A Killer in Winter

‘Morice is demanding a penny from anyone who wants to play in the games,’ he said with disapproval. ‘That is why there are not as many folk as we expected. Morice says it is because I closed the river, but I think it is because he is charging for something that was free last year.’

‘You closed the river?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because of the thaw?’

Orwelle nodded. ‘I have lived near the water for fifty years, and I know its wiles. The ice stopped being safe this morning, so I gave orders that no games should be played on it today. Morice was furious, because he wanted to hire out skates for ice bandy-ball and ice-camping. He claims my actions have lost him a fortune.’

‘He is not fit to be Sheriff,’ said Michael in disgust, looking angrily at the arrogant man on the grey horse.

‘Why are you here, Brother?’ asked Orwelle. ‘Have you come to try your hand at bittle-battle? I can lend you my club and a ball, so you will not have to pay to hire Morice’s.’

‘Not in the snow, thank you,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘It would ruin my stroke. I am good at bittle-battle; no one can use a long stick to knock a tiny ball into distant holes like me.’

‘How about wrestling?’ asked Orwelle, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are probably good at that, too.’

‘Tilting,’ said Michael, picking the game where the object was to charge a horse at a pivoting bar and knock it hard before it swung back and dismounted the rider. ‘I excel at tilting. But I am not here to win prizes today. Have you seen Ailred from Ovyng? We shall never find him among these crowds.’

‘He left when I closed the river, because he wanted to skate. His students are here, though – in that snowball fight over there.’

Bartholomew looked to where he pointed, and could see Franciscan habits among the swirling crowd heaving icy missiles at anyone in the vicinity. Shrieks and howls filled the air, not all of them delighted ones. The physician could see blood on several faces, and suspected the Sheriff would need to police the event very carefully if he did not want it to turn into something darker and more dangerous. Already apprentices, fresh from the wassail stall, were reeling to join the throng, while scholars were massing on the sidelines, evidently planning some kind of retaliatory strategy.

‘Where did Ailred go?’ asked Michael. ‘Home?’

‘To find some quiet patch of river where he can skate without being warned of the dangers, I imagine,’ said Orwelle disapprovingly. ‘Although, I must say he is extremely good; I have watched him before.’

Bartholomew and Michael abandoned the simmering atmosphere of the Sheriff’s winter games, with Michael passing orders to Beadle Meadowman to keep an eye on the snowball fight and Bartholomew promising the Austin Canons his services, should they be required later. They then made their way along the towpath that ran beside the river.

The river possessed several arms and drains that ran this way and that, comprising an interlacing system of waterways. The King’s Ditch and the river met in the south near Small Bridges, where they formed the Mill Pool. The King’s Mill, which stood nearby, used the power of the swift current to drive its sails and grind its corn, although this could not operate as long as the river was frozen. It stood still and silent, the massive wheel that drove the mill lifted out of the water to protect it from the ice. The Mill Pool itself was sluggish compared to the rest of the river, so it invariably froze first and thawed last in icy weather. It was here that Bartholomew and Michael found Ailred.

The Franciscan had attracted a small but appreciative audience as he demonstrated his skills. His bone skates were fastened to his feet with leather thongs, and the blades had been carefully sharpened, so they hissed and sizzled as they cut across the ice. Others had also been enjoying a little gentle recreation while the ice remained firm, but had ceased their efforts to watch the spectacle provided by the priest. Ailred seemed to soar, rather than skate. He jumped and skipped and danced and turned, and did not seem like the same man who had sat grim-faced gutting fish in Ovyng’s dismal chamber a few days before.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, impressed. ‘Where did he learn to do that?’

‘He is good,’ said Bartholomew in admiration. ‘He makes the others look clumsy.’

‘He is enjoying it, too. Look at his face; he is ecstatic.’

The friar was laughing, encouraging his audience to join him, and rocking with mirth when they attempted to emulate him and failed. He made skating look easy, which Bartholomew knew it was not. It was simple enough if the surface was smooth and the skates well made, but Bartholomew could see the ice was pitted and ridged, and marvelled that the friar did not trip himself. A crowd of admiring children gathered around him, and he began to instruct them. The sound of their delighted chatter rose to where Michael and Bartholomew stood watching, and they were loath to disturb him while the youngsters were enjoying his company.