A Killer in Winter

‘The Lord of Misrule can do what he likes,’ declared Gray. He snatched up his goblet and gave his friends a grin that was full of mischief. ‘We will not allow the Fellows to renege on their agreement to allow us free rein, will we?’ There was a chorus of nervous agreement, and Gray jumped on to the table, hands on hips as he gazed around him with naked disdain. ‘This is the Twelve Days,’ he declared, glaring at his cronies until they met his eyes. ‘You have been looking forward to it for months. It is our time, when we are free to amuse ourselves and have fun. We will not allow a Carmelite to stand in the way of the best Christmas celebrations Michaelhouse has ever known, will we? Well? What do you say?’

This time the chorus of voices was stronger, and several students came to their feet, raising their goblets in a sloppy salute to Gray.

‘But this is different,’ objected Suttone feebly. ‘Stripping the Virgin!’

‘We shall play “Strip the Virgin” later,’ promised Gray, referring to a well-known game that was popular in venues like the King’s Head. The students cheered in delight. ‘But now we shall strip the marchpane.’

‘Matthew!’ cried Suttone, turning beseechingly to the physician. ‘Gray and Deynman are your students. You must prevent them from doing this.’

But the high table was some distance away, and Bartholomew’s path was blocked by Gray’s friends. The physician knew they would stop him if he walked in their direction, and he did not want to start a fight he could not win. He glanced around for Langelee, but the Master was not in the hall, and Bartholomew supposed he had gone to the cellars for more wine. Michael was as hesitant as Bartholomew to interfere with Gray’s plans, and merely stood near the servants’ screen, drinking the wine he should have been serving.

Meanwhile, Gray started to sing a tavern song, and the words were immediately picked up by the other students and the servants. Bartholomew noticed that even Clippesby was joining in, although the lyrics were obscene, and should not have been in the repertoire of a Dominican friar. The song involved a good deal of cup banging, and the hall was soon awash with noise. Gray leaned towards Deynman and muttered something in his ear. Deynman shook his head, but Gray was insistent, and Deynman’s hand started to move towards the marchpane Madonna.

Suttone’s frantic protests were inaudible through the singing, as Gray had doubtless intended. Deynman’s fingers tightened around the veil and cloak and, with a flourish, he whipped them off. Underneath, the figure was no Madonna. It was a model of Father William, complete with filthy habit, grimy hands and a tonsure that was irregular, bristly and made from real hair. The sculptor had captured the fanatical gleam of the friar’s eyes and the pugilistic pout of his lips. A miniature wineskin dangled at his side, and one foot was resting on a copy of the Rules of St Dominic, the laws and ordinances by which the Dominican Order was governed. In one of his hands was a vast purse with the word ‘fines’ written on it, while the other grasped a book that had ribald songs inscribed on its tiny pages.

There was an appreciative roar of delight from the students, and Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a grin of relief. Suttone rubbed a hand over his face and left the hall, while Clippesby laughed long and hard. Langelee was suddenly among them, holding a casket of wine in his powerful arms. He gaped at the figure, set down his barrel and traced a forefinger down the line of its habit, clearly impressed.

‘Good God!’ he muttered in amazement. ‘It looks real!’

‘It is William in every respect!’ cried Clippesby, perching on the high table to inspect the figure in greater detail. William did not like Dominicans, and Clippesby had been on the receiving end of a good many unprovoked insults. He was obviously delighted that the dour friar had been the butt of the students’ joke. ‘I wish he could see it. Shall we take it to him?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Gray wisely. ‘He will not see the amusing side and will fine us all for worshipping graven images or some such thing.’

‘I can assure you we will not be praying to it,’ said Langelee, standing back to admire the statue and its clever details. There was even a broken sandal strap, just like William’s. ‘But you are right. He will not see the humour. Who made it?’

‘It was-’ began Deynman.

‘That we shall never reveal,’ said Gray, interrupting firmly. ‘William is vengeful, and I do not want to see someone mercilessly persecuted for what is only a little fun. But shall we just stand here and look at it, or shall we eat him?’

‘Eat him!’ yelled the students as one.

Deynman grabbed a knife and began paring away sections of the model, enjoying himself enormously. The students cheered as he worked, particularly when he attacked the head.

‘Who will eat this?’ he cried, waving his trophy in the air.