Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘What have you done this time?’ Bartholomew asked of Quenhyth, glancing at Una and hoping it was nothing too indecent. She giggled and winked at him.

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ declared Quenhyth primly. ‘I am sure you know who is to blame, and it is not me!’ He cast another venomous glower in the direction of the sniggering lads who vied for positions around the psalter. ‘Your other students do not appreciate that I am here to learn, not to take part in their pranks. They are always trying to get me into trouble.’

‘And what have they done now?’ enquired Michael, giving Gray and Deynman a glare of his own to indicate what he thought about behaviour that kept him from his breakfast.

‘They put a whore in my bed while I was asleep,’ replied Quenhyth resentfully, giving Una a look that was every bit as black as the ones he had given the students. ‘She was there when I awoke this morning.’

‘I am not a whore,’ objected Una hotly. The amused smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of righteous indignation. ‘We call ourselves “Frail Sisters” these days. That means I have a trade, and am every bit as good as any other craftsmen. Lady Matilde – you know her, Doctor.’ Here she gave Bartholomew a lascivious leer. ‘She organised us into a proper guild, and said we should not let people look down at us when we are only earning an honest crust.’

‘Frail Sisters?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Una uncertainly. ‘I have not heard that expression before.’

‘It is nicer than “whore”.’ She glowered at Quenhyth.

‘The Honourable Fraternity of Frail Sisters should have told you that scholars are off limits for your many charms,’ said Michael drolly. ‘And so are the insides of Colleges and hostels.’

Una waved a dismissive hand. ‘We are in and out of those all the time, Brother. Why should Michaelhouse be any different?’

‘Because it is the place where both the Senior and the Junior Proctor reside,’ replied Michael mildly. ‘And unless you want to lose your night’s earnings in fines, you would do well to remember that.’ He snapped his fingers at the sniggering Gray. ‘See the Frail Sister off the premises, Sam. And if I catch her here again, I shall hold you personally responsible.’

Quenhyth shot Gray a triumphant sneer when he saw that Michael had correctly identified the author of his troubles. Una blew Michael a salacious kiss before flouncing away on Gray’s arm, accompanied by whistles and cat-calls from the psalter-reading students.

‘I went to bed after compline – as Master Langelee said we should – and when I awoke she was there,’ explained Quenhyth unpleasantly as Una left. ‘She told me she had been there all night, and that we had had all manner of fun. She is lying, of course: I would remember doing the things she described.’ He gave a fastidious shudder, and Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.

‘I caught him trying to usher her out through the back gate,’ said Meadowman disapprovingly. ‘He spun me this tale about finding her when he awoke, but that does not sound very likely to me. A red-blooded man does not sleep when there is a handsome whore in his bed, especially a fine, strong lass like Una. Do you not agree, Brother?’

Wisely, Michael declined to enter that sort of debate while there were students listening with unconcealed delight. He fixed the hapless Quenhyth with a glare. ‘You shall spend the day in the proctors’ prison, while we shall give this matter some thought. Take him away, Meadowman.’

Quenhyth’s indignant wails could be heard all across the yard as he protested his innocence to anyone who would listen, and a good many others besides.

‘I do not know how you tolerate that self-righteous youngster in your classes without boxing his ears,’ said Michael to Bartholomew as he resumed his walk to the hall. ‘And I do not blame Gray and Deynman for trying to cut him down to size.’

Bartholomew wholly agreed with him.

The bell had finished chiming by the time the scholars had ascended the spiral staircase to the hall. A huge fire roared in the hearth, so that the room felt airless and stuffy after the chill of the morning. Fresh rushes were scattered across the floor in readiness for Christmas, and the sweet scent of them mingled pleasantly with the aroma of burning wood and the baked oatmeal that was being readied behind the servants’ screen. Bartholomew and Michael walked to the dais and took their places at the high table, facing the ranks of assembled students in the body of the hall.

Presiding over the meal was the Master, Ralph de Langelee. He was a powerfully built man, who looked more like a mercenary than a scholar, and many who knew him believed he should have remained a soldier and left the business of education to those capable of independent thought. But despite his intellectual failings, Langelee was proving to be a fair and capable Master, which surprised many people. The College had been infamous for its mediocre food and chilly, fireless rooms before Langelee had arranged for himself to be elected. Two years on, Michaelhouse had wood and peat aplenty for the common rooms, and the quality of the food had improved. This was due at least in part to the fact that he had delegated the College finances to Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, John Wynewyk, who was good at driving hard bargains with the town’s tradesmen.

To Langelee’s left was Thomas Kenyngham, an elderly Gilbertine friar with fluffy white hair, a dreamy smile and a mistaken belief that all men were as good and kindly as him. The cadaverous theologian Thomas Suttone perched on Kenyngham’s left, turning his unsmiling face towards the students, like Death selecting a victim. At the end of the table sat the Dominican music and astronomy master, John Clippesby. It was common knowledge that Clippesby was insane, although Langelee maintained there was no reason why this minor inconvenience should interfere with his teaching duties.

Bartholomew and Michael sat on Langelee’s right, with Father William, who was also Michael’s Junior Proctor. William was a stern, uncompromising Franciscan, whose inflexible beliefs and bigoted interpretation of the rules he was paid to enforce were swelling the University’s coffers to the point of embarrassment. Michael confided to Bartholomew that William had fined more students in his first month of office than most other junior proctors caught in a year. However, Bartholomew also noticed that neither Michael nor the Chancellor had made any serious attempts to curtail the Franciscan’s fiscal enthusiasm.

On Bartholomew’s right was the last of the Fellows, Wynewyk. Wynewyk had been elected at the beginning of the Michaelmas Term, and was still clearly bewildered by some of the customs and practices of his new College. That day, he seemed puzzled by the fact that Clippesby had a fish under his arm. The other Fellows were used to Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies, and Bartholomew found that he only noticed them if someone else pointed them out.

‘Put it away, Clippesby, there’s a good fellow,’ said Langelee, following Wynewyk’s gaze to where glazed eyes and a gaping mouth leered from beneath the music master’s tabard. ‘You know we do not allow animals to join us for meals.’

‘This is not an animal,’ said Clippesby, placing the thing carefully on the table. Bartholomew saw Wynewyk glance uneasily towards the door, as if wondering whether he would be able to reach it unimpeded, should it become necessary. The other scholars were merely impatient, giving the impression they wanted Clippesby to have done with his antics so they could get on with their meal.

‘Is is an animal,’ argued Father William immediately. He detested Clippesby, partly because William was not a man to waste his meagre supplies of compassion on lunatics, but mostly because Clippesby was a Dominican, and William did not like Dominicans. ‘It is a fish, so of course it is an animal. It is not a stone or a vegetable, is it?’ He leaned back and folded his arms, pleased with this incisive piece of logic.