Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head with the fish it was past noon, and they discovered Harysone had ignored the physician’s advice to rest, and was in the tavern’s main room, holding forth to a group of pardoners. The pardoners wore black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, and Michael became aware that there was a similarity in their clothes and the ones favoured by Harysone. His eyes narrowed with dislike: Michael detested pardoners, and was as rabid in his loathing of them as William was in his hatred of heretics and Dominicans.

‘So that is why I detected a spirit of evil in the man,’ the monk said, nodding with grim satisfaction when he saw his suspicions had some basis. ‘He is a pardoner. You know how I feel about pardoners.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew hastily, hoping that a prompt reply would deliver him from the diatribe he sensed was going to follow. It did not.

‘Pardoners are an evil brood,’ Michael hissed, beginning to work himself into a state of righteous indignation. ‘They travel the country and make their fortunes by preying on the sick, the weak and the gullible. They peddle false relics, and the promises of salvation they offer in their pardons are nothing but lies.’

‘Speaking of false relics. I wonder whether that thing Turke gave Langelee is really a saint’s finger,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject. He did not think Harysone’s occupation was relevant to the enquiry, especially since he was not practising his trade in the town, but was only selling his books.

‘Not if it originated with a pardoner,’ said Michael, refusing to take the hint. ‘It is probably not even a finger. Did you inspect it?’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I do not interfere with potentially sacred objects to satisfy my idle curiosity. It is not unknown for men to be struck down for mistreating holy relics.’

‘Their pardons are the most wicked thing of all,’ said Michael. ‘They spend their evenings writing them on old pieces of parchment, to make them appear ancient, and then they sell them to the desperate for high prices. The last pardoner I had the pleasure to drive from my town had a box that contained pardons for every sin from gluttony to lust.’

‘Did you buy any?’

Michael ignored him. ‘They allow criminals to salve their consciences by purchasing pardons, instead of giving themselves up to the law. And, of course, they encourage vice.’

‘How do they do that?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Michael was in full stride and would not be stopped until he had had his say. For a man normally so sanguine, it was remarkable how the mere mention of pardoners could reduce the monk to paroxysms of bigotry.

‘By dispensing pardons for future use,’ Michael replied angrily. ‘I saw Mayor Horwood making a bulk purchase of five pardons for adultery just before All Souls Day – one for the sin he had just committed with Yolande de Blaston, and another four for their assignations over the coming month. It is not right! Do you know why there are so many pardoners in Cambridge now? Because it is Christmas, and they know the lords of misrule will be encouraging behaviour that normally sends folk rushing for a confessor. I shall have to ensure their stay is so uncomfortable that they all leave at the earliest opportunity.’

‘They are doing nothing wrong,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Pardoning is not against the law.’

‘It should be,’ declared Michael. His eyes narrowed as he watched the object of his dislike begin a curious sequence of motions. ‘What is he doing over there? I thought you said he was in such pain that he was barely able to stand.’

‘That is what he told me.’ Bartholomew was surprised to see Harysone out of bed, let alone moving with such vigour. ‘I gave him a dose of poppy juice and laudanum, but it seems he exaggerated his agonies – either that or my medicine is more potent than I thought.’ He strongly suspected the former, and supposed the removal of the metal, combined with an effective pain reliever, had all but banished any discomfort Harysone might have suffered.

‘Yes, but what is he doing ? Is it a contortion that will ease his pain?’

‘Not one he learned from me,’ said Bartholomew, watching the peculiar movements of the pardoner with open curiosity.

‘Now I shall show you an estampie with music,’ Harysone announced to his companions, blithely unaware that he was the object of Michael’s hostile attentions. ‘Landlord?’

The landlord clapped his hands and one of his patrons stepped forward. The man began to sing a well-known song called ‘Kalenda Maya,’ the words of which had been written by the famous troubadour Raimbault de Vaquieras a century and a half earlier. It was a love lament, telling of how the singer would fret until he received news that his lady still loved him. The King’s Head rendition made it sound as though the singer was giving his woman an ultimatum, and was more threatening than pining. Although Bartholomew did not much care for the ‘carol-dancing’ that was currently popular, nor for the new vigorous jumping dance called the ‘saltarello’, he liked estampies. Harysone’s idea of an estampie, however, was unique, and Bartholomew could see why he had believed the pain in his back had originated with it.

The pardoner began by standing with his hands at his side. Then, as the dance began, he produced an elaborate walk that was part strut and part slink, and reminded Bartholomew of a chicken he had once watched after it been fed large quantities of wine. Then followed a series of leaps, each one involving a lot of leg flexing and windmilling arms. Harysone’s hips ground and rotated like those of Ulfrid’s Turkish whore, and his entire body seemed to undulate and quiver, partly in time with the music, but mostly not.

‘That is disgusting,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘I cannot watch.’

Neither could Harysone’s fellow pardoners. After a few moments of appalled astonishment, they drained their cups and left, obviously unwilling to be associated with the figure that gyrated so obscenely in the middle of the tavern. They cast apologetic grins at the landlord and muttered that they were going to St Botolph’s, where a strong brew called church ale was being sold by the scholars of Valence Marie. Church ale was a popular Christmas tradition, and was usually dispensed in graveyards or – if the rector gave his permission – inside the church itself, hence its name. Bartholomew had always assumed it was sold on holy ground so that the services of a priest could be easily secured for those who drank too much of what was often a very poisonous tipple.

There were a number of women present in the tavern, and Harysone had their undivided attention. Agatha was among them, and she watched Harysone with her jaw open so wide it was almost in her lap. The fierce and sturdy matrons who served ale to the tavern’s fierce and sturdy patrons had been brought to a standstill, thirsty customers forgotten, while several of the Frail Sisters were spellbound. One of them trotted forward and joined the pardoner, trying to match her movements to his. The men in the tavern had much the same reaction as Michael, and turned to their drinks so that they would not have to see.

‘Enough, Master Harysone,’ cried the landlord in agitation, as more of his regulars headed for the door. ‘Thank you for the demonstration. It has been most enlightening. Now, sit down and rest, and I shall bring you some ale.’

‘Thank you, landlord,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the offer as he settled himself opposite Harysone. ‘Watching that particular performance has induced in me the need for strong drink. You had better make it some of that lambswool you brew at this time of year, not just common ale.’ Lambswool was hot ale mulled with apples, and the King’s Head Yuletide variety was known to be mightily powerful.