A Killer in Winter (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A
FTER 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.’

‘The weather is determined by God,’ corrected Suttone severely. ‘Is that not so, Kenyngham?’

‘You just said it was caused by the plague,’ countered Bartholomew immediately.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Langelee mildly. ‘You can save this sort of thing for the debating halls. And you are all wrong,
anyway. In the words of Aristotle, both the plague and the bad weather are things that just happen, and no amount of reasoning
and philosophising will help us understand why.’

‘Those do not sound like Aristotle’s sentiments to me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that Langelee was seriously mistaken. ‘He
was a philosopher, and his life was spent speculating about things that have no obvious explanation. He never claimed that
because there was no immediate answer we should not try to think of some.’

‘He did other things, too,’ said Langelee, enigmatically vague. ‘But I do not have time to teach you about them now. Here
we are at the church. Silence, if you please.’

Having had the last word, he led his scholars inside St Michael’s, where the temperature was even lower than the frigid chill
of outside. As the first glimmers of sunlight filtered through the windows, dulling the gleam of gold from the candles, the
ceremony began.

Shepherd’s Mass was an important event, and the church was full. The scholars from Ovyng, Physwick, St Catherine’s and Garrett
hostels were there, along with the folk who lived in the parish of St Michael. These were a mixed bag, ranging from the families
who occupied the seedy shacks that lined the river, to some of the wealthiest merchants in the town. Since benches were provided
only for the old or sick, the
rest of the parishioners were obliged to stand together in the nave.

Obvious barriers were apparent. The rich were at the front, where they could see what was happening; their servants stood
behind them, forming a human wall to prevent them from coming into contact with the rabble who massed at the back of the church.
With some trepidation, Bartholomew looked for Philippa, but she was not there. He did not know whether to be disappointed
or relieved.

Sheriff Morice stood near the rood screen. He looked smug and affluent, and a redness in his cheeks suggested that he had
not bothered to wait for the end of mass before imbibing a little breakfast ale to drive away the chill of early morning.
By contrast, the folk from the riverbank huts were pinched and white, some with a cadaverous look that indicated starvation
might well claim them before winter relinquished its hold.

Although the men, women and children at the rear of the building were jammed elbow to elbow and scarcely had room to stand,
one member of the congregation had plenty of space. This was Robin of Grantchester, the town’s surgeon. He was short and slightly
hunched, with dark, greasy hair and a mournful expression that did little to inspire confidence in those unfortunate enough
to fall prey to his dubious skills. His clothes were caked in old blood, none of it his own, while the knife bag he carried
at his side clanked ominously with his every movement.

Halfway through a psalm, Bartholomew became aware that Michael had stopped chanting, and was glowering towards the nave with
an expression that caused more than one person to shift uneasily. However, the real object of his glare was blissfully unaware
that if looks could kill then his soul would already be well on its way to the next life. Harysone was present, holding a
wide-brimmed hat in his hands and looking very imposing in his black cloak and matching gipon. Bartholomew could see the pale
gleam of his long teeth from the chancel, and was reminded of one
of the mean-eyed rats that lived near the river.

‘What does
he
want?’ hissed Michael venomously. ‘He has no right to be here.’

‘He has every right to be here,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘He is doing nothing wrong.’

‘He has come to see whether we have discovered the man he killed,’ determined Michael. ‘Look! He keeps glancing across at
the albs.’

‘Actually,’ said Bartholomew, for the first time fully appreciating why the monk detested Harysone so, ‘he is looking at Matilde.’

Matilde, unofficial leader of the town’s prostitutes, was the most attractive woman in Cambridge, as far as Bartholomew was
concerned. Possessing a natural beauty that needed no potions or pastes to enhance it, her hair always shone with health and
her face was pure and unblemished, like an alabaster saint’s. Men had been complaining for years now that they had been unable
to secure her personal services, and it appeared that she had abandoned her life of merry pleasure among those wealthy enough
to afford her, to devote her time to the town’s women – prostitutes or downtrodden, homeless or afraid.

That morning, she wore her best blue cloak, which caught the mysterious colours in her eyes and made them even more arresting
than usual. Her dress was cut close in the latest fashion, revealing her slender, lithe body, and the way Harysone was ogling
her with his moist, glittering eyes made the physician want to march down the aisle and punch him.

But Bartholomew was not Matilde’s only friend present that morning. The physician saw Harysone crane backward, then forward,
then fold his arms with a sullen expression. Several of Matilde’s ‘Frail Sisters’ had clustered around, shielding her from
Harysone’s lascivious gaze. Moments later a couple of their menfolk began to jostle the unwelcome visitor. Finding himself
crowded between a rough bargeman and a burly carpenter, Harysone took a step towards the porch. Carpenter and bargeman followed,
until Harysone
had been neatly herded to the door. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, just happened to open it and, with a nudge
from one of her sturdy elbows, Harysone was gone.

‘Good,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘Now I can concentrate on my prayers.’

Bartholomew said nothing, although he felt enormous relief that Matilde had been rescued from the man’s open lust. He glanced
at her, and saw that she was wholly unaware of the service that had just been performed on her behalf; her attention was fixed
devoutly on the altar.

Eventually, it was time for Michael’s choir to make its appearance. Bartholomew knew that the monk had been practising with
his motley collection of singers for weeks, and that improvement had occurred with frustrating slowness. Most enrolled only
because Michaelhouse provided free ale and bread after services, and the applicants’ musical ability was never considered.
Despite his bluster and sharp tongue, Michael was a compassionate man, who declined to refuse membership to the desperate
souls for whom choir was the only way of ensuring a regular meal. Consequently, it was the largest body of singers in Cambridge,
and had a reputation for volume.

It comprised men and boys from the poorest houses in the town, with a smattering of scholars to justify its name of the Michaelhouse
Choir. The tenors included Dunstan and Athelbald, Bartholomew’s riverside patients, although Dunstan was too ill to be present
that day. Among the basses were Isnard the bargeman and Robert de Blaston the carpenter, who had removed Harysone from the
church.

While Kenyngham and Suttone muttered sacred words and moved sacred vessels, Michael’s choir took deep breaths to provide a
little entertainment for the watching scholars and townsfolk. As they girded themselves up for music, a murmur of nervous
apprehension rippled through the congregation.

Before people could think of leaving, Michael raised his arms and the sound began. A boy’s voice broke the silence,
singing the
vox principalis
high and clear, so that the notes soaring around the rafters seemed to come from the throat of an angel. The boy was joined
by a
vox organalis
, and the voices fluted and wrapped around each other, producing a harmony that was exquisite. The congregation exchanged
glances of startled pleasure, and Bartholomew saw Michael look pleased with himself. The two singers were Clippesby and the
Franciscan novice Ulfrid, and Bartholomew felt a surge of pride that Michaelhouse should possess such talent.

But then the solos ended, and it was time for the chorus. It began with the basses, a grumbling mass of indistinguishable
words, which comprised several notes produced simultaneously, although Bartholomew was fairly certain there was only supposed
to be one. The tenors joined in, although they stopped after a few moments when frantic signalling from Michael indicated
they were early. Conversely, the children did not start singing at all, and he was obliged to sing their part himself until
they realised they had missed their cue. To make up for their tardiness, they sang more quickly, and had soon outstripped
the basses and were surging ahead.

The piece moved into a crescendo when the voices suddenly and unexpectedly came together, and the singers felt they were on
familiar ground. Michael waved his arms furiously in an attempt to make them sing more softly, but the choir were having none
of that. They knew their words and their notes, and they were determined that everyone should hear them. The sound was deafening,
and the friars celebrating the mass grew distracted and flustered. Kenyngham poured wine into the wrong vessel, and Suttone
knocked a paten off the altar, sending it clattering across the flagstones – except, of course, that the choir drowned any
sound it might have made.

Langelee swung a censor rather more vigorously than was necessary, directing clouds of throat-searing incense in the choir’s
direction in an attempt to silence at least some of them. It did not work, although Bartholomew noticed that
the scholars from Ovyng, who were standing uncomfortably close to the choir and were in the line of Langelee’s fire, were
tugging at hoods and coughing. Father Ailred’s face was almost purple as he struggled not to choke, while Godric had the folds
of his cowl pressed to his face.

But it was over at last – and rather abruptly, as though the singers had suddenly run out of energy – and the church was flooded
with a blessed silence. There were sighs of relief all around, and the mass continued. Bartholomew saw tears running down
Ailred’s face, but suspected that these were caused by incense-induced coughing, rather than emotion. Godric gazed up at the
rafters with his mouth open, although whether he was inspecting the greenery or was dazed from the singing, Bartholomew could
not tell. Meanwhile, their students, neatly tonsured and clean for the occasion, stood in a line. All appeared to be healthy
and well rested, and it did not seem as if any harboured a guilty conscience over the violent death of Norbert.

When Kenyngham and Suttone had completed the mass, the scholars formed their processions again and made their way back to
their colleges and hostels. Michaelhouse went first, followed by Physwick, Ovyng, Garrett and St Catherine’s hostels. It was
an impressive sight, with black-, blue- and red-robed scholars walking through the falling snow, led by acolytes and crucifers.

The choir had been promised food and a penny for their labours, and Langelee was gracious as he handed out coins, congratulating
various members on their performances. Many of the town children were there, too, since it was a tradition that Michaelhouse
provided them with bread on Christmas morning. Bartholomew leaned against the servants’ screen at the back of the hall and
watched with satisfaction the sight of the needy eating their fill at the College’s expense.

Once the choir had dined and been sent on their way with Langelee’s diplomatic praise still ringing in their ears, the scholars
attended the Mass of the Divine Word, which
was the longest of the three Christmas Day offices, and the most peaceful. When it was over, and the scholars were once again
marching through the snow, Langelee broke ranks and dropped back to walk with Bartholomew.

‘I keep forgetting something I must tell you.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the tone of the Master’s voice. He was sure whatever Langelee had to say was not something
he would want to hear.

‘The feast this afternoon,’ said Langelee. ‘You know it is our custom to invite guests from the parish to help us celebrate?’