Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘I do not gamble in taverns,’ snapped Morice, leaving everyone who heard him with the impression that he gambled elsewhere. ‘I was visiting a man named Harysone. Complaints have been filed against him for licentious dancing, so I was obliged to demand a fine of two shillings.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘I hope he paid, because I am about to order him to leave Cambridge. He has borrowed funds from a charitable chest, and if he does not have the money to give me now, he will be escorted to the town gates tomorrow at dawn.’

‘If he goes, he will never repay this charity,’ said Morice, obviously regarding financial considerations first and foremost. ‘But he may have sold enough books to make a respectable profit, so perhaps you will be in luck. Deal with those students, though, Brother, or I shall be obliged to teach them a lesson myself.’

He spurred his horse into a rapid trot, scattering people and animals as he went. His men cantered after him, following his cavalier example.

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head, a celebration was in progress. People were laughing and singing, and there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Michael looked around him in astonishment, while Bartholomew entered with a degree of unease, sensing something had happened that might mean scholars were unwelcome. But they were greeted with pleasure by Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir. He clapped a large, calloused hand across Michael’s shoulders and passed the monk his goblet. Michael accepted a drink cautiously.

The main room was full, and fires were burning in both hearths. All the shutters were firmly closed, but this was common practice in the King’s Head, where the patrons did not want their activities observed by Sheriff’s men or beadles peering through the windows. The air smelled of wood-smoke, spilled ale and unwashed bodies, and was close and humid. Bartholomew felt himself begin to sweat. A group of pardoners sat near one fire, Harysone among them, while Ovyng’s Franciscans were standing around the hearth at the opposite end of the room. Godric seemed to be the centre of the general bonhomie.

‘That Godric is a fine lad!’ slurred Isnard, eyeing the friar fondly.

Bartholomew watched with amusement as he saw Godric glance in Michael’s direction, look away, then back again with an expression of horror. He nudged his companions, who all hastily downed the remains of their ale and headed for the door, pursued by disappointed cries from their drinking companions.

‘Godric,’ said Michael pleasantly, stopping the young friar in his tracks. ‘A word, please.’

‘It was not my fault,’ said Godric immediately. A chorus of support from his cronies told Michael that was true.

‘Morice complained about you,’ said Michael. ‘He wants you arrested and fined.’

‘Never!’ declared Isnard warmly, removing his arm from Michael and draping it around Godric. ‘This good priest told that leech where to go, and we will not see him fined for his courage. Will we, lads?’ There were loud shouts of agreement. ‘Morice prances in here and starts demanding money for all manner of imagined crimes. He ordered me to pay sixpence because my donkey fouled the Great Bridge, but look what he did!’

Bartholomew and Michael followed his accusing finger to a pile of fresh horse dung that sat in splendid isolation in the centre of the room.

‘Morice rode his horse inside the tavern?’ asked Michael in astonishment.

‘Either that or he should lay off the hay,’ muttered Bartholomew. He had not intended his comment to be overheard, but Isnard caught it, and repeated it in a braying voice to the delight of the other patrons. More back-slapping followed, and it was declared that scholars were splendid fellows, and worthy company for honest townsmen.

‘He fined Harysone for dancing – two shillings!’ added Isnard when the levity had died down. ‘Mind you, Harysone’s jigs do verge on the obscene, so I cannot blame the Sheriff for that. But when Morice tried to fine Godric for being in a tavern the lad pointed out the law regarding scholars, and sent him away with something to think about.’

‘I was not abusive,’ said Godric quickly. ‘I just pointed out that clerics are under your authority, not his. I will pay you the four pennies he demanded. But we will not pay him.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ announced Michael to more cheers. He lowered his voice so the townsmen would not hear. ‘But this tavern is no place for scholars, lad. Go home, and do not let me find you here again.’ He caught Godric’s arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not suppose you have heard from your principal?’

Godric gave a rueful smile. ‘Do you think we would be here if he was back? Anyway, I have already promised we will send you word if he returns. Ailred needs more help than we can give him, so you can rely on us to contact you.’

‘But we do not believe him to be guilty,’ added one of the students. ‘We talked about it all last night. He may have made mistakes with this charity – Dympna – but we do not think he killed Norbert.’

‘He is a desperate man,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And desperate men are often driven to do things they would never normally contemplate.’

‘He may have been desperate, but he was not wicked,’ insisted Godric loyally. ‘I went through the hostel’s finances last night, and do you know why we have been shivering in front of mean fires and eating bad fish all week? It is because Ailred gathered together all the funds he could find, and bought food and firewood to make Dunstan’s last few days comfortable.’

‘That was from Dympna,’ said Michael. ‘Robin of Grantchester organised its delivery, as he did with its other loans and gifts.’

Godric shook his head vehemently. ‘I have the receipts for every item of food and every scrap of fuel that Dunstan received. They match outgoing sums from our own accounts – along with money Ailred had from selling a silver locket that belonged to a brother called John.’

Fiscurtune’s locket, thought Bartholomew immediately. Since it was evident Ailred had loved his brother, selling something that had belonged to him would not have been easy.

‘You said you did not know whether Ailred had any male kin,’ he said to Godric.

‘I did not,’ replied Godric. He gestured to one of his colleagues. ‘But he mentioned a brother called John to Nathan here. It was Nathan who sold the locket on Ailred’s behalf the day Athelbald died.’

‘He was fond of that trinket,’ added Nathan. ‘But he parted with it to help Dunstan. He is not a wicked man.’

Michael released Godric’s arm, and watched the Franciscans troop out of the tavern, accepting the congratulations of delighted townsfolk as they went. They were a serious, sober group, and Bartholomew wondered why they did not prefer the quieter atmosphere of a tavern like the Brazen George or the Swan. He supposed it was because the King’s Head was outside the town gates, so they were less likely to be caught there by other members of their Order.

Michael strolled nonchalantly towards Harysone, and Bartholomew was amused to see the pardoner’s companions hastily slip away, reluctant to be with the man while he had yet another brush with town officials. The monk plumped himself down in a recently vacated chair and beamed alarmingly. Bartholomew sat next to him, while Isnard and the others went back to their ale.

‘You owe Dympna a lot of money,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘When can you pay?’

‘Never mind that,’ said Harysone indignantly. ‘I was stabbed in the back by the Franciscan friars you just spoke to. Why did you not arrest them?’

‘There is no evidence those particular clerics harmed you,’ said Michael. ‘And I am far more interested in the fact that you owe Dympna three pounds. I repeat: when can you pay?’