The King’s Head?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He was not usually called to tend the patrons of that particular tavern. The landlord tended to recommend the cheaper services of Robin of Grantchester, who was a townsman and not a member of the University. ‘Who is it?’

Quenhyth shrugged. ‘The messenger was vague about the name: it was something like Harpoon or Hairspoon.’

‘Harysone?’

Quenhyth shrugged again. ‘It could have been. But I must get back to my post. Gray may let robbers into the College, just to blame their presence on me. Of course, Deynman has given four thieves permission to stay here, anyway. I know the Chepe Waits from of old, and they are not honest folk.’

‘How do you know them?’ asked Bartholomew, walking with him across the yard to fetch his cloak and bag. The morning was icy again, and winter lay cold and heavy on the town. A rich, metallic scent in the air indicated they were in for yet more snow soon.

‘My father hired them once. They spend most of their time in London, hawking their skills to merchants, and my father asked them to perform at my sister’s marriage last year. I sensed it was a mistake, given they are so obviously vagabonds, but he persisted anyway. I was proved right, of course.’

‘How?’

‘They stole a silver chalice. Well, they claimed they did not, and the thing was not among their possessions when they were searched, but they were the culprits, nevertheless.’

‘How do you know those Waits and ours are the same people?’

Quenhyth gave him a weary look. ‘I remember their names: Frith, Makejoy, Yna and Jestyn. They wear each other’s clothes, so the men are women and the women men. They say it is to make people laugh, but I think it is because they encourage men to seduce the “ladies”, then demand payment for their silence. You know how severely lewd acts are punished these days.’

‘How do you know they stole your father’s chalice?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it would have to be a desperate man who would try to seduce one of the stubble-chinned ‘ladies’ of the Chepe Waits. Still, he recalled, Langelee had been fooled, and there was no accounting for taste.

‘The Waits were the only strangers to enter the house that day, and the chalice was found to be missing after they left. I tried to tell Langelee about it, but he would not listen. I confess I am surprised to see them in Cambridge – I thought they confined their activities to London.’

‘If they steal from every household they visit, they will not stay in business for long,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Quenhyth was mistaken. ‘Even in a large city.’

‘I followed them for a while, hoping to reclaim our property. They do a lot of business in Chepe, with fishmongers, cordwainers and other wealthy merchants. Later, they went to Kent, presumably to help with the harvest.’

‘Fishmongers,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about the Waits’ claim that they had been hired by Turke. Philippa had mentioned that she lived on Friday Street, and he wondered whether her house was anywhere near the Waits’ territory. ‘Is Friday Street close to Chepe?’

‘Yes,’ said Quenhyth, looking disdainfully down his long nose at Bartholomew. ‘Friday Street is part of Chepe. Do you know nothing about London?’

‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew, who had found it dirty, dangerous, noisy and crowded on his few brief visits.

‘Friday Street is dominated by the fishmongers’ homes. It is near Fishmonger Row and Thames Street. Chepe, obviously, is on the river and convenient for bringing supplies of fish to the city. It is near Quenhyth, where my family live. My father is a fishmonger, too, although he is not as rich and powerful as Master Turke was. Turke did not remember me when we met at the feast, but his wife did, and she asked after my family. She is a good woman.’

Bartholomew regarded his student thoughtfully. Did the fact that Philippa lived in Chepe mean the Waits had indeed been telling the truth when they claimed they had performed for her? Or were they lying, because they were dishonest folk who regularly stole from the people who hired them? Impatiently, he pushed the questions from his mind. All of this was irrelevant. Philippa’s choice of entertainers – and her willingness, or otherwise, to acknowledge them – was none of his affair. But he had a patient to attend, and that was his business.

‘Chepe is a place of contrasts,’ Quenhyth chattered, while the physician collected his bag. ‘The merchants’ houses – like the ones on Friday Street – are among the finest in the city, while some of the alleys are a foretaste of Hell in their filth and debauchery. Of course, violence is not always confined to alleys. Only a few weeks ago, Walter Turke himself stabbed a man in Fishmongers’ Hall.’

‘So I heard. But how do you know about it?’

‘My father was there and he saw it all. The victim was called John Fiscurtune. Incidentally, he was the same fellow who recommended the Chepe Waits to my father. I later informed Fiscurtune that they were not the sort of people he should be advising honest folk to hire, but he told me to mind my own affairs. He was not a pleasant person, and I am not surprised Turke took a knife to him. No one liked him, not even his own family. It was rumoured that his son found him so vile he tossed himself in the Thames to avoid future encounters with him.’

‘So, Fiscurtune knew the Waits, too?’ asked Bartholomew, baffled by the complex social connections that were emerging as Quenhyth gossiped.

‘I do not know if he knew them personally, but he certainly told my father to hire them. Perhaps he liked bad juggling and hairy women. By the way, I saw Frith talking to Norbert in the King’s Head the night he died, so you should tell Brother Michael to question him about that particular murder.’ His eyes gleamed with spite.

‘You tell him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘I have,’ replied Quenhyth resentfully. ‘But he said the Waits talked to lots of folk the night Norbert was murdered, because they were looking for someone to hire them. He is a fool to dismiss them from his enquiries so readily, though. He will find them responsible, you mark my words.’

Bartholomew sensed Quenhyth felt the same about the Waits as Michael did about Harysone. Quenhyth believed the jugglers had wronged him, and he was not a lad to forgive and forget: he was determined to make life uncomfortable for them. Bartholomew listened with half an ear as Quenhyth described what had happened when he had made himself known to the Waits in Cambridge. He claimed they had been appalled to learn of his presence, although Bartholomew suspected that they had merely warned the boy to mind his own business. Frith did not look the kind of man to be cowed by someone like Quenhyth.

‘I also saw them at the King’s Head with Giles Abigny,’ added Quenhyth, still talking, even though Bartholomew was already out of the gate and starting to walk up the lane. ‘Since they “entertained” his sister in Friday Street, I suppose they were hopeful he might buy their services a second time. That was before Master Langelee hired them for Michaelhouse, of course.’

The physician turned. ‘How do you know the Waits played for Philippa?’

‘I told you,’ said Quenhyth impatiently. ‘I watched them very carefully after they stole from my father, and one of their engagements was in the Turke household. But I could tell Abigny had not hired them this time. They made rude gestures as he walked away. I saw them with another fellow in the King’s Head, too – a man with huge teeth and a habit of showing off his dancing skills. Perhaps they were trying to recruit him.’ He sniggered nastily.

‘Harysone?’

‘The man who has summoned you? I did not know they were one and the same.’

‘What were you doing in the King’s Head?’ asked Bartholomew archly, wondering how the student came to be in possession of so much information. If Quenhyth had been in the tavern long enough to see the Waits with Abigny, Gosslinge and Harysone, then he must have been there for some time.

Quenhyth’s face puckered into a scowl. ‘Gray told me there was a messenger waiting with a letter from my father. I should have known better than to believe him, because he had played exactly the same trick on me the week before. And, sure enough, Father William appeared as I waited for the “messenger” to arrive. It cost me fourpence. But before I left, I saw Harysone sitting with Frith. However, the tavern was busy, so I could not hear what they were saying.’

‘Are you sure they were speaking, not just using the same table?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that the Waits had denied exchanging words with Harysone.

Quenhyth’s expression became uncertain. ‘I think they were talking. Why? Is Harysone a criminal? He looks like one.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin, wondering what was truth and what was malicious gossip intended to harm the Waits. ‘Why did you notice all these things?’

‘If you had been the victim of a vile theft, then been made to look foolish when you could not prove your accusation, you would notice every move the Waits made, too,’ said Quenhyth bitterly. ‘I hate them.’

As always, when there was a deviation from the expected in terms of weather, those in authority at the little Fen-edge town were wholly unprepared for the consequences. In the summer, they were taken aback when there was a drought; they were stunned by the floods that regularly occurred in the spring; and they were aghast when rains interfered with the harvest. Snow was no different. Even though some fell most years, the town officials never thought about it until it arrived. Spades and shovels for digging were always in short supply, while no one stocked firewood so that ice could be melted in sufficient quantities to meet the demand for water.

This year was the same. Morice’s soldiers had been pressed into service to clear pathways through the larger drifts, but, in the absence of proper equipment, their progress was slow. There was a particularly vast bank outside Bene’t College, but the soldiers had decided this was simply too daunting to tackle, and so dug their path around it. Carts stood where they had been abandoned by their owners, some buried so deeply that only the very tops were visible. In one, a horse had been left, frozen where it had died between the shafts.

People also seemed bemused by the fact that the river had iced over, and that some traders were experiencing difficulties in transporting their goods along the waterways that wound through the Fens. It was as if it had never happened before, and people discussed the weather at every street corner, remarking that it was the most severe winter they had ever known, and that times were changing for the worse. Friars and lay-preachers were out in force, exhorting all who would listen that the climate was a sign from God that evil ways had not been sufficiently mended after the warning of the plague. The world would end in ice and fire, they claimed, if folk did not repent, wear sober clothing, give away all their possessions to the poor, cut their hair and wear sackcloth, be kind to animals and avoid the town’s prostitutes.

Cynric met Bartholomew on the High Street, and when he heard that the physician intended to visit the King’s Head to tend Harysone, he insisted on accompanying him. Bartholomew did not object, glad to have Cynric and his ready blade behind him when he entered the notorious tavern. They passed through the Trumpington Gate, and walked the short distance to the inn, which stood opposite St Edmund’s Priory. The priory doors were firmly closed, suggesting the Gilbertines wanted no part in the noisy Christmas revelry that was taking place in the rest of the town. The King’s Head, on the other hand, was bursting at the seams. As Bartholomew and Cynric approached, two men hurtled through the door and rolled across the trodden snow of the road, where they climbed groggily to their feet. The door slammed behind them.

‘Now look what you have done,’ said one. ‘You got us thrown out.’

They walked away arm in arm, although their progress was unsteady. Bartholomew drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders to disguise the fact that he wore a scholar’s tabard underneath, and opened the door with some trepidation.

He need not have worried. The inn was full of people he knew, all of whom raised their goblets to him in festive salutation. Some were patients, who came to mutter weepy-eyed gratitude for past treatments, while others worked at Michaelhouse. Although taverns were not places where women were found with much regularity, Agatha was different. She sat in a large seat near the fire, and held forth to a group of townsfolk who nursed ale in calloused hands and prudently nodded agreement from time to time.

‘You know you cannot come in here,’ said the taverner to Bartholomew with a sanctimonious expression on his face. ‘The University forbids me to sell ale to scholars.’

‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at a group of young men who were attempting to make themselves invisible by huddling into their cloaks. They were the Franciscan friars from Ovyng, and the burly Godric was at the head of their table. Godric flushed deep red when he saw he had been recognised, and buried his face in his jug. ‘I was summoned by Master Harysone. Is he here?’

‘Oh,’ said the taverner, relieved. ‘I thought Brother Michael had sent you to see whether I would sell you a drink. It is Harysone you want, is it? He is in his chamber, unwell. It is not because of my cooking, though – and you can tell him that.’

Bartholomew climbed the stairs and knocked at Harysone’s door. A weak voice told him to come in. He flipped open the latch and entered one of the tavern’s more pleasant rooms. Fresh rushes were strewn on the floor, and the walls had been painted with hunting scenes. A huge pile of books near the window caught the physician’s attention. They were crudely made, with heavy wooden covers sandwiching a thin layer of parchment. There were at least thirty copies, and he wondered how many of the things Harysone intended to sell in Cambridge.

Harysone lay on the bed, fully dressed, even though there was a fire blazing in the hearth and the room was stuffy. For the first time, Bartholomew was able to study him at close quarters. Harysone’s teeth were his most arresting feature: they were long and yellow, and it did not seem possible that they could be real. His next outstanding characteristic was his eyes, which glittered like a rodent’s, and Bartholomew sensed something highly unpleasant about the man. Even the thought of those moist orbs settling on Matilde made him nauseous.

‘Are you the physician?’ Harysone asked. ‘Close the door; you are letting the cold air in.’

Bartholomew complied. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘In a moment, in a moment,’ said Harysone testily. ‘First, I must establish whether you are sufficiently well qualified to treat me. Where did you train, and what books have you read?’

‘I studied at the universities in Oxford and Paris,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot possibly provide you with a list of all the books I have read. However, if you would like someone who can, I can suggest one or two names. Robin of Grantchester will not overwhelm you with medical knowledge.’

‘Not a surgeon, thank you very much,’ said Harysone with a shudder. ‘I do not like men who poke about inside men’s bodies with sharp knives. It is not natural. Are you a local man?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

‘Just conversing. I want to know something about you before I reveal any intimate secrets.’

‘There is no need for you to divulge anything personal,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the nature of the consultation Harysone seemed to have in mind. ‘I am a physician, not a confessor.’

‘Nevertheless, you will want to know details about my birth and suchlike, so you can construct a horoscope to determine my course of treatment. That kind of information is very personal, and might be dangerous in the wrong hands.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, declining to mention that the date of a man’s birth was hardly sensitive knowledge. He stepped forward, wanting to examine the man, identify the cause of his illness, recommend treatment and leave. He found, again, that he appreciated exactly why Michael had taken such a dislike to Harysone, and why Matilde found him unsettling. ‘Shall I …?’

‘In a moment!’ repeated Harysone aggressively. ‘You are as bad as that landlord, all business and no time for a chat.’

‘Have you had chats with many other people here?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctantly taking the opportunity to question Harysone, since he seemed willing to talk about any subject other than his malady. He decided he would try to learn whether Harysone would admit to speaking with the Waits, as Quenhyth had seen him do, or sitting with Gosslinge, as the Waits had claimed.

Harysone pulled a face of disgust. ‘The patrons of this tavern are an uncivilised crowd. I wish I had arrived early enough to secure lodgings at the Brazen George, where the clientele is more genteel. Here, I have been obliged to pass time with blacksmiths, grave-diggers and even jugglers!’

‘Jugglers?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.

As Harysone regarded him with his wet eyes, Bartholomew had the feeling that the man knew he was Michael’s colleague and that his mention of the Waits was deliberate. Harysone had told Bartholomew he had met the entertainers, because he knew that he had been seen with them. He was covering his tracks. Bartholomew wondered why he should feel the need to take such precautions, and whether that in itself was significant.

‘Terrible folk,’ Harysone went on, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Bartholomew. ‘A number of us arrived in the town on the same day – the Chepe Waits, a fishmonger and his household, and me – so I suppose the jugglers imagined a bond between us. I put them right with one or two steely glances.’

‘What about Walter Turke? Did you talk to him?’

‘The fishmonger?’ asked Harysone disapprovingly. ‘I did not. The man is a lout, for all his fine clothes, and I wanted nothing to do with him, his fat wife or his snivelling retainers.’

‘Retainers?’ asked Bartholomew, interest quickening at the plural. ‘I thought there was only Gosslinge.’

‘There were two,’ corrected Harysone. ‘A fair-headed clerk and a rascally servant. The servant and I were obliged to share a table one night. I ate my food, then excused myself as soon as was polite. Nasty little fellow. He was missing a thumb and smelled of mould.’

Bartholomew smiled to himself, wondering what Abigny would say if he thought Harysone believed him to be a servant, then thought about the smell of mould on Gosslinge. Did that mean Gosslinge had hidden himself among the rotting albs on more than one occasion? Had he made it a habit to linger there, perhaps hoping to overhear private conversations? But why St Michael’s? Surely the man would have fared better in a church with a larger secular congregation. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Or was it a scholar whom Gosslinge had wanted to watch?

‘I find it odd that the inn’s two most wealthy patrons – you and Turke – did not find solace in each other’s company,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Harysone was preparing to change the subject. ‘And Philippa Turke is a pretty woman.’

‘Fat,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘And married. I do not waste my time on wedded matrons – they are more trouble than they are worth. But I am a gentleman, and the fishmonger is not the kind of fellow with whom I like to associate. He is rude, loud and overbearing.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He fell through some ice while skating.’

Harysone gazed at him. ‘That was him? I heard about the accident, but I did not know Turke was the victim.’ His expression became predatory, and he licked his lips with a moist red tongue. ‘Perhaps I should visit his woman, and offer her the help of a gentleman. You are right – she is pretty after a fashion, and a widow is so much more attractive than a wife.’

‘My sister is looking after her,’ said Bartholomew quickly, not liking the notion of Harysone lurking around Philippa any more than he had Matilde. ‘She does not need any gentlemanly help.’

‘Pity,’ said Harysone. ‘But never mind. She was no more friendly to me than was her arrogant husband, so I would doubtless be wasting my time anyway. But enough of me. Have you heard about my book?’

‘Book?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. ‘You own one?’ Books were expensive and rare, and no scholar ever passed up an opportunity to inspect a new volume.

‘I have written one,’ said Harysone proudly. ‘It is a devotional treatise concerning fish.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself from sounding disappointed as he glanced at the pile of tomes near the window. ‘I thought you meant a real one.’

Harysone glared at him. ‘It is a real one. It has covers, a spine and erudite contents. What more do you want?’

‘Forgive me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he had been rude. ‘You say it is about fish?’

‘We can learn a great deal from fish,’ said Harysone preachily. ‘I use them allegorically, to shed light on the human condition. I have been told by eminent theologians that my work is a remarkable piece of scholarship. Would you like to buy a copy? I happen to have a spare.’

He gestured to the stack near the window, so Bartholomew went to fetch one. He sat on the bed again and opened the boards to reach the parchment inside. Harysone had evidently hunted down the cheapest scribe he could find to make copies of his treatise; its few pages were full of eccentric spelling and peculiarities of grammar.

‘Troute is Best Servd with Vinnegar, but Sturgeon May bee Ate with Grene Sauwse, if you have It.’ He glanced up at Harysone. ‘That does not sound devotional or allegorical to me.’

‘You have started in the wrong place,’ said Harysone testily. ‘I included other information, too, since I wanted my work to be comprehensive. Try reading the part where I recommend specific fish for particular ailments. You will learn a great deal from that, I can promise you.’

‘Later,’ said Bartholomew, laying the tome down. ‘I have other patients, and cannot stay here all morning, pleasant though that might be. How can I help you?’

‘I have injured my back. I was dancing an estampie last night and it just went.’

‘“Went”?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. Went. It started to hurt. It took all my strength to return to my room, and I have been lying here in pain ever since.’

‘Has it happened before?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what kind of dancing the man had been engaged in to reduce him to such a state.

‘Never. Now, I know there are sense-dulling potions you can give me, so I shall have some of those. And then you can calculate my horoscope.’

‘First, I think we should see what the problem is. Lie on your stomach, please.’

‘Are you asking to look at it?’ asked Harysone uneasily. ‘My own physician does not embarrass me by wanting to inspect my person, so why should you? And anyway, the problem lies with the bones and, unless you can see through skin and muscle or intend to pare away my flesh to see what is underneath – which I will not permit – looking will do us no good.’

‘There may be tell-tale bulges or dents,’ persisted Bartholomew.

‘Very well,’ said Harysone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But be careful.’ He winced when the physician’s hands came in contact with his skin. ‘And please keep those cold hands to yourself. You can adjust my shirt, but only as long as your fingers do not touch me. What have you been doing? Throwing snowballs?’

Bartholomew pulled up Harysone’s fine linen shirt to reveal a bony back that was none too clean. There was no obvious indication that anything was wrong, but Harysone claimed the pain was lower, near the base of his spine. A fluttering hand indicated where, so Bartholomew eased the undergarments away, then stared in surprise.

There was a small round bruise in the place Harysone had indicated, and in the centre of it was something dark. Bartholomew fingered it gently, ignoring Harysone’s protestations of pain. It was the tip of a knife, which had been driven into the hard bones and broken off in the wound it had caused.

‘How did you say you came by this?’ he asked again.

‘Dancing,’ said Harysone impatiently. ‘We have been through this. I was dancing an estampie, and there was a sudden pain. I came here, thinking rest might help, but it is still sore.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, you do not know you have been stabbed?’

Harysone twisted around to regard him in astonishment. ‘Stabbed? I have not been stabbed, man! I damaged my back while twirling with a pretty tavern wench.’

‘There is a knife tip here. If you lie still, I will remove it.’

Harysone howled in agony while the metal was extracted, although the operation did not take more than a moment. Bartholomew moved quickly when potentially painful procedures were required; he had learned that fear and anticipation only served to make things worse. When he had the small metal triangle in the palm of his hand, he showed it to Harysone.

‘That was in me?’ the man asked, taking Bartholomew’s hand so that he could inspect the object without touching the pool of gore in which it lay. ‘How did it come to be there?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it seems extraordinary that you do not.’

Harysone’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘It was those students,’ he said. ‘Friars from Michaelhouse. They were behind me when I was dancing. They stabbed me.’

‘The attack on Harysone has provided me with just the excuse I need to investigate him,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together gleefully when Bartholomew told him about the incident later that morning. ‘I am delighted he summoned you, Matt. If he had asked for Robin of Grantchester or Master Lynton of Peterhouse, I might never have learned of it.’

‘Neither might Harysone,’ said Bartholomew dryly, not impressed by the skills of the other two men who practised medicine in Cambridge. ‘Lynton prefers writing horoscopes to examining patients, while Robin would not know a stab wound if he had watched one inflicted.’

‘And the wound was definitely caused by a knife?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew passed Michael the triangle of metal he had prised from Harysone. ‘You can see from its shape that this is the tip of a blade. According to Ulfrid – the novice who saw him in action at the King’s Head – Harysone’s dancing is sinuous, so the weapon may have been aimed elsewhere, but missed its target in all the movement.’

‘You make him sound like a bumble-bee,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Yet he claims the pain occurred during an estampie. An estampie is a slow dance compared to many.’

‘Ulfrid said the man dances like a Turkish whore, whatever that means. I suspect Harysone’s attacker not only missed what he was aiming for, but damaged his blade into the bargain.’

‘We shall have to buy him a new one, then,’ said Michael nastily, ‘and see whether he is more successful a second time.’

‘I doubt Michaelhouse students did it, though. I imagine they just happened to be there at the time.’

‘I agree. But he has made an accusation against members of the University – against members of my own College – so it is the Senior Proctor’s duty to investigate. But first I shall retrieve Clippesby’s tench, and then we shall see what Harysone has to say when we present it to him.’

Michael’s timing was fortunate. Agatha had located the smelly object in the depths of the cellar, and was turning it this way and that as she considered whether some of it might still be good enough to add to a stew. Bartholomew was appalled, suspecting that it was sufficiently rotten to poison anyone who ate it, although Agatha claimed that putrefaction was nothing a few herbs and plenty of onions could not overcome.

‘It went bad because someone skimped on the salt,’ she declared, examining it with expert eyes. ‘It would have been perfectly serviceable if the preserving had been done right.’

‘An apprentice must have practised on it,’ said Michael, not particularly interested. He wrinkled his nose. ‘But Norbert must have been drunk indeed to imagine he did well by winning this from Harysone. I have seldom smelled anything so rank.’

He wrapped it in a cloth and left, heading for the King’s Head with Bartholomew in tow. They had just turned into the High Street when their attention was caught by a sudden rumble near St John’s Hospital. Opposite was a line of decrepit houses, which the Sheriff and the town burgesses had recently declared unfit for human habitation. However, these homes had occupants, who were not about to move just because some wealthy businessmen decided their homes were an eyesore and wanted the land they were built on. The hovels remained, becoming shabbier and more derelict with each passing season, and one of them had met its end that morning. It had a thatched roof, and the weight of water from a wet autumn, combined with recent snowfalls, had been too much for the ageing structure. With a groan, it had collapsed inward, taking the walls with it and leaving nothing but a heap of snow-impregnated rubble.

‘Robert de Blaston the carpenter lives there,’ whispered Bartholomew, aghast. ‘With his wife Yolande and their ten children.’ He joined the throng running towards the house, some wanting to help and others just to watch the unfolding of a tragedy.

The rubble was still settling when he arrived, and powdery snow that had been hurled into the air was drifting downward like fine dust. Bartholomew scanned the wreckage in horror, trying to spot anything human. All he could see were smashed beams, piles of mouldy thatch and a broken door on which a child had painted a bright flower. Bartholomew felt sick. He started to move toward the mess, but someone caught his hand and stopped him.

‘It is not safe, Matthew,’ came a woman’s low, pleasant voice.

Michael seized the physician’s other arm when he tried to shake her off. ‘Matilde is right, Matt. Wait until it has settled, then we can go in with ropes and planks.’

Bartholomew stared at Matilde. ‘But Yolande is a friend of yours.’ Yolande de Blaston was one of the town’s more energetic Frail Sisters, with a list of regulars that included the Mayor, a number of burgesses and several high-ranking University men. Her occupation doubtless explained why most of her children looked nothing like her carpenter husband.

‘She is safe,’ said Matilde. ‘She and her family are staying with me, because Robert knew the snow would weaken his roof.’

‘No one was in?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.

She smiled at him. ‘You are a good man to be concerned for a tradesman and his family. But Yolande and her brood are well, and filling my little home with their noise and laughter. I do not know what they will do now, though. They cannot stay with me for ever, nor can they pay the high rents charged in the town.’

‘Yolande should make use of her contacts,’ said Bartholomew, jumping as a beam snapped and the rubble settled further. Dust flew out in a choking cloud. ‘Perhaps the Mayor can help.’

‘You mean she should pressure her regulars into doing something for her?’ asked Matilde, her eyes twinkling in amusement. ‘I am surprised at you for making such a suggestion, Matthew! But it is a good idea. I shall recommend that she acts on it.’

‘There is nothing to do here, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We should go to the King’s Head, before Harysone decides to go dancing somewhere we cannot find him.’

‘Harysone?’ asked Matilde distastefully. ‘I do not like him. His teeth are too long.’

‘You are a woman of discerning taste,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘I do not like him, either.’

‘I will walk with you,’ said Matilde, handing Bartholomew her basket to carry. It was heavy, and he looked under the coverings to see why. There was a slab of ham, a pudding made with currants and spices, and bread. There were apples, too, albeit wrinkled and shrunken, and a bottle containing figs soaked in what was probably honey. That would cost a small fortune, he thought.

‘I admire a woman with an appetite,’ said Michael, one hand snaking towards some fruit. ‘You are right to carry victuals with you: you never know when hunger might strike.’

‘They are not for me,’ said Matilde, laughing as she pushed the monk away. ‘They are for the old men who live on the river bank – Dunstan and Athelbald. If I ate this kind of fare every day, I would be the size of Philippa Turke.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at her. ‘Why do you mention her?’

She gave him an innocent smile. ‘Only because Edith tells me you and Philippa were once sweethearts – betrothed, no less. I had no idea you liked large women, Matthew.’

‘I like any women,’ said Michael comfortably, as though the comment had been directed at him. ‘Fat, thin, tall, short. They are all God’s creatures, and I treat them accordingly.’

‘Philippa was different when we were courting,’ said Bartholomew defensively, before Michael could delve too deeply into his personal preferences in Matilde’s presence. Although he could not explain why, he always felt uncomfortable when Michael made lewd comments in front of the woman he admired, and something made him want to protect her from them, despite the fact that her former profession had probably left her more than adequately equipped to deal with the likes of Michael. ‘She has changed in more ways than just her size.’

‘It must be odd to see her again after so many years,’ said Matilde expressionlessly. ‘I imagine you were delighted to learn she was here.’

‘Not exactly. I did not know what to think. She came with her husband, who was undertaking a pilgrimage.’

‘But he is now dead and she is a widow,’ said Matilde. ‘That means that she is free to pursue any potential partner she pleases. Perhaps she will pursue you.’

‘She has grown too large to pursue anyone, I would imagine,’ said Michael, blithely ignoring the fact that he cut no mean figure himself. ‘Still, I suppose she may hanker for the handsome physician who captured her heart when she was in the flower of her youth.’

‘Her husband was very wealthy,’ said Matilde, addressing Bartholomew. ‘So, your Philippa is probably anticipating a rosy future for herself.’

‘She is not “my” Philippa,’ said Bartholomew, a little nettled. ‘And I am sure Turke’s sons will inherit most of his wealth, if not all of it. Indeed, she may be even poorer than me.’

‘We shall see,’ said Matilde, retrieving the basket from him when they reached St Michael’s Lane. Without a backward glance, she walked away, heading for the sorry hovels that lined the river bank. Bartholomew gazed after her, resentful of her insinuations, while Michael chuckled softly.

‘She is jealous, Matt. That is a good sign. Now you have two women who would like you to be their husband – a fat, greedy widow or a retired courtesan. It is quite a choice!’

‘There is Giles Abigny,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the short, neat figure hurrying through the Trumpington Gate before a heavy dray cart pulled by four large horses blocked it. Abigny wore his travelling cloak and his brown hat with the drab plume. Michael headed towards him, the rotten fish still clamped under his arm, and Bartholomew began to wonder whether they might be destined to spend the whole day in company with the thing.

‘Nasty weather,’ said Abigny amiably, rubbing his gloved hands together in an effort to warm them. ‘I do not recall another winter like it. Did you know that the London road is now totally blocked? And the Ely causeway has been impassable since before Christmas, or Philippa and I would have left by now. We are marooned, unless we want to go to Huntingdon.’ He shuddered fastidiously.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Michael, glancing through the gate at the snow that was piled high on each side of the road to Trumpington. ‘It is no day for a stroll, and you are limping.’

Abigny grimaced, and raised one foot to show where the leather on his boot had been slit. ‘Chilblains. You have no idea how painful they can be. I always thought they were an old man’s complaint, so what does that tell you about me, Matt?’

‘That you should wear thicker hose and larger shoes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And that you should wash your feet each night to ensure the wounds do not fester. Do you want a potion to ease the discomfort?’

Abigny shot him a surprised smile. ‘My old room-mate is a physician, and yet I did not think to ask him for a remedy! I would be eternally grateful if you could provide me with anything that would make walking less of an ordeal. When can I have it?’

‘I will bring it this afternoon.’

‘If walking is so painful, then why are you out?’ asked Michael nosily.

‘I had business to attend,’ said Abigny. He gave the monk a faint smile. ‘You do not want the details. Suffice to say that arranging the transport of a fishmonger’s body to a distant burial site is not an easy matter. There are many factors that need to be taken into account.’

‘Out there?’ asked Michael, indicating the Trumpington Road, where there stood two Colleges, the King’s Head, a church, two chapels, the Gilbertine Friary, a windmill and a smattering of houses, but nothing that would help solve the problems associated with taking a corpse to London.

‘Out there,’ agreed Abigny with an enigmatic smile. ‘But it is too chilly to talk here and my feet pain me. I am sure you two have much to occupy your time, so I shall be on my way. Do not forget that potion, Matt. If you deliver it today, I shall leave you my worldly goods when I die.’

‘Your fiancée might have something to say about that,’ said Bartholomew. He watched Abigny hobble away, then turned to Michael. ‘What did you make of that?’

They started walking again, but had the misfortune to meet a cart coming the other way, spraying up dirty snow with its great wooden wheels as it went. Bartholomew ducked behind a stack of barrels, but Michael did not, and swore furiously at the grinning carter while he brushed the filth from his cloak.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the monk testily, looking in both directions for more carts before making his way to the tavern. ‘Make of what?’

‘Make of the fact that Giles is in pain, yet is willing to walk outside the town. You know as well as I do that no embalmers or coffin-makers live out here. So, what was he doing?’

‘He has behaved oddly ever since he arrived,’ said Michael. ‘Like Philippa’s, his reaction to Turke’s death is curious. I told you yesterday there was something unsavoury about the whole incident, and Giles’s secretive manner has done nothing to make me think any differently.’

‘Turke’s death and the fact that Philippa did not mention she had hired the Chepe Waits in London,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Frith and Makejoy told me about that, and so did Quenhyth.’

Michael shrugged. ‘I do not think the Waits are important – not like her strange reaction to her husband’s death. Perhaps she had simply forgotten about the jugglers. Even you must see that a band of travelling entertainers is not something that is likely to occupy the mind of a woman with a household to run for very long.’

‘I disagree. Entertainers are hired for important occasions – events that stick in people’s memories. And the Waits are memorable, because their act is so poor.’

‘Perhaps there were more talented members in the troupe at that time,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or they wore different costumes.’

‘Not according to Quenhyth. He recalls them just as they are – the same people and the same clothes.’

‘So, what are you saying? That Philippa has a sinister motive for not telling you she hired a troupe of vagrants? Perhaps she wants to woo you – as Matilde believes – and thinks admitting to an association with the Chepe Waits will put you off. Or perhaps she guessed – correctly, I imagine – that you would not be interested in the details of her household affairs. Talking about how to hire vagrants is not recommended as a topic to impress potential suitors with.’

‘I am not a potential suitor,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And even if she regards me as fair game now – which I am sure she does not, given that she decided against me when I was younger, fitter and less grey – she certainly did not do so while her husband ate his dinner next to her.’

Michael raised his eyebrows, his expression mischievous. ‘She may have realised Turke ranked a poor second to your charms, and so decided to move him into the next world.’

Bartholomew sighed impatiently. ‘Do not be flippant, Brother! I am uneasy about this link between her and the Waits. There is also the fact that her dead manservant – Gosslinge – was in the King’s Head with Frith. I am sure it is significant.’

‘Do not forget we have been told that Harysone was in the King’s Head with the Waits, too,’ said Michael. ‘So, what shall we do? Shall we arrest Philippa and take her to my prison, where I can question her about the men she hired last summer? Or shall I arrest the Waits, and demand to know why Philippa denied knowing them?’

Bartholomew gave him a rueful smile. ‘You are right, there is nothing to be gained from these speculations. Philippa will be gone as soon as the snow clears, and I will probably never see her again.’