A Killer in Winter (20 page)

‘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.’