A Killer in Winter (26 page)

‘But it is broken,’ argued William in alarm. ‘You cannot remove the splint until it has properly healed or I shall spend the
rest of my days as a cripple.’

‘It is not broken,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I saw you walking on it yesterday, when you thought no one was watching. It
is not healthy to bind a limb that does not need it.’

‘It
does
need it,’ declared William, equally firmly. ‘It is my leg, and I know it is broken. The splint stays where it is – at least
until the cold weather has broken.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘That is the real reason for this malingering, is it? You want an excuse to be out of the
cold?’ He gave a wicked smile. ‘And it was only on Christmas Eve that you told me you had exonerated the Dominicans of Norbert’s
murder, because they are too
feeble to set foot outside while the weather is icy. Now I learn a certain Franciscan is doing likewise.’

‘I am not malingering,’ hissed William, glancing around him, afraid someone might have overheard. ‘You saw me fall; you know
my injury is genuine. Besides, I would be certain to stumble and do myself far more serious harm if I were to go out in all
this snow. My tripping over that loose board was a blessing.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are afraid of falling? Is that what this is all about?’

William gave a shudder and, for a moment, there was a haunted expression in his eyes. Bartholomew had only ever seen the more
base of human emotions in William – rage, indignation, fanaticism – and he was intrigued to see that William was genuinely
afraid of something.

‘I do not like ice,’ whispered the friar hoarsely, looking furtively over his shoulder. ‘I saw a man fall through some once.
He struggled, and it cut through his hands and arms like daggers. I was standing on a bridge, and I could see him quite clearly
screaming for help under the surface as he was swept to his death, scrabbling with bloodied hands as he tried to break through.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘It must have been terrible.’

‘It was,’ agreed William fervently. ‘His body was never found, and he was wearing three perfectly good emerald rings. But
you understand, do you not, why I dislike bitter winters?’

‘People say it is the worst they can recall,’ said Bartholomew, not sure the traumatic loss of three emerald rings was really
a valid excuse for William abandoning his University duties.

William snorted in disdain. ‘Then they are wrong. I recall many winters that have been worse than this one, and I remember
them better than most, since I hate them so. So, if you leave my splint until I tell you my leg is no longer broken, you will
make me a happy man.’ He noticed

Bartholomew’s reluctance to condone a lie and his expression became crafty. ‘The Franciscan Friary has a copy of Thomas Bradwardine’s
De proportione velocitatum in motibus
that is seldom used. I can suggest it be given to you.’

Bartholomew was tempted. Bradwardine was a famous scholar at Oxford University’s Merton College, which had been producing
new and dynamic theories relating to the natural universe for the past fifty years. Bartholomew was a great admirer of Bradwardine’s
work, but what William was asking …

‘It is all about successive motions and resistance,’ added William enticingly.

Bartholomew wavered, and recalled that Bradwardine was the man who had challenged the traditional Aristotelian principle that
half the force that caused an object to move would not necessarily mean half the velocity, and that twice the resistance that
caused an object to slow down would not necessarily mean the speed was twice as slow. It was heady stuff, and even thinking
about it sent a thrill of excitement down Bartholomew’s spine. But even so …

‘It is illustrated,’ said William desperately. ‘In colour.’

‘Done,’ said Bartholomew, offering the friar his hand.

‘You timed
your injury well, Father,’ said Langelee, coming up to them. ‘You can spend your day here, next to a blazing hearth, while
the rest of us have business to attend out in the cold.’

William nodded smugly. ‘I know.’

‘Deynman gave me this for the College library,’ said Langelee, reaching across to the table
to retrieve a book that had been lying there. Bartholomew immediately recognised the cheap wooden covers and sparse pages,
and wondered what his student had been doing in the King’s Head associating with Harysone. ‘Perhaps you can read it, Father,
and let me know whether it is suitable material for us to keep.’

‘You mean you want me to work?’ asked William indignantly. ‘I have a broken leg, man!’

‘We do not need our legs to read,’ said Langelee. He
glanced uncertainly at the friar, as though he was not sure that such a generalisation applied to the Franciscan. ‘It is not
long, and it will only take you an afternoon. You do not want heretical books in our library, do you?’

William growled something under his breath, unable to think of a suitable answer, and began to flick listlessly through the
pages.

‘
Cann a Fishe enterr Heaven?
’ read Clippesby, peering over his shoulder. He appeared especially manic that morning, with his hair standing up in all directions
and his eyes wide and bright in his pale face. Bartholomew could not help but wonder whether he cultivated the look just to
unsettle William, who was eyeing him nervously, not liking the sensation of a Dominican so close behind him. ‘Yes, read that,
William. You may learn something.’

‘Did everyone survive the night?’ asked Langelee, cutting off William’s indignant response. ‘Wynewyk should check each staircase
to make sure no one froze to death, while I imagine Bartholomew will want to visit his patients to do the same. We shall keep
fires burning in the hall and conclave today, and I recommend we all stay inside as much as possible. This is no weather to
be out unnecessarily.’

‘We will all go skating on the river,’ declared Deynman excitedly in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. ‘I have already been
to inspect it. It is set like stone, and it is possible to walk from one side to the other. And then we can go sliding.’

‘Sliding?’ asked Wynewyk doubtfully. ‘I do not like the sound of that.’

‘It is where you sit on a flat piece of wood and skid down a hill,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Cows do it all the time.’ He glanced
out of the window. ‘However, there is not much scope for that activity in Cambridge, Deynman. It may have escaped your notice,
but there is a paucity of hills around here.’

‘There is the one at the Castle,’ said Deynman.

‘True,’ said Langelee. ‘But that is part of the town’s defences, and is manned
by soldiers with bows. They would shoot you. Now, I know I agreed not to interfere, but I
cannot allow anyone to venture on to the river yet. Did you not hear what happened to the husband of Bartholomew’s lover?
He fell clean through the ice and died.’

‘But that was two days ago,’ protested Deynman, crestfallen, and speaking before Bartholomew could object to Langelee’s description
of Turke. ‘It is different now – harder and firmer. None of us will fall in. Turke was fat and heavy, but we are not.’

‘No one skates on the river,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘We do not want anyone to end up like Turke – or like Father William.’

‘No,’ agreed Clippesby in distaste. ‘Or you might make us read that horrible book!’

Michael was already in the church when the rest of the scholars arrived for prime. He declared he had had no intention of
freezing in his bed the previous night, and had visited his fellow Benedictines at Ely Hall, where there were plenty of fires
and an abundance of warm woollen blankets. He had even inveigled himself the use of half a feather bed, as evidenced by the
fact that he was still picking down from his habit when the mass had finished, breakfast had been eaten and the scholars were
free to spend their day – the Feast of the Holy Innocents – as they chose. The physician went to his room to don as many clothes
as he could fit under his cloak in anticipation of a morning outside.

‘What shall we do first?’ Michael asked, watching Bartholomew struggle to pull his Michaelhouse tabard over his thickest gipon
and two wool jerkins. It was a tight fit, and the physician could barely move when he had finished. ‘Shall we investigate
the death of Gosslinge by hunting down his missing clothes? Shall we see whether anyone saw Turke skating on the Mill Pool?
Or shall we continue to probe into the insalubrious affairs of Harysone or Norbert?’

None of the options appealed to Bartholomew. ‘There are patients I need to see, Brother. Langelee is right: this weather may
well have killed some of the less hardy.’

‘Then there will be little you can do for them,’ retorted Michael practically. ‘So I shall come with you, lest any of them
need my services, rather than yours.’

Since the physician could not move his arms high enough to fasten his cloak without the sound of tearing stitches, the monk
helped him, then they walked together across the yard. The gate’s leather hinges had frozen solid, and needed to be treated
with care to prevent them from snapping off completely.

There was a narrow gorge in St Michael’s Lane, where the scholars had trodden a path through the drifts when they had attended
mass that morning. On either side, the snow reached head height or more, towering above them in uneven white cliffs. Bartholomew
and Michael trudged along in single file until they reached the High Street. It was now fully light and, for the first time
that day, Bartholomew could see how much the storm had changed the town.

Snow had been blown in great white waves against buildings, and some of them were virtually invisible. Here and there, people
toiled with shovels or bare hands, trying to dig their way out of – or into – their homes. Carts had been abandoned, and formed
shapeless white humps all along the road. Some had been excavated by looters, in the hope that their owners had not had the
chance to unload their wares before the blizzard had struck. A woman darted along the street with a tear-stained face, asking
whether anyone had seen her father. From the way she eyed various lumps under the snow, it was clear she expected to find
him dead.

Bartholomew had not gone far before he was spotted and urged to attend the home of a potter who had slipped on ice and damaged
his arm. When he had finished, a scruffy boy clamoured for him to visit the shacks on the river bank, where he said he could
hear horrible moans coming from the home of Dunstan and Athelbald.

It was impossible to run on the slippery, treacherous streets, but Bartholomew and Michael struggled along as quickly they
could. When they reached the hovels that overlooked the

river, well away from the sensitive eyes of the wealthy merchants of Milne Street, Bartholomew’s heart sank. There was smoke
shifting through the walls of most of the houses – not the roofs, because these were blanketed by snow – indicating that warming
fires burned within, but not from the one occupied by Dunstan and Athelbald.

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Michael, his green eyes huge with horror. ‘Not Dunstan!’

‘He has been ill for weeks now,’ said Bartholomew, wanting his friend to be prepared for what he was sure they would find.
‘A cold winter is hard for a man well past three score years and ten.’

He tapped on the screen of woven willow twigs that served as Dunstan’s door, and pushed his way into the hovel’s dim interior,
waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The shack was freezing, and smelled of ancient smoke and rancid grease.
The beaten-earth floor was sticky underfoot, and Bartholomew thought he saw a rat glide through some of the darker shadows.
A soft sob in the darkness made him turn to where two shapes were sitting together on a bench. One was crying, and the other
was frozen where it sat.

Oddly, it was not the ailing Dunstan who had died, but his brother. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair, wondering how
the old man would possibly manage without his lifelong friend and companion. Behind him, Michael coughed and left the house
quickly, pretending a tickling throat so that no one should witness his own distress.

Bartholomew gathered the blankets from the beds and wrapped them around Dunstan’s shaking shoulders. Then he gave the urchin
a penny for firewood and told him to hurry. While he waited, he lifted the light, ice-hard body from the bench and laid it
gently on one of the wretched straw pallets, wishing he had something to cover it with.

Athelbald looked peaceful in death, and there appeared to be a slight smile on his face, as though his last thought had been
an amusing one. In one hand he clutched an
inkpot, and Bartholomew supposed he had been telling some tale about it when he had died. Without knowing why, he prised the
thing from the rigid fingers. Dunstan took it from him and cradled it to his chest like a talisman.

Michael forced himself to return and began to chant a final absolution in an unsteady voice, anointing the body with a phial
of chrism. Dunstan’s sobs grew louder, and Bartholomew sat next to him, drawing him close as he attempted to offer warmth
as well as comfort.

‘We shall bury him in St Michael’s churchyard,’ said Michael hoarsely, keeping his face in the shadows. The boy arrived with
the kindling, and the monk set about lighting a fire that was so large in the tiny room it threatened to choke them all. ‘He
was in my choir from the very beginning, and he deserves that honour.’

‘With a cross,’ whispered Dunstan, raising watery eyes to look at him. ‘Just a small, wooden one. And all the choir to sing
for him. He would like that.’

‘I shall arrange it,’ promised Michael.

‘What shall I do without him?’ asked Dunstan, clutching Bartholomew’s sleeve. With
a shock, the physician saw the man expected an answer. Dunstan needed someone to tell him how to pass his days now that his
brother had gone.

‘You should not be alone,’ Bartholomew said feebly, evading the question. ‘Can I fetch someone to be with you?’

‘There is no one I want,’ said Dunstan bleakly. ‘No one understands me like he did. He liked to talk with me, and speculate
on all manner of things that happened in the town. Like that lad you found buried in the snow before Christmas Day. Athelbald
had his ideas about
him
.’