Susanna GREGORY: The Killer of Pilgrims

‘Have you finished yet?’ he called softly, stamping his feet in an attempt to warm them. Acting as lookout was not the most exciting of tasks, and he wished he had been allocated a more active role in the prank. It had been his idea, after all. ‘I am freezing.’

‘Almost.’ The reply was full of suppressed laughter. ‘And if this does not confound the dunces from the hostels, then I do not know what will. They will never work out how we did it!’

Jolye was not so sure about that – hostel scholars were not stupid. But he did not want to spoil his friends’ sport, so he held his tongue. Besides, it had been more than a week since members of Essex Hostel had sneaked into Trinity Hall when everyone was asleep and filled it with scores of roosting chickens, and it was becoming urgent that the challenge was answered. Honour was at stake, after all – it would not do for a poverty-stricken, lowly hostel to get the better of a fine, wealthy College.

‘Someone will come along soon!’ he hissed, becoming impatient. What was taking them so long? ‘It is already getting light, and this is a public footpath.’

‘It is far too early for anyone else to be up,’ came the scornful response. ‘There! It is done! Chestre Hostel’s boats are now standing stern to bow on top of each other, rising in a column that is almost the height of three men. When they try to dismantle it, the pegs we used to lock the boats together will drop unseen into the water, and they will assume we did it by balance alone.’

‘They will marvel at our ability to confound the rules of nature!’ crowed another. ‘Well done, Jolye! This plan was a stroke of genius.’

Jolye felt a surge of pride. At fifteen, he was one of Trinity Hall’s youngest students, and his cronies did not often praise him. He was about to respond with a suitably nonchalant remark when he heard voices from farther along the path. His classmates heard them, too, and began trotting towards the lane that would take them home.

Jolye started to follow, but he had not been involved in the warm work of lugging heavy boats around, and his feet were like lumps of ice. He tried to break into a run when the footsteps drew closer, but could only manage a totter. Suddenly, there was a hand in the middle of his back, and he was shoved roughly forward. He stumbled, and a second push sent him face-first into the river.

The shock of the frigid water took his breath away, and for a moment all he could do was lie there. Then his body reacted, and he found himself turning and flailing back towards the bank. It was not easy, because the current was strong, and threatened to sweep him away.

‘That was a stupid thing to do!’ he gasped angrily to the three dark figures that stood by the boats. His teeth chattered almost uncontrollably. ‘Help me out.’

He held out his hand, expecting to be hauled to safety, but none of them moved. He blinked water from his eyes, trying see their faces. Were they hostel lads? But the hostel–College competition was only a bit of fun, and certainly not serious enough to warrant shoving rivals in icy rivers. Or were they townsmen, who hated the University and would love to see a scholar get a soaking? Unfortunately, the light was not good enough for him to tell, and they were just silent silhouettes.

‘Please!’ he croaked. The water was so cold it hurt. ‘You have made your point. Now help me.’

He staggered forward, and had almost reached dry land when an oar touched his shoulder, and he found himself prodded backwards. He floundered, choking as his head went under. The current tugged him downstream. What were they thinking? Did they want him to drown? He managed to grab a rotten pier as he was washed past, and struggled towards the bank again.

‘No!’ he screamed, as the paddle pushed him back a second time. The river caught him, carrying him some distance before swirling him into a slack pool near the back of Michaelhouse. Again, he tried to escape the water’s icy clutch, but the silhouettes were waiting and so was the oar.

‘I am sorry,’ he whispered pitifully. He glanced at the opposite bank, knowing he could escape his tormentors if he managed to reach it, but he had never learned to swim, and it might as well be a hundred miles away. ‘Whatever I have done to offend you, I am sorry. Now please–’

The next poke propelled him into the middle of the river, where the current was strongest. Water filled his mouth and nose. He tried to call for help as he was swept under the Great Bridge, but no one heard. His head dipped under the surface and did not rise again.

Early February 1358, Cambridge

When the yellow-headed thief reached the Griffin, a large tavern located just beyond the Great Bridge, Matthew Bartholomew knew he was going to escape. Sure enough, the fellow tore into the stables, and emerged moments later on a prancing stallion.

Bartholomew put on a last, desperate spurt of speed and made a grab for the reins, but the man kicked him away. Bartholomew fell backwards, landing heavily among the frost-hardened ruts that scarred the road. A cart bore down on him, its driver yelling for him to move, and he only just managed to roll away from its lumbering wheels. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet, and watched his quarry disappear along the track that led to the nearby village of Chesterton.

Bartholomew was a physician, who taught medicine at the College of Michaelhouse. Thanks to his unorthodox ideas, he was not one of the University’s most respected scholars, but even so, he knew he should not have been haring after thieves at an hour when he should have been in church. It was hardly dignified.

He had been summoned before dawn by one of his patients, a fierce old lady named Emma de Colvyll. As she had been describing her symptoms to him, they had heard noises coming from her parlour – a burglar was in her house, and instinct had led Bartholomew to obey her screeched command to give chase. As he rested his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, he recoiled at the notion of telling her he had failed. Despite her advanced years, she was a force to be reckoned with, and even the Sheriff – one of the bravest men in the shire – freely admitted that she terrified him.

He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then began to retrace his steps. There was always a market on Mondays, and despite the early hour, the streets were already crowded with carts bearing fish, grain, pottery, candles, wool, baskets and vegetables. There were also animals, herded in hissing, honking, lowing and bleating packs towards Butchery Row, and he ducked smartly behind a water-butt when a feisty bull decided it had no intention of being taken anywhere and made a determined bid for escape.

When he arrived at Emma’s High Street mansion, he paused for a moment to admire it. It was unquestionably one of the finest buildings in Cambridge, boasting three spacious chambers on the ground floor, and a number of smaller ones above that provided sleeping quarters for her family and sizeable retinue. The window shutters were new and strong – a wise precaution, given that disagreements between town and University were frequent and often turned nasty – and there was a very sturdy front door.

Of course, Bartholomew thought acidly, Emma had other reasons for being conscious of her security. She had grown rich on the back of the plague, a ruthless opportunist who had made her fortune by buying up properties left vacant after the deaths of their owners. She had paid the grieving heirs a pittance, and was now reaping the benefits of a sellers’ market.

Her ever-expanding empire had recently required her to move into the town centre so that she could better monitor her myriad affairs. This had been greeted with mixed emotions by Cambridge’s residents. On the one hand, she was generous to worthy causes, but on the other, most people were rather frightened of her and did not like her being in their midst.