The Mark of a Murderer
Read The Mark of a Murderer Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction
Susanna Gregory is the pseudonym of a Cambridge academic who was previously a coroner’s officer.
She is also the author of
A Conspiracy of Violence
, the first in a series of crime novels set in Restoration London.
Visit the author’s website at
www.susannagregory.co.uk
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE
A BONE OF CONTENTION
A DEADLY BREW
A WICKED DEED
A MASTERLY MURDER
AN ORDER FOR DEATH
A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT
A KILLER IN WINTER
THE HAND OF JUSTICE
THE TARNISHED CHALICE
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A CONSPIRACY OF VIOLENCE
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12447-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For Uncle Ed
With love and with enduring appreciation
for his support, encouragement and enthusiasm.
Oxford, 10 February 1355 (St Scholastica’s Day)
The Swindlestock Tavern had been painted a delicate pale gold the previous summer, so it stood handsome and resplendent among
its more shabby neighbours. The inn was noted for the quality of its brewing, its fine spit roasts and the genial hospitality
of its landlord Master Croidon, a squat, cheery-faced man who possessed the kind of belly that indicated he had no small liking
for ale himself. His kind brown eyes invited confidences, and this made him popular among those for whom drinking also required
a ready listener.
The tavern was peaceful when the scholars entered, but the low murmur of amiable conversation and the busy clatter of pots
from the kitchen were not to last. Walter Spryngheuse and his friends walked to a table near the fire, and set about divesting
themselves of their ice-clotted cloaks and hats. The wind rattled the window shutters and sent a frigid blast down the chimney,
scattering ashes and sparks across the flagstone floor as Croidon came to tend the new arrivals, wiping his hands on his apron
and exchanging pleasantries with other patrons as he went.
‘What can I fetch you, sirs?’ he asked, smiling an affable welcome. Drinking in the town’s hostelries was forbidden to members
of the University, and the ones who flouted the rules nearly always caused trouble. But Croidon knew Spryngheuse and his colleagues
to be sober, decent men, who often used his inn as a venue for their lively discussions
on philosophy and natural science, and he did not fear bad behaviour from them. He glanced around as pellets of snow pattered
against the window shutters, and did not blame the scholars for choosing his cosy tavern over the cold, draughty halls they
called home.
‘Ale,’ replied Spryngheuse, edging closer to the fire. ‘Warmed, if you please. And what are you cooking today?’
‘Mutton,’ replied Croidon. ‘The poor animal froze to death inside her byre two nights ago. It has been a long and bitter winter,
and I shall be glad to see it end.’
The clerks nodded heartfelt agreement. It had been one of the worst winters anyone could remember, with roads choked by snow
since Christmas, and the river frozen hard, like stone. Life in many University foundations could be dismal even in good weather,
and the atrocious weather had rendered some unbearable. Spryngheuse longed to abandon his studies and escape to the relative
comfort of his family’s manor in the diocese of Hereford, but the roads west were all but impassable, and only a fool undertook
long journeys while violent storms raged.
The scholars finished ordering their meal, then huddled around the table to discuss the latest theories emanating from Merton
College on speed and motion. Spryngheuse was a Merton man himself, and used his association with the foundation’s great philosophers
to impress the others. His good friend Roger de Chesterfelde was a member of Balliol, which also had its share of clever thinkers,
and they began a bantering, light-hearted argument, while the others listened and laughed at the quick-witted insults that
were tossed this way and that.
One did not smile, however. He was a slight, serious-faced man who wore the dark habit of a Benedictine. Croidon had not seen
him before, and was under the impression that he had attached himself to Spryngheuse’s party without an invitation – the taverner
doubted the
monk’s tense, dour demeanour would have encouraged the others to befriend him. As soon as Croidon had gone to fetch the ale,
the Benedictine made his first move.
‘Heytesbury of Merton is an ass,’ he declared, so harshly and unexpectedly that even the Balliol scholars were taken aback
by his vehemence. ‘His theories about uniformly accelerated motion are flawed and illogical.’
Spryngheuse stared at him in astonishment. ‘You are mistaken, Brother: Heytesbury is widely acclaimed as the best natural
philosopher Oxford has ever known.’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted the monk aggressively. ‘That honour belongs to Wyclif of Balliol. Is that not true, Chesterfelde?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Chesterfelde, although the tone of his voice was uneasy: it was one thing to assert supremacy with good-natured
raillery, but another altogether to be downright rude about it. He jabbed the bemused Spryngheuse in the ribs in an attempt
to revert to their former levity. ‘Wyclif is still young, but he is already the superior of your bumbling Mertonians. Just
imagine what he will be like when he is the same age as Heytesbury!’
‘Here is your ale, gentlemen,’ boomed Croidon jovially, bearing a tray loaded with jugs. ‘Warmed against the chill of winter.’
‘But you have not heated it as much as you would a townsman’s,’ said the monk, sipping it with distaste. ‘And I asked for
wine, anyway.’
‘You did not!’ declared Croidon indignantly. ‘You all ordered ale, and if it is not as hot as you would like, then you can
blame the weather. I assure you, I treat all my patrons the same.’
‘Bring me wine,’ ordered the monk, thrusting the ale back at the landlord, so hard that some spilled on the man’s apron. ‘I
cannot drink this vile brew.’
Croidon knew better than to argue with bellicose
customers. Wordlessly, he took the jug and went to fetch a different drink. The monk’s companions regarded him uncomfortably.
‘That was unmannerly, Brother,’ said Chesterfelde. His face, usually bright with laughter, was flushed, and Spryngheuse was
reminded that his friend had an unfortunate tendency to lose his temper rather more quickly than most men. ‘Croidon is right:
how can he warm his ales when the weather is so bitter? He is only mortal, and cannot magic hot ale from cold casks.’
‘We are breaking University rules by coming here, but Croidon turns a blind eye as long as we are well behaved,’ said Spryngheuse,
resting a hand on Chesterfelde’s arm to calm him. ‘So keep a civil tongue in your head, if you please, Brother. I do not want
to be reduced to drinking my ale at Balliol, for God’s sake!’
The others laughed, easing the tension that had arisen at the prospect of an unpleasant altercation between Chesterfelde and
the Benedictine. Chesterfelde smiled, too, his flare of temper subsiding. He was always ready to enjoy a joke, and was about
to retort with a teasing insult aimed at Merton, when Croidon arrived.
‘Here is your wine,’ the landlord said, placing a goblet in front of his awkward patron, along with several coins that were
the change from Spryngheuse’s groat. ‘It is the best we have, and I warmed it myself with the poker from the fire.’
‘It is filth,’ declared the Benedictine, spitting it on the floor. Croidon gaped in disbelief as the monk turned to his companions.
‘Will you allow this scoundrel to sell poor quality brews to scholars, while he saves the best for the secular scum who infest
the city?’
‘Hey!’ shouted a listening mason indignantly. ‘Watch your mouth! It is scholars who are scum around here, with their uncouth
manners and slovenly ways.’
‘Well?’ demanded the monk, ignoring the mason and fixing Chesterfelde with a challenging glare. ‘Will you sit there and let
this vagabond insult your University?’
‘No harm has been done,’ said Spryngheuse hastily, aware that Chesterfelde was beginning to rise to the bait. ‘I think—’
‘And we have been
cheated
, too!’ interrupted the monk, pointing at the money Croidon had left on the table. ‘Look how much we have been charged. He
has one price for students and another for the rest of his patrons.’
‘I must have made a mistake,’ said Croidon, bewildered. He was certain the number of coins had been correct.
‘That is not good enough,’ snapped the monk. ‘Frozen ale, filthy wine and now you try to swindle us.’ He appealed to his companions.
‘Will you let this thief treat us like ignorant peasants?’
‘Not I!’ declared Chesterfelde, incensed by the very notion. He snatched up the monk’s goblet and brought it down hard on
Croidon’s head. The landlord dropped to his knees with a howl of pain, and blood dribbled between the fingers he lifted to
his scalp.
Men were rising to their feet all over the tavern. The mason’s friends began to advance menacingly, while a group of hitherto
silent, unobtrusive Franciscans from Exeter College set their sights on an apprentice who had recently jibed them about their
celibacy.
‘He tried to deceive us!’ shouted the Benedictine, jabbing an accusing finger at the bleeding landlord. ‘And in so doing he
insults Balliol – and Exeter and Merton, too! Will you allow this to happen? Or are you soldiers of God, ready to fight for
what is right?’
‘Balliol!’ yelled Chesterfelde, bloated with fury as he struck the hapless landlord a second time.
The mason leapt at him, and they rolled to the floor in an undignified mêlée of arms and legs. The craftsman’s
companions surged forward to join in, while the apprentice threw a punch at one of the Franciscans, whose head jerked back
and struck the wall with a soggy crunch. Skirmishes broke out all across the room.
‘Come outside!’ the monk urged Spryngheuse, grabbing his arm. ‘I have bows and arrows. You must protect yourself against these
murderous townsmen, or they will kill you.’
He dragged the reluctant Spryngheuse through the door and out into the street. Their friends followed, leaving Chesterfelde
and the mason embroiled in a scuffle that was becoming deadly: the mason had drawn his dagger, and there was blood on Chesterfelde’s
arm.
‘Murder!’ Chesterfelde screeched, his outraged wail audible in the street as he tried to wriggle away from his furious opponent.
‘He has stabbed me!’
‘The town has slain a scholar!’ bawled the Benedictine to several passers-by, as he thrust bows and arrows into his bemused
companions’ hands. They were too startled by the sudden escalation in violence to ask why he had thought to store such objects
so conveniently close to hand. The situation was spiralling out of control, and there was no time to stop and think logically.
Chesterfelde staggered out of the inn, shrieking from the agony in his wounded arm. The mason followed, and the expression
on his face as he wielded his dagger made it plain that he was intending to finish what he had started. Spryngheuse shot him
dead.
Then the bells in St Mary’s Church started to ring in an urgent, discordant clamour, warning scholars that their University
was under attack. Within moments, the streets were full of students. Word spread that several of their own had been brutally
slain in the Swindlestock Tavern, and it was not long before they had armed themselves with staves, clubs and swords, inflamed
by the jangle of bells and the
calls for vengeance. They flocked to the inn like wasps to honey, and within moments several neighbouring houses were ablaze.
Children and women screamed, horses whinnied in terror, and scholars and townsmen alike howled in savage delight at the prospect
of a serious brawl. The University’s Chancellor hurried from his sumptuous lodgings and tried to appeal for calm, but a gang
of apprentices recognised his gorgeous robes and began to pelt him with mud. Some struck his face. The mob surged towards
him, and would have torn him apart, had his clerks not dragged him back inside and barred the door.