Susanna GREGORY - A Killer in Winter

Feast of Saint Josse (13 December), 1354,

near Cambridge

The winter that gripped England was the worst anyone could remember. It came early, brought by bitter north winds that were laden with snow and sleet. The River Cam and the King’s Ditch – usually meandering, fetid cesspools that oozed around the little Fen-edge town like a vast misshapen halo – froze at the end of November, and children made ice skates from sheep bones. Both ditch and river thawed soon after, but not before claiming two lives: a pair of boys rashly ignored the ominous cracks and increasing slushiness, and plunged through the treacherous surface to their deaths.

At the beginning of December came the first heavy snows, smothering the countryside with an ivory blanket and transforming the brown desolation into a landscape of dazzling, pillowy white. As the snow continued unabated, buildings and trees disappeared beneath drifts. Because winter had come so early, people were unprepared. They had not cut enough firewood, stored enough vegetables, salted enough meat or ground enough grain. Ice choked the mills, and prevented them from satisfying the demand for flour. The price of food – already high after the plague that had ravaged the country five years before – began to spiral upwards again.

More than one family perished when the soft powder crusted over and sealed roofs or blocked chimneys, so that smoke from their fires suffocated them while they slept. Beggars, stray dogs and even folk tucked up in their beds froze to death during the night, and were found dusted silver by frost’s brittle fingers. Others fell victim to shivering agues, or hacking coughs that seared the lungs. Others still broke bones on the icy streets or were crushed by skidding carts or horses. Some refused to allow the weather to interfere with long-laid plans, and set out on journeys from which they never returned: they failed to take into account that icy blizzards could suck warmth and vigour from weary bodies, and make them long for rest among the downy-soft drifts at the sides of the roads – rest that turned into sleep of a more permanent nature.

Josse knew he was taking a risk by travelling from London to Cambridge when the weather was so foul, but he was young, strong and confident. He was a messenger by trade, a man who made his living by carrying written and spoken communications from one person to another. The early winter had been a boon for him, since his services had been in demand by people wanting to inform others about changes of plan brought about by the storms. Usually, Josse confined his business to London, where he lived, but he had been paid handsomely to deliver the letter from the Thames merchant to the Cambridge friar, and half a noble was not a sum to be lightly declined.

The journey of sixty miles would usually have taken a good walker like Josse two or three days. But the snows had slowed him down, and by the sixth day of travelling he had only reached the village of Trumpington, still two miles from Cambridge. He was frustrated by the time he had lost: buxom Bess at the Griffin Inn back at home had agreed to wait for him, but he knew it would not be long before she grew lonely and allowed another man to warm her bed. Bess would inherit the Griffin when its current owner died, so it was more than mere lust or affection that was driving Josse to complete his mission and return with all haste.

As he ploughed through the drifts, his feet felt like lumps of ice, and his legs ached from lifting them high enough to step forward. The lights of Trumpington’s tavern gleamed enticingly through the sullen December day, golden rays of warmth in a world that was cold and white. He decided to rest, reasoning that an hour with a goblet of hot spiced ale in his hands would give him the strength needed to finish the journey before dusk. It was just after noon and, although the days were short, he still had about three hours of good daylight left – more than enough to allow him a brief respite from his journey. He pushed open the creaking door of the Laughing Pig, and entered.

Because ploughing and tilling were impossible as long as snow covered the ground, the tavern was filled with men. They were pleased to see a new face, and the taverner provided Josse with free ale in return for news from London. Josse was good at telling stories, and more time had passed than he had intended by the time he rose and said his farewells. The landlord tried to stop him, claiming that more snow was expected and that the road had been all but impassable earlier that day, but, with the arrogance of youth, Josse shook off the man’s warnings, donned his cloak and set off down the Cambridge road. The landlord watched him go, then poured himself a cup of mulled ale, grateful that he was not obliged to undertake such an unpleasant journey.

Josse had second thoughts himself almost as soon as the landlord closed the door, shutting off the comfortable orange glow from the tavern and leaving him in the twilight world of black and white. However, he told himself that almost two weeks would have passed by the time he returned to London, and that Bess had a short memory. He hefted his pack over his shoulder and began to plough clumsily through the drifts.

The landlord had not been exaggerating when he said the stretch of road between Trumpington and Cambridge would be the worst part of the whole journey; it was not long before the effort of walking had the messenger drenched in sweat. Josse stopped for a moment to catch his breath, but the wind whipped around him, freezing the clammy wetness that trickled down his back. He started moving again, slowly and wearily. The day began to fade, dusk coming early because of the heavy-bellied clouds that slumped darkly overhead.

Fearfully, Josse began to wonder if he would ever reach Cambridge, and acknowledged that he should have listened to the landlord after all. His leg muscles were burning and his back aching, so he turned his mind to what celebrations might be held that evening to observe the feast of St Josse. He gave a thin smile and muttered a prayer. The saint for whom he was named would watch over him.

Soon, the darkness was complete. Clouds blotted out any light that might have come from the moon, and it began to snow, great stinging flakes that hurt his eyes and pricked his face like sharp needles. He sank to his knees, and felt the first hot tears of panic roll down his cheeks.

Then he saw a light. Eagerly, he staggered towards it, hope surging within him. St Josse was watching over him after all! The light came from a lamp swinging outside a priory chapel: the friars had evidently anticipated that there might be travellers on the road, and the torch was a beacon to guide them to warmth and safety. His chest heaving with the effort, Josse reached the priory, then plunged on to where other lights gleamed in the winter darkness.

He passed a noisy tavern with a crude drawing of a man wearing a crown swinging over the door. The King’s Head, Josse surmised. Its occupants were singing lustily, yelling one of the bawdy songs that were always popular around Christmas time. Near the inn was a sombre building with a red tiled roof, which Josse supposed was one of the Colleges. Scholars were a rebellious, unruly crowd, and Josse was heartily glad there was no university developing in the area of London where he planned to live. A board pinned next to the sturdy gate told him that the College was called Peterhouse.