Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

He was surprised to find most of the Fellows there, even the ailing William, who was snoring loudly enough to cause several of his colleagues to toss and turn restlessly. Rolled into blankets or their spare habits, they looked like soldiers in a field camp as they lay close together to draw on each other’s warmth. Michael was nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew guessed the monk had found a more pleasant place to spend the night than on a hard, stone floor in Michaelhouse.

The physician noted wryly that even in the season of misrule some customs were hard to break: at night, the conclave remained the Fellows’ refuge, while the students used the hall. He was grateful, since the hall was large and draughty.

‘Where have you been, Matthew?’ asked Kenyngham softly. He was sitting at a table, struggling to write in the unsteady light of a candle. ‘Out to tend poor Dunstan? I hear he is suffering sorely in this cold weather.’

‘His lungs are failing. What are you doing, Father? It is too late for work, and you should rest if you intend to say all those masses for Walter Turke tomorrow.’

Kenyngham shuffled together the parchments he had been studying and stuffed them into a pouch. ‘You are right. Earthly matters should not interfere with my ability to say prayers for a man’s soul.’

‘What earthly matters?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. The elderly friar should not have had any responsibilities that necessitated writing in the early hours of the morning, especially since he had resigned as Master and was supposed to be enjoying his retirement. ‘Your teaching?’

‘Something like that,’ whispered Kenyngham with a gentle smile. ‘But we are both tired, and it is too late for talking. Sleep – if William’s snoring will let you.’

It was some time before exhaustion finally allowed Bartholomew to ignore William’s roaring. He wedged himself between Wynewyk and Clippesby for warmth, and his last thoughts were for those of his patients whose homes comprised woven twig walls packed with mud, where a fire that burned all night would be an unimaginable extravagance.

‘The river is frozen like a plate of iron!’ exclaimed Deynman, bursting into the conclave before dawn had broken the following day, as the Fellows were just beginning to stir. ‘And it has snowed so hard that the High Street is more than waist deep in drifts!’

‘Go away, Deynman,’ growled William, trying to manoeuvre himself into a position that was comfortable for his splinted leg. ‘It is too early to listen to your cheerful voice.’

William was wearing a handsome grey robe made from soft, thick wool. The sleeves were the correct length and so was the skirt, so that his ankles and wrists no longer protruded in a ridiculous manner. He cursed it soundly, claiming it was inferior to the one the students had ceremonially burned in the yard, but Bartholomew knew the friar well enough to see he was delighted with his fine new acquisition. However, the physician could not help but notice the garment already bore signs that William owned it – a wine stain on one sleeve and a chain of greasy splatters across the chest.

‘How are you feeling?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he addressed the Franciscan. He shivered. Suttone was stoking up the fire, but it was still cold in the conclave. He stood, trying to stretch the aching chill from muscles that had not enjoyed a night on the floor.

‘I am in pain,’ declared William peevishly. ‘But a cup of wine will ease my discomfort. Wine has a remarkable effect on the body, Matthew. You should recommend it as a tonic for good health. It tastes better than all those foul purges you physicians like to dispense, too.’

‘I am sure it does,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to him to examine the afflicted leg. ‘Shall I remove the splint today? A few days of immobility may have done you good, but you should not prolong it unnecessarily.’

‘But it is broken,’ argued William in alarm. ‘You cannot remove the splint until it has properly healed or I shall spend the rest of my days as a cripple.’

‘It is not broken,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I saw you walking on it yesterday, when you thought no one was watching. It is not healthy to bind a limb that does not need it.’

‘It does need it,’ declared William, equally firmly. ‘It is my leg, and I know it is broken. The splint stays where it is – at least until the cold weather has broken.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘That is the real reason for this malingering, is it? You want an excuse to be out of the cold?’ He gave a wicked smile. ‘And it was only on Christmas Eve that you told me you had exonerated the Dominicans of Norbert’s murder, because they are too feeble to set foot outside while the weather is icy. Now I learn a certain Franciscan is doing likewise.’

‘I am not malingering,’ hissed William, glancing around him, afraid someone might have overheard. ‘You saw me fall; you know my injury is genuine. Besides, I would be certain to stumble and do myself far more serious harm if I were to go out in all this snow. My tripping over that loose board was a blessing.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You are afraid of falling? Is that what this is all about?’

William gave a shudder and, for a moment, there was a haunted expression in his eyes. Bartholomew had only ever seen the more base of human emotions in William – rage, indignation, fanaticism – and he was intrigued to see that William was genuinely afraid of something.

‘I do not like ice,’ whispered the friar hoarsely, looking furtively over his shoulder. ‘I saw a man fall through some once. He struggled, and it cut through his hands and arms like daggers. I was standing on a bridge, and I could see him quite clearly screaming for help under the surface as he was swept to his death, scrabbling with bloodied hands as he tried to break through.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘It must have been terrible.’

‘It was,’ agreed William fervently. ‘His body was never found, and he was wearing three perfectly good emerald rings. But you understand, do you not, why I dislike bitter winters?’

‘People say it is the worst they can recall,’ said Bartholomew, not sure the traumatic loss of three emerald rings was really a valid excuse for William abandoning his University duties.

William snorted in disdain. ‘Then they are wrong. I recall many winters that have been worse than this one, and I remember them better than most, since I hate them so. So, if you leave my splint until I tell you my leg is no longer broken, you will make me a happy man.’ He noticed Bartholomew’s reluctance to condone a lie and his expression became crafty. ‘The Franciscan Friary has a copy of Thomas Bradwardine’s De proportione velocitatum in motibus that is seldom used. I can suggest it be given to you.’

Bartholomew was tempted. Bradwardine was a famous scholar at Oxford University’s Merton College, which had been producing new and dynamic theories relating to the natural universe for the past fifty years. Bartholomew was a great admirer of Bradwardine’s work, but what William was asking …

‘It is all about successive motions and resistance,’ added William enticingly.

Bartholomew wavered, and recalled that Bradwardine was the man who had challenged the traditional Aristotelian principle that half the force that caused an object to move would not necessarily mean half the velocity, and that twice the resistance that caused an object to slow down would not necessarily mean the speed was twice as slow. It was heady stuff, and even thinking about it sent a thrill of excitement down Bartholomew’s spine. But even so …

‘It is illustrated,’ said William desperately. ‘In colour.’