Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter

by Susanna GREGORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 3

  AFTER ANGEL MASS, THE SCHOLARS RETURNED TO Michaelhouse, where they slept until dawn heralded the second service of Christmas Day – Shepherd’s Mass. Bartholomew dozed fitfully, partly because the mellowing effects of the wine had worn off, but also because he was not unaffected by the excited anticipation that pervaded the town. There was an atmosphere of celebration and eagerness, especially among children, whose eyes shone bright in the candlelight, and the air was thick with the smoke of early fires as people began their culinary preparations. Stews and specially hoarded foods were being readied, while cakes and fruit were brought out from storage.

  As they walked, Bartholomew felt something brush his face, and looked up to see flecks of white sailing through the air, swirling around the scholars’ robes and settling on cloth-clad shoulders. They darkened the charcoal-grey sky further still, but brightened the streets where they began to settle, whitening the dull brown muck of previous falls.

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, glowering at the sky as though the flakes were a personal insult. ‘It is not supposed to snow until January at the earliest. We have suffered calamity after calamity since the Death – hot summers, where the grain baked to dust in the fields, wet autumns that brought floods, and now early snows.’

  ‘I remember snow at Christmas when I was young,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not as unusual as everyone claims.’

  ‘It is unusual,’ declared Suttone, who had been listening to the discussion, and who never allowed an opportunity to pass without mentioning his ever-increasing obsession with impending death and destruction. ‘The weather has grown more fierce because of the plague.’

  ‘It has not,’ said Bartholomew, becoming weary of explaining that while diseases might well be affected by the climate, the reverse was impossible. ‘The weather is determined by winds and tides, not by sickness.’