Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

The landlord was too relieved to see Harysone stop dancing to take exception to Michael’s cheeky demands. He nodded to a pot-boy, who went to ladle the hot liquid into three jugs, then stood over the monk’s table, wiping his hands on a stained apron. ‘Pig,’ he stated bluntly.

Michael glared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Pig,’ repeated the landlord. ‘It is what we are serving today. Roasted pig, cooked with some old pears I found at the back of the shed and a few onion skins for flavour. Do you want some?’

‘I do,’ said Michael, oblivious to the fact that the landlord had made his midday offering sound distinctly unappealing. Bartholomew supposed it was the man’s way of informing Michael that the presence of the Senior Proctor in his inn was an unwelcome one, and he hoped to shorten the visit by making the monk believe there were no victuals that he would want to linger over. ‘And I shall have some bread, too.’

‘Bread?’ asked the landlord, as though it was some exotic treat. ‘We do not have that.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘No bread? What kind of tavern does not keep bread? How do you expect me to eat the juice and the fat from the pig? Lick the platter?’

‘Flour is expensive these days,’ said the landlord. ‘The price of a loaf has trebled since the snows came, and most of my patrons cannot afford such luxuries.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The cost of grain has risen hugely since the mills were forced to stop working by frozen water. You will have to make do with pig.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Harysone, baring his huge teeth in a strained grin of welcome as the landlord went to the kitchen. ‘How nice to see you again.’

His eyes glittered moistly as they moved up and down Michael’s person. Instinctively, the monk hauled his cloak up around his neck, like a virgin protecting her maidenly virtues. Bartholomew sat next to Michael, and resisted the urge to draw up his hood when he was treated to the same disconcerting appraisal. Harysone reached under the table and produced a copy of the text he had shown the physician earlier, thumping it in front of Michael with a loud crack that made several people jump.

‘Here is my little BOOK,’ he said loudly, apparently determined that everyone in the tavern should hear him. ‘You have not seen it yet, Brother. Perhaps you have come to purchase a copy, so that you, like other folk with a thirst for answers to the greatest of philosophical mysteries on Earth, can improve your knowledge – especially relating to fish.’

‘Fish?’ queried Michael, unable to help himself. ‘What do they have to do with philosophy?’

Harysone pretended to be surprised. ‘How can you ask such a thing? Fish were fashioned by God on the second day of creation, before trees and after cattle.’

‘Fish did not make an appearance until day four,’ argued Michael immediately. He was a theologian, after all, even if his duties as Senior Proctor meant he did not spend as much time studying as he should. ‘ After trees and before cattle.’

‘Details,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘But a learned man, such as yourself, would find a great deal to interest him in my small contribution. You can have it for virtually nothing – three marks.’

‘You charged the scholars of Valence Marie two marks,’ said Michael with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you imagine me to be a fool, easily parted from his money?’

‘The price has risen since I visited Valence Marie,’ said Harysone blandly. ‘You know how it is. A week ago, bread cost a penny, now it is three. The more people clamour for a thing, the more valuable it becomes.’

Michael reached out to examine the book, tugging the heavy wooden cover open, then turning the pages. ‘It is not very long,’ he remarked critically. ‘And the writing is enormous. Did you scribe it for those with failing eyesight?’

‘Yes,’ said Harysone, unoffended. ‘Scholars have trouble with their eyes, because they spend their time reading ancient manuscripts in bad light. So I ordered my clerk to make the writing large.’

Michael snapped the book closed. ‘Unfortunately, I have no time to debate with you the statement: “Bonéd Fishe, not Womin, were phormed from Addam’s Ribb”, which is a pity, because I am sure I would enjoy myself. But while we are on the subject of fish, do you recognise this?’ He slapped the tench on to the table, so hard that the head broke off to careen across the surface and drop to the floor on the other side. An unpleasant odour emanated from it.

‘Tench,’ said Harysone, with a fond smile. ‘The queen of fish.’

‘This particular queen of fish was in the possession of Norbert when he was murdered,’ said Michael uncompromisingly, even though there was scant evidence to prove such a statement, and the monk himself had not even been entirely convinced about the tench’s relationship with the dead man. ‘I have been told he won it from you in a game of chance.’

‘Yes,’ said Harysone, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did lose a tench to a man, now that you mention it. But I do not know his name, nor do I see how my fish could have had him murdered.’

‘So, you did not kill him to take it back again?’ asked Michael bluntly.

Harysone’s expression hardened. ‘I did not. It is not an especially good specimen, as you can no doubt see, and was already past its best when this man – Norbert you say he was called – won it from me. He was welcome to it. But I do not have to sit here and listen to your accusations.’ He started to stand. ‘So, if there is nothing else …’

‘Just the matter of your wound,’ said Michael, indicating that the pardoner was to sit again. ‘You claim you were stabbed by a student.’

‘It pains me dreadfully,’ said Harysone, adopting a pitiful expression as he lowered his rump on to the bench. ‘I shall have to claim compensation from your University, because the injury inflicted on me by a scholar means that I am unable to work. Indeed, I can barely walk.’

‘I am not surprised you are in pain if you prance around so vigorously,’ said Bartholomew pointedly. ‘The wound is not deep, but I told you to rest, not writhe about like a speared maggot.’

‘I was dancing,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘Although I am a pardoner by trade, I am famed for the rare quality of my jigs. I practise most days, and my body is used to the movement. Dancing will not hurt my back – unlike knives.’

‘I did not realise you were a pardoner.’ Michael pronounced ‘pardoner’ with as much disgust as was possible to inject into a word without actually spitting. ‘You told me you were here to sell copies of your …’ He gestured at the tome on the table, declining to call it a book.

‘Pardoners can write devotional philosophy as well as anyone else,’ said Harysone sharply. ‘In fact, I imagine we do better than most, given the religious nature of our vocation.’ He attempted to look pious, but merely succeeded in looking more sinister. ‘But you will want to know what happened last night when I was grievously injured. I was giving a demonstration of my dancing when I became aware of an intense pain in my back. I staggered towards a table, where I thought to support myself until the agony eased, and it was then that I noticed the scholars.’

‘How do you know they were scholars?’ demanded Michael. ‘Students are not permitted in taverns; it is against the University’s laws.’ He failed to add that students frequently disobeyed that rule, especially around Christmas, when lectures were suspended and there was an atmosphere of celebration. He also declined to mention that he knew Michaelhouse students sometimes patronised the King’s Head – Ulfrid had been open about the fact that he had won a pair of dicing bones from Harysone in that very tavern.