Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Do not chance your arm now. Since Michael has become Senior Proctor fines for fighting are quickly imposed and zealously enforced.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Abigny, laughing softly. ‘Who would have thought that fat, sly monk would have inveigled himself into such a position of power? He has done well for himself.’

‘I give up!’ Edith came up to them, her face dark with anger. ‘I have been trying to keep the peace between them since the first evening they met, when Walter was condescending about Oswald’s trade. But if they want to squabble in front of Master Langelee, then I can do no more to keep them apart.’

Abigny vacated the stool, and gave her hand a squeeze as he helped her to sit on it. ‘You have managed admirably so far. Walter is an argumentative man, and that you have kept him and Oswald from each other’s throats for four days is nothing short of a miracle.’

‘If Oswald does not like Walter, why did you invite him to stay in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew practically.

Edith sighed impatiently at her brother’s inability to see that there were complex social waters to be navigated when invitations were issued. ‘Because we knew Philippa – and Giles – from your betrothal. When we met by chance on the High Street and Walter asked us to recommend a decent tavern, I had no choice but to offer him the use of my own home.’

‘I tried to save you,’ said Abigny. ‘I suggested you would have no room because of various relatives who were staying. It would have been easy to agree, and to direct us to the Brazen George.’

Edith smiled. ‘It was good of you to try to get us off the hook. But manners dictate that Walter, Philippa and you should stay with us. However, I wish I had known then that Oswald and Walter would argue constantly. Walter is a difficult man.’

‘We will be on our way tomorrow,’ said Abigny comfortingly. ‘And I will make sure it is at first light – before Walter is awake enough for squabbling.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edith sincerely. She looked up, as more people began to force their way into the already crowded room.

‘Jugglers,’ said Abigny in surprise, as he saw the newcomers. He began to back away. ‘You must excuse me. I dislike this kind of thing.’ He left the chamber with an abruptness that verged on the rude.

Edith watched him go with raised eyebrows. ‘How odd! I thought he enjoyed professional entertainers. He was always a young man ready for singing and dancing.’

‘He is no longer a young man,’ Bartholomew pointed out, leaning against the wall as he watched the entertainers Langelee had hired elbow their way through the throng. Agatha apparently needed more time for the boar to cook, and was searching for ways to keep minds off growling stomachs. The jugglers’ progress towards the Master was unmannerly, and Turke’s face turned an angry red when one jostled him hard enough to make him spill his wine. The juggler regarded Turke challengingly, as though daring him to make a scene, then sneered disdainfully when the fishmonger looked away and began mopping at the stain on his gipon.

Langelee nodded to them to begin their performance, and a hush fell over the room as they lined up. They were a shabby pack of individuals, whose costumes had seen better days and whose faces were heavily painted. There were two men and two women, all wearing red tunics, grubby yellow leggings and scarlet and gold chequered hats. Clippesby’s assessment had been accurate: the two men and one woman could juggle after a fashion, but the performance of the other female, who stood apart and played the whistle with one hand and a drum with the other, was jerky and irregular, as though she could concentrate on a rhythm or on producing the correct notes, but not on both at the same time.

Her eccentric tunes did nothing to help her colleagues. They missed their cues, and the floor was soon littered with fallen missiles. Abandoning juggling, they turned to tumbling, which consisted of cartwheels that threatened to do serious injury to their spectators, and the kind of forward rolls that even Michael could have managed. Everyone was relieved when Agatha arrived, flour dusting her powerful forearms and boar fat splattered across her apron.

‘Tell the Master the meat is done, and that folk should come and get it while it is hot,’ she whispered to Bartholomew.

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not safe here with all these flailing legs and arms. I do not want to be setting broken limbs for the rest of the day.’

‘I do not like them,’ said Agatha, gazing belligerently at the hapless jugglers. ‘I have never seen such a paltry display of tumbling.’

‘They do leave a bit to be desired,’ agreed Edith. ‘I am surprised Master Langelee hired them. They are called the Chepe Waits, and were the very last troupe to be offered employment in the town this year. Michaelhouse has done a great kindness by taking them in; the weather is so foul at the moment that anyone without a roof will surely perish before dawn.’

‘Let us hope we have a roof to wake up to,’ said Agatha grimly. ‘And that this uncivilised brood has not stolen it from over our heads. I told the Master that I did not want them in my College, but he said it was too late, because he has already paid them. I suppose he chose them because they are inexpensive.’

‘Perhaps that is why they are called the Chepe Waits,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to resist the obvious.

Agatha gazed at him blankly for a moment before understanding dawned and she released a raucous screech of laughter that silenced conversation in the rest of the room as though a bucket of water had been dashed over its occupants. If Agatha was surprised to find herself the sudden centre of attention, she did not show it. She glanced around imperiously.

‘Boar’s done,’ she announced. ‘And the burnt bits have been scraped off the pies.’

‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, beaming around at his guests. ‘Dinner is served.’

Bartholomew was not at all amused to discover that his colleagues had contrived to seat Philippa next to him during the feast, and soon became exasperated by their tactless nods, winks and jabs to the ribs. Having Giles Abigny on the other side was not much of a consolation, either, since his old friend made little attempt to converse and seemed intent on imbibing as much of Michaelhouse’s wine as Cynric would pour him. Bartholomew remembered Abigny as an amiable and amusing drunk, who had been the instigator of many a wild celebration of nothing. But the years had turned him morose, and he sank even lower into the pit of self-pity when he was inebriated. Bartholomew braced himself for a trying afternoon.

The boar made its appearance, complete with rosemary twined about its feet and an apple in its mouth. It was ‘sung in’ by a reduced version of Michael’s choir, which could nevertheless muster sufficient volume to drown all but the most boisterous conversation. Agatha had prepared other seasonal foods, too – mutton, veal, cheese, apples and souse. Bartholomew disliked the pickled pig feet and ears that comprised ‘souse’, and was surprised when Philippa offered to eat his share.

She ate his share of Christmas frumenty – hulled wheat with spices that had been boiled in milk – and cakes, too, and devoured even more sugar comfits than Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether her healthy appetite derived from unhappiness, and tried to imagine what life would be like with the stout, aggressive fishmonger who sat on her other side. He found he could not, and was mystified – and a little hurt – that Philippa should have abandoned him in favour of such an unattractive specimen. He supposed the lure of wealth held more appeal than he had appreciated.