A Killer in Winter

‘But you said Norbert won the tench from Harysone by dicing, and dropped it as he fled for his life,’ said Michael. ‘How can that possibly have anything to do with Turke? And you told me earlier there was nothing odd about Gosslinge’s death. Have you changed your mind?’

‘I think there is something odd about the timing of Gosslinge’s and Turke’s deaths, not the deaths themselves – they both appear to be accidental and caused by the cold. And I think Turke muttering “Dympna”, the fact that he and Gosslinge were in the fishmongering trade, and that Norbert won a fish indicates all three deaths may be related. Perhaps Harysone is the factor that connects them.’

‘I would like you to be right,’ said Michael. ‘You know how dearly I would like to catch that man doing something wrong. But even I cannot see how he can have anything to do with Turke and his servant, just because Norbert happened to win a tench before he died.’

‘You are wrong about Turke’s last words, too,’ added Stanmore. ‘He did not say “Dympna”.’

‘Temper, Templar, Dympna,’ mused Michael thoughtfully. ‘We all heard different things, and there is no way to prove which of us is right. However, there is one other thing we should consider.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, anticipating what the monk was going to say. ‘We might not know what Turke meant, but Philippa certainly did. Her behaviour changed from grief-stricken to coolly contained almost the instant he spoke to her.’

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived back at Michaelhouse, an afternoon meal was ready, and the students were in a state of excitement; they were going to elect their Lord of Misrule, who would run the College for the Twelve Days. This was an ancient tradition and, although some of the Fellows were keen to have it abolished, the students were equally determined to see it continue. The Lord of Misrule had absolute power over all College members, and everyone was obliged to do what he ordered. Usually, this was confined to ordering the Fellows to serve the students at the dinner table, or obliging them to listen to lectures written and delivered by students for their edification. Sometimes the pranks could be amusing, but sometimes they were a nuisance, and other times they were a genuine menace.

Bartholomew felt guilty about joining a room full of celebrating scholars while the woman he had loved was so fresh in her grief, but there was nothing he could do to help her, and it seemed a pity to curb his enjoyment because of the death of a man he had barely known. Resolutely, he pushed the fishmonger from his mind, and tried to give his full attention to the events unfolding in the hall. With some trepidation the Fellows took their places. The students were already there, and there was an atmosphere of tense anticipation among them. Rather unwisely, considering his unpopularity with the undergraduates, Father William had ordered two of his students to help him up the stairs, keen not to miss anything.

‘I do not approve of this ceremony,’ he boomed, sitting on a bench with his damaged leg propped in front of him as he ate stewed turnips and cold meat left over from the feast. ‘Why can we not elect a Boy Bishop, instead? That would be much more in line with the teachings of the Church, and is what the scholars at Valence Marie do.’

‘There is no difference, as far as I can see,’ said Kenyngham. ‘A Boy Bishop is just as likely to cause mischief as is a Lord of Misrule. It is only the name that is different, not the activity.’

‘But a Boy Bishop is obliged to give a sermon in the church,’ argued William. ‘And a church is the best place for these lads at this time of year.’

‘You would not say that if you heard some of the sermons,’ said Suttone, picking up the remains of an eel and gnawing along its backbone with his large teeth. ‘Believe me, William, it is best to keep this sort of thing well away from the sacred confines of God’s houses.’

‘Let us proceed,’ said Langelee, addressing the waiting students. ‘Who are your candidates?’

‘Gray and Quenhyth,’ called the Franciscan Ulfrid, a mischievous grin creasing his face.

Quenhyth was immediately on his feet, his face flushed with outrage. ‘I will not be party to such a disgraceful spectacle! I have no time for stupid pranks and only want to study. You can leave me out of this!’

‘Silly boy,’ muttered Michael, shaking his head in reproof. ‘He should have accepted the nomination, and taken the opportunity to avenge himself on those who have plagued him since September.’

‘Quenhyth is a dull boy,’ said Suttone, spitting eel bones on to the table, where they landed with a light pattering sound. ‘He talks about his lectures and his reading, but nothing else.’

‘He is unwise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By standing down, he has effectively ensured that Gray is elected. And Gray will make his life a misery over the next twelve days.’

‘Gray had better not try to make my life a misery,’ said William threateningly. ‘I will not be harassed by a group of boys.’