Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Her brother’s reaction had been equally odd: Abigny had claimed he disliked jugglers, and had left Langelee’s chambers as soon as they had arrived, then had excused himself when they had approached the high table later in the hall. And Turke? They had jostled him and spilled his wine, but he had declined to make a fuss. What did that say about his relationship with the Waits? That he knew them but was loath to admit it to people he wanted to impress? That he declined to indulge in an undignified squabble with menials? Bartholomew supposed the Waits could be lying about being hired by the Turke household, but he saw no reason why they should.

‘Did you speak to Gosslinge, here in Cambridge?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Frith bitterly. ‘I asked him if he would recommend us to potential employers, since it was proving difficult to find a situation for the Twelve Days. We had offered ourselves to virtually every merchant in the town, you see, but they had already made other arrangements and had no need for us. But Gosslinge refused to help.’

‘Now we shall have marchpanes,’ declared Deynman, standing again and deluging Suttone with wine as he waved his goblet around. There was a chorus of laughter, while the morose Carmelite surveyed the red stains on his robes with weary resignation.

‘That pale wool is an impractical colour for a habit,’ said Deynman defensively, blushing with embarrassment. He was not a naturally rebellious lad, and his antics so far had been tame compared to the stunts that Gray had arranged the previous year. However, Gray was sitting near to his friend at the high table, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before matters took a turn for the worse. Gray was clearly plotting something. He leaned towards Deynman and was constantly muttering in his ear.

Wynewyk and Clippesby emerged from behind the servants’ screen carrying a huge tray on which sat a huge marchpane image, dressed in blue and white cloth. It was the Virgin Mary. It was fairly large, reaching mid-thigh height, and its face was swathed in a veil. It was not uncommon for Michaelhouse to buy carved marchpanes for the Christmas season, but none had been so finely wrought as this one. Students, Fellows and servants alike watched its progress through the hall in awed silence, and even the Waits were impressed – Frith began a stately march on pipes and tabor to accompany it. Clippesby and Wynewyk set the image on the high table and stepped away.

‘Good,’ said Deynman approvingly. ‘But we cannot see the detail on her with all these clothes and veils. Let us take them off.’

‘For the love of God, no!’ cried Suttone, leaping forward to prevent such a sacrilege. ‘What are you thinking of, boy? You go too far!’

Deynman faltered, unsettled by the vehemence of Suttone’s protest, while the silence in the hall was so thick that Bartholomew could hear an insect buzzing in one of the windows. Gray gave Deynman a none too gentle prod in the ribs to prompt him.

‘But we must,’ said Deynman, agitated. ‘It is part of the performance.’

‘I will not stand by and see you haul the vestments from our Blessed Virgin,’ declared Suttone, drawing himself up to his full cadaverous height. ‘Lord of Misrule you may be, but I will not permit heresy to take place in my College. What would the Bishop and Head of my Order say when they learn what sort of revelries Michaelhouse condones?’

Gray came slowly to his feet. ‘ You will not permit it, Father? How will you stop us?’

Suttone was taller and probably stronger than Gray, but it did not take much to intimidate the friar from his pedestal of self-righteousness; he was a coward at heart. He appealed to his colleagues. ‘Come to my aid,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I am right and this cannot be allowed. And tell Gray to sit down, Matthew. I do not like him glowering at me like a tavern brawler.’

‘The Lord of Misrule can do what he likes,’ declared Gray. He snatched up his goblet and gave his friends a grin that was full of mischief. ‘We will not allow the Fellows to renege on their agreement to allow us free rein, will we?’ There was a chorus of nervous agreement, and Gray jumped on to the table, hands on hips as he gazed around him with naked disdain. ‘This is the Twelve Days,’ he declared, glaring at his cronies until they met his eyes. ‘You have been looking forward to it for months. It is our time, when we are free to amuse ourselves and have fun. We will not allow a Carmelite to stand in the way of the best Christmas celebrations Michaelhouse has ever known, will we? Well? What do you say?’

This time the chorus of voices was stronger, and several students came to their feet, raising their goblets in a sloppy salute to Gray.

‘But this is different,’ objected Suttone feebly. ‘Stripping the Virgin!’

‘We shall play “Strip the Virgin” later,’ promised Gray, referring to a well-known game that was popular in venues like the King’s Head. The students cheered in delight. ‘But now we shall strip the marchpane.’

‘Matthew!’ cried Suttone, turning beseechingly to the physician. ‘Gray and Deynman are your students. You must prevent them from doing this.’

But the high table was some distance away, and Bartholomew’s path was blocked by Gray’s friends. The physician knew they would stop him if he walked in their direction, and he did not want to start a fight he could not win. He glanced around for Langelee, but the Master was not in the hall, and Bartholomew supposed he had gone to the cellars for more wine. Michael was as hesitant as Bartholomew to interfere with Gray’s plans, and merely stood near the servants’ screen, drinking the wine he should have been serving.

Meanwhile, Gray started to sing a tavern song, and the words were immediately picked up by the other students and the servants. Bartholomew noticed that even Clippesby was joining in, although the lyrics were obscene, and should not have been in the repertoire of a Dominican friar. The song involved a good deal of cup banging, and the hall was soon awash with noise. Gray leaned towards Deynman and muttered something in his ear. Deynman shook his head, but Gray was insistent, and Deynman’s hand started to move towards the marchpane Madonna.

Suttone’s frantic protests were inaudible through the singing, as Gray had doubtless intended. Deynman’s fingers tightened around the veil and cloak and, with a flourish, he whipped them off. Underneath, the figure was no Madonna. It was a model of Father William, complete with filthy habit, grimy hands and a tonsure that was irregular, bristly and made from real hair. The sculptor had captured the fanatical gleam of the friar’s eyes and the pugilistic pout of his lips. A miniature wineskin dangled at his side, and one foot was resting on a copy of the Rules of St Dominic, the laws and ordinances by which the Dominican Order was governed. In one of his hands was a vast purse with the word ‘fines’ written on it, while the other grasped a book that had ribald songs inscribed on its tiny pages.

There was an appreciative roar of delight from the students, and Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a grin of relief. Suttone rubbed a hand over his face and left the hall, while Clippesby laughed long and hard. Langelee was suddenly among them, holding a casket of wine in his powerful arms. He gaped at the figure, set down his barrel and traced a forefinger down the line of its habit, clearly impressed.

‘Good God!’ he muttered in amazement. ‘It looks real!’

‘It is William in every respect!’ cried Clippesby, perching on the high table to inspect the figure in greater detail. William did not like Dominicans, and Clippesby had been on the receiving end of a good many unprovoked insults. He was obviously delighted that the dour friar had been the butt of the students’ joke. ‘I wish he could see it. Shall we take it to him?’