A Killer in Winter

‘It will,’ cried William, seeing that he was about to exchange duties he enjoyed, for ones he did not. ‘I cannot teach unless I pace. However, I am sure I can do something to help Michael.’

‘Yes, you can, actually,’ said Michael. ‘You can deal with the beadles’ claim for more pay that we have been avoiding all year. Thank you for your kind offer. I accept most gratefully.’

William’s face was a mask of unhappiness as he was carried from the conclave.

After William had been settled in his room with a jug of wine, Bartholomew retired to his own chamber to nap until Angel Mass. He slept well, despite his fears that he would not manage a wink, and wondered whether he owed that to the wine or to the fact that William’s leg had allowed his pre-sleep thoughts to concentrate on medicine.

Just before midnight he woke, when the sky was at its darkest. He hopped across the icy flagstones in his bare feet, aiming for the water Cynric left for him each day. The temperature had plummeted since he had retired, and the water had started to freeze so he was obliged to smash a crust of ice with the heel of his boot. He lit a candle, then began to shave, jumping from foot to foot in a futile attempt to stave off the painful, aching sensation in his legs that always accompanied standing on Michaelhouse’s stone floors in the winter.

Shaving completed, he donned shirt and hose, then tugged on a pair of shoes – new ones in the latest fashion that were fastened with an ankle strap and had stylish pointed toes. Over the shirt, he drew on a laced gipon – a garment with long sleeves and a padded body that was thigh length and very warm. His scholar’s tabard went over that.

Quietly, so as not to wake the scholars who were still sleeping, he headed across the courtyard to see William. The friar’s snores were loud enough to have made sleep impossible for the two students who had been instructed to stay with him that night. One was Quenhyth, who sat selfishly close to the lamp as he read some medical tract; the other, a Franciscan novice called Ulfrid, was rolling gambling bones on the windowsill to pass the time. Both looked up when Bartholomew arrived, and Quenhyth went through an elaborate pantomime designed to ensure that his master knew he had been working.

‘William will fine you if he catches you playing with those,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, addressing Ulfrid and trying to ignore Quenhyth.

Ulfrid slipped the bones inside his scrip, although he did not appear to be disconcerted to be caught breaking the College’s rules about games of chance. He was a pleasant lad, with a scarred face resulting from some childhood pox.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But I won these bones in a bet with a man in a tavern, and it is hard to resist playing with things that are new.’

Bartholomew struggled not to smile, thinking about the various Franciscan and University rules the student had just blithely admitted to breaking – frequenting taverns, gambling and enjoying possessions. ‘What kind of bet?’ he asked conversationally.

Ulfrid was dismissive. ‘The fellow had written an essay – he called it a book – about fish, and claimed that Galen’s cure for infected wounds was to allow a living crab to eat out the rotten parts. I told him that Galen recommended an oyster, not a crab, and that it was but one of many remedies for that particular condition.’

Bartholomew was impressed. ‘You are not a student of medicine, yet you know Galen?’

Ulfrid grinned. ‘Your description of cures for infections last week was so vivid and horrible that you claimed the attention of every student in the room, even though most were supposed to be listening to different lessons. You will not find a scholar in the College who does not know Galen’s solutions for festering wounds. It served me well, though: it won me a pair of dice.’

‘I am glad to hear it was of some use,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what he should deduce about his teaching skills from Ulfrid’s careless confidences. ‘The man who wrote this essay – was his name Harysone?’

Ulfrid nodded. ‘He is staying at the King’s Head while he persuades people to buy his book. However, if his knowledge of Galen is anything to go by, I think folk should save their money.’

Bartholomew was inclined to agree. ‘Why was he making bets?’

‘He wants to make lots of people aware of his book,’ said Ulfrid disapprovingly. ‘You know how it is: if people know about a thing they are more likely to buy it, regardless of whether it is good or bad. The same thing happened last year with gum mastic – it was said to remove the scent of wine from the breath and was an excellent glue. People’s obsession with it faded after a while, but not before enough had been sold to float the ark.’

‘So, Harysone is selling his wares,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It seems he was telling Michael the truth. He said he was here to dispense copies of his work.’