Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

‘The Fellows can use the hall instead,’ said Deynman carelessly, struggling out of his friends’ grasp and walking towards the friar. If he was annoyed to have his authority contested quite so soon after his election, he did not show it. ‘That is what this season is all about – changing things and breaking customs.’

‘But I might want to go into the conclave,’ protested Kenyngham, becoming distressed.

‘Do not worry, Father,’ said Deynman kindly, after glancing questioningly at his friends to ensure he had their support. Everyone liked the Gilbertine, and there were nods and smiles all around. ‘ You can come in any time you like. The other Fellows are banned, though.’

Kenyngham raised a blue-veined hand as he muttered a blessing. Deynman gave him a conspiratorial wink, then followed his colleagues. Several stumbled over the loose board as they went, unused to the conclave floor’s irregularities.

‘What was that about?’ Bartholomew asked Kenyngham, as they walked together across the hall to the spiral staircase that led to the yard. ‘You do not usually care about such things.’

‘I find the conclave more peaceful than the hall.’

‘You will not if it is full of celebrating students,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he felt the friar was not being entirely honest with him.

He watched Kenyngham head towards his room, then went to his own chamber, intending to leave Michaelhouse before Deynman had time to flex his new muscles of power and ask him to do something inconvenient or silly. The other Fellows had the same idea, and there was a concerted dash for the gate. Bartholomew decided to visit Dunstan, partly because he wanted to see whether there was anything he could do to help the old man, but partly because he hoped Matilde might be there. As he walked along the river bank towards the crumbling huts, he thought about Turke, and wondered what the death of her husband would mean for Philippa and her comfortable life on London’s Friday Street.

There were more celebrations in Michaelhouse that night, with the Lord of Misrule sitting in Langelee’s seat for the St Stephen’s Day supper. Predictably, the Fellows had been instructed to serve, while Deynman was surrounded by his friends at the high table. Agatha, of course, was considered far too venerable to sit with the rabble, so she was placed at Deynman’s right hand, looking pleased with herself as she swilled back plentiful quantities of wine.

The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, and everyone seemed to be enjoying himself – although one or two Fellows were grim faced. This merely increased the students’ amusement. Warned by Langelee that the College wine supplies were low and would not support a season of continuous drinking, Deynman had solved the problem with large sums of money. The cellars had been restocked, and the kitchens received a welcome boost of new and interesting victuals.

‘Now we shall have the Chepe Waits,’ decreed Deynman, standing and waving a slopping cup to give emphasis to his instruction. ‘And everyone has to talk while he is eating – English or French, not Latin. We will have no silence or Bible-reading at any meal for the next two weeks.’

‘Twelve days,’ corrected Suttone grimly, struggling with a bowl of leeks. ‘Let us not lose count, please. William knew what he was doing when he broke his leg – at least he is not being submitted to this kind of indignity.’

‘He is also unable to protect himself,’ said Michael, striding past him bearing a platter loaded with meat. His hands and mouth were greasy, and it was clear that he had been working on the ‘one-for-you-and-one-for-me’ principle. ‘Because he could not move, those students were able to rip that habit off him and replace it with a new one. As you can imagine, he complained bitterly.’

Bartholomew could imagine. ‘His leg is not broken, you know,’ he said in a low voice to the monk. ‘If I were to remove the splint, he would be able to walk perfectly well.’

‘Leave the splint where it is, if you please,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want William incapacitated while I am investigating Norbert’s death. I do not want him “helping”. And anyway, you know he hates the Misrule season. It is better for everyone if he stays in his room.’

‘I am surprised the Chepe Waits are still here,’ said Clippesby, arriving with a bowl of nuts. ‘Frith had a fight with Agatha, and they have all been questioned by the Sheriff about a theft from the King’s Head. I thought they would have been dismissed.’

‘Apparently, the King’s Head victim declined to take the matter further,’ said Michael, helping himself to a thick slice of pork before flinging a considerably smaller one on to Cynric’s trencher. ‘Did you want that, Cynric? If not, throw it across to Quenhyth; he needs a bit of flesh on his bones. So, the Waits were released without being charged. I cannot help but wonder whether they bribed Morice to drop the investigation.’

‘Frith outwitted Deynman shamelessly this morning,’ said Suttone, doling out leeks into the bowls that were shared by two people on the high table, and four people in the body of the hall. ‘He threatened to leave Michaelhouse immediately unless Deynman signed a statement promising to hire the troupe for the entire Misrule season. The boy was dismayed at the prospect of being unable to supply entertainment for his “court”, and quickly agreed to Frith’s terms.’

‘That was a low trick,’ said Bartholomew, angered partly by Deynman’s gullibility, but mostly because the Wait had used Deynman’s dull mind to get what he wanted. He had not been impressed by the entertainers’ talents or their manners, and he had intended to advise Deynman to dismiss them. Now it seemed he was too late.

The Waits, assured of employment for the foreseeable future, were complacent. Their tumbling was less energetic, and they dropped their balls and sticks with greater frequency than before. They looked dirty, too, and neither of the ‘women’ had shaved. One had dispensed with the annoyance of his yellow wig, and the resulting combination of large bosom, balding head and bewhiskered face was not attractive. They did not bother with a lengthy performance, either, and it was not long before Frith announced they were going to rest. They retreated behind the servants’ screen, and Bartholomew arrived in time to catch Jestyn drinking from one of the wine jugs.

‘That is not for you,’ he said coolly, taking the receptacle from the entertainer’s hands. ‘And it is rude to drink from the jug, anyway.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Jestyn, unrepentant. ‘I am I hungry, too. What is there to eat?’

‘They have already had their meal,’ said Michael, coming to refill his meat tray. ‘They cannot be hungry again already.’

‘How would you know what we feel?’ demanded Frith insolently.

‘You had better keep a civil tongue, or I shall see you throw no more balls and coloured sticks in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael sharply.

‘We have been hired for the whole festive period,’ said Frith gloatingly. ‘We have an agreement with Deynman, and we will only leave if he dismisses us. What you think is irrelevant.’

‘Do not be so sure about that,’ said Michael with cold menace. Frith regarded him silently for a moment, and apparently realised it would not be wise to antagonise a man like Michael. He recanted, forcing a grin on to his unwholesome face.

‘Take no notice of us, Brother. We have been in rough company for so long that we have forgotten our manners. I am sorry if I offended you. We mean no harm.’

‘We do not,’ agreed one of the women. She had dispensed with false beard and moustache in the interests of comfort, although her hair was still gathered under her cap in the manner of a young man. She was a robust lady, with a prominent nose and a pair of shrewd green eyes. She wiggled her hips and effected a mischievous grin ‘My name is Matilda, but my friends call me Makejoy. Would you like me to show you why, Brother?’