A Killer in Winter

‘You have no choice,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘You must bide by any decisions the Lord makes, while at the same time promising no retribution in the future. You know this; we have been through it before.’

William growled something incomprehensible, and snapped his fingers for Cynric to fetch him some wine. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Gray, and neither did Cynric’s long-suffering grimace. Bartholomew was certain William would soon pay for his abrupt treatment of the servants.

‘I nominate me,’ said Deynman, loudly and rather unexpectedly. For a moment, no one spoke, and everyone in the hall stared at the lad whose limited intelligence would never see him pass his disputations.

‘You cannot nominate yourself,’ said Gray eventually. ‘It is not done.’

‘Who says?’ demanded Deynman, uncharacteristically pugilistic. ‘Just because it has not been done before does not mean that it cannot be done now. And anyway, you were Lord of Misrule last year, and I do not want you again. This year it should be me.’

Several of the students began to cheer his audacity, while Gray looked as black as thunder. ‘But I have made arrangements,’ he said in a low, angry voice. ‘I will ensure that no one will ever forget my last Christmas at Michaelhouse: my reign will be remembered for decades to come.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in alarm. ‘I do not like the sound of that. It does not bode well for us Fellows, of that you can be sure.’

‘I do not care about the Fellows, only that we still have a College at the end of it,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Gray’s idea of a memorable time might be to set the place alight and dance in the flames.’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of the student who had been with him since the plague. ‘He knows there are limits. I cannot say the same for Deynman, however, so you had better hope Gray wins the election.’

But Gray did not win the election. The students were amused by the fact that Deynman had issued a direct challenge to Gray, who was a bully, and the vote for Deynman was almost unanimous. Gray was furious, and slouched on his bench with a face that could curdle milk.

‘Good,’ said Deynman, rubbing his hands together. ‘Give me your tabard, Master Langelee. I shall wear it until Twelfth Night, so that everyone will know that I am in charge.’

‘Very well, but you had better not spill anything on it,’ said Langelee, reluctantly handing over the garment. ‘I want it back clean.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Deynman carelessly, indicating that Langelee would be unlikely to be able to wear the item again. He turned to address his new ‘subjects’. ‘There are some things I should make clear. First, you have to do anything I say … ’

‘Within reason,’ cautioned Ulfrid warily. ‘You cannot ask us to do anything dangerous or too nasty. For example, I refuse to be the one to remove Father William’s habit and wash it.’ The chorus of cat-calls and laughter made William gape in astonishment. Ulfrid hastened to explain to the bemused Fellows. ‘That was on Gray’s list of things to do during the Twelve Days. It is something that should happen, but none of us wants the task.’

‘Brother Michael can do it,’ said Deynman. ‘He is big, strong and used to unpleasant sights.’

‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Bartholomew hastily, anticipating that Michael would refuse to undertake such a gruesome task, which might result in all manner of chaos. ‘If William will relinquish it willingly, then Michael can take it to Agatha-’

‘I will not have that filthy thing in my laundry,’ came Agatha’s voice from behind the servants’ screen, where she had been listening and probably enjoying herself – at least, until she had been mentioned in connection with William’s infamous robe. ‘The bonfire is the best place for that.’

‘I will buy a new one,’ said Deynman generously. ‘And then no one need touch it. That is my second command: William’s vile habit shall never again make an appearance in Michaelhouse.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began William indignantly. ‘This is a perfectly serviceable garment. I admit it is marred by one or two stains-’

Whatever he had planned to say was drowned by laughter. The students hefted their new leader on to their shoulders and carried him to the conclave, which they evidently intended to wrest from the Fellows for the next few days. Gray followed them, a thoughtful expression on his face. His train of thought was obvious to anyone who knew him: Deynman was fond of Gray, and would listen to anything he suggested. So, while Gray might not be Lord of Misrule himself, being the friend of one was the next best thing. Gray would have his power after all.

‘You cannot take the conclave!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, his usually benign face filled with dismay. ‘It is where the Fellows go in the evenings.’