A Killer in Winter

‘Not me,’ said Michael in distaste, although he was not normally a man to refuse something edible. ‘It has hairs in it. Real ones.’

‘Of course it has hairs,’ said Deynman. ‘It is a head. Will you eat it if I remove them?’

‘Well …’ said Michael, clearly tempted. William’s head represented a sizeable chunk of marchpane, and the monk would have a larger share if he accepted it. He adored the expensive almond-flavoured paste, and such a generous portion was not an offer to be lightly dismissed.

‘Give it to me,’ said Clippesby, snatching the head from Deynman. He broke it in half, and gave part to Michael. Then he began to pull away smaller pieces, handing them to the students. ‘We shall all partake of William’s head.’

‘You have given me the bit with the hair in it,’ said Michael, aggrieved, but making no move to share. ‘They are not his hairs, are they? If so, then none of us should be eating it.’

‘They are from a horse,’ said Deynman. ‘We wanted William’s own, but I could not bring myself to gather them, even when he lay in a drunken slumber after he had broken his leg.’

It was not long before everyone had been given a piece of William – with the notable exception of Gray. The Waits had also been left out, although all four stuck out their hands hopefully when the tray came past. Deynman held up his portion, and a respectful silence fell over the assembly.

‘To William,’ he announced, and thrust the treat into his mouth. The students, Fellows and servants repeated his words and followed suit. Bartholomew did not, suspecting that there was a good reason why Gray had declined his share.

There was. Within moments, the hall was full of gagging and spitting sounds.

‘Horrible!’ cried Michael, flinging away his piece so hard that it disappeared from view near the conclave door. He stuck out his tongue and began to wipe it with a piece of linen, pulling the most disagreeable of faces as he did so. Others were not so genteel. A good many mouthfuls ended up on the floor, and Bartholomew saw Quenhyth being sick.

‘Salt,’ said the physician, taking a careful lick of his own piece, ‘instead of sugar.’

Gray sat in his chair and laughed until he wept, and Bartholomew saw he had had his revenge on the College that had declined to elect him its Lord of Misrule. Gray was not the only one to indulge in spiteful laughter. Bartholomew looked towards the servants’ screen and saw the Waits were equally amused.

Quenhyth was waiting for Bartholomew the following morning when the physician emerged from the kitchens, where he had been helping the other Fellows to clean up after breakfast. Deynman had decreed that the servants should spend the day in the conclave, while the Fellows scrubbed the trays and pans used at the feast the night before. No one was happy with this arrangement: the servants complained that the Fellows would make more work by not cleaning their utensils properly, and the Fellows had not performed such base chores for years and did not want to start now. But Deynman’s orders were law, and they were all obliged to obey them.

‘Are you better today?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that it was Quenhyth who had vomited after eating the salty marchpane.

Quenhyth grimaced. ‘No thanks to Gray. He might have made someone seriously ill with that prank. I hope Master Langelee sees he pays for his irresponsible behaviour.’

‘What did you want?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that Langelee would do nothing of the kind. The Master had thoroughly enjoyed the joke, and considered a mouthful of salt a small price to pay for such rich entertainment.

‘I am consigned to gate duty,’ said Quenhyth resentfully. ‘Deynman says Walter the porter is to deliver a lecture on creation theology, while I am to guard the door.’ He pouted angrily. ‘I have a disputation in a few weeks and I must study. I cannot afford to waste time on foolery like this.’

‘Just do it, Quenhyth,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘If you rebel, you will only find yourself in trouble. Your fanatical attitude to your studies has not endeared you to your fellow students, and you would be wise to do as they ask until the Twelve Days are safely over.’

‘I will not permit them to dictate the pace of my studies,’ declared Quenhyth hotly. ‘Education is a sacred thing, and it is not for the likes of Deynman to tell me when I can and cannot read.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing that his advice was wasted. ‘But why are you telling me all this? There is nothing I can do to relieve you of your gate duties.’

‘I did not imagine there would be,’ said Quenhyth unpleasantly. ‘No man can control that pair of louts – not even their teacher. But I came because you have been summoned by a patient. He wants you to attend him at the King’s Head.’

‘The King’s Head?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He was not usually called to tend the patrons of that particular tavern. The landlord tended to recommend the cheaper services of Robin of Grantchester, who was a townsman and not a member of the University. ‘Who is it?’