A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The Gilbertine was not a man who usually cared much about personal comforts. Indeed, Bartholomew would not have been surprised if Kenyngham had failed to notice that the conclave was unavailable, so immersed was he in spiritual matters.

‘The Fellows can use the hall instead,’ said Deynman carelessly, struggling out of his friends’ grasp and walking towards the friar. If he was annoyed to have his authority contested quite so soon after his election, he did not show it. ‘That is what this season is all about – changing things and breaking customs.’

‘But I might want to go into the conclave,’ protested Kenyngham, becoming distressed.

‘Do not worry, Father,’ said Deynman kindly, after glancing questioningly at his friends to ensure he had their support. Everyone liked the Gilbertine, and there were nods and smiles all around. ‘You can come in any time you like. The other Fellows are banned, though.’

Kenyngham raised a blue-veined hand as he muttered a blessing. Deynman gave him a conspiratorial wink, then followed his colleagues. Several stumbled over the loose board as they went, unused to the conclave floor’s irregularities.

‘What was that about?’ Bartholomew asked Kenyngham, as they walked together across the hall to the spiral staircase that led to the yard. ‘You do not usually care about such things.’

‘I find the conclave more peaceful than the hall.’

‘You will not if it is full of celebrating students,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he felt the friar was not being entirely honest with him.

He watched Kenyngham head towards his room, then went to his own chamber, intending to leave Michaelhouse before Deynman had time to flex his new muscles of power and ask him to do something inconvenient or silly. The other Fellows had the same idea, and there was a concerted dash for the gate. Bartholomew decided to visit Dunstan, partly because he wanted to see whether there was anything he could do to help the old man, but partly because he hoped Matilde might be there. As he walked along the river bank towards the crumbling huts, he thought about Turke, and wondered what the death of her husband would mean for Philippa and her comfortable life on London’s Friday Street.

CHAPTER 5

There were more celebrations in Michaelhouse that night, with the Lord of Misrule sitting in Langelee’s seat for the St Stephen’s Day supper. Predictably, the Fellows had been instructed to serve, while Deynman was surrounded by his friends at the high table. Agatha, of course, was considered far too venerable to sit with the rabble, so she was placed at Deynman’s right hand, looking pleased with herself as she swilled back plentiful quantities of wine.

The atmosphere was light-hearted and jovial, and everyone seemed to be enjoying himself – although one or two Fellows were grim faced. This merely increased the students’ amusement. Warned by Langelee that the College wine supplies were low and would not support a season of continuous drinking, Deynman had solved the problem with large sums of money. The cellars had been restocked, and the kitchens received a welcome boost of new and interesting victuals.

‘Now we shall have the Chepe Waits,’ decreed Deynman, standing and waving a slopping cup to give emphasis to his instruction. ‘And everyone has to talk while he is eating – English or French, not Latin. We will have no silence or Bible-reading at any meal for the next two weeks.’

‘Twelve days,’ corrected Suttone grimly, struggling with a bowl of leeks. ‘Let us not lose count, please. William knew what he was doing when he broke his leg – at least he is not being submitted to this kind of indignity.’

‘He is also unable to protect himself,’ said Michael, striding past him bearing a platter loaded with meat. His hands and mouth were greasy, and it was clear that he had been working on the ‘one-for-you-and-one-for-me’ principle. ‘Because he could not move, those students were able to rip that habit off him and replace it with a new one. As you can imagine, he complained bitterly.’

Bartholomew could imagine. ‘His leg is not broken, you know,’ he said in a low voice to the monk. ‘If I were to remove the splint, he would be able to walk perfectly well.’

‘Leave the splint where it is, if you please,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I want William incapacitated while I am investigating Norbert’s death. I do not want him “helping”. And anyway, you know he hates the Misrule season. It is better for everyone if he stays in his room.’

‘I am surprised the Chepe Waits are still here,’ said Clippesby, arriving with a bowl of nuts. ‘Frith had a fight with Agatha, and they have all been questioned by the Sheriff about a theft from the King’s Head. I thought they would have been dismissed.’