A Killer in Winter

Bartholomew fell into the hut with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid the whole thing would come tumbling down, leaving the two old men homeless. Dunstan coughed in protest, while his brother made his way unsteadily through the door to see what was going on.

‘Slipped on the ice, did you?’ he asked with a cackle of amusement when he saw the physician sprawled on his back. ‘I told you to watch your footing.’

‘Someone pushed me,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, scrambling to his feet. He knew there was no point in giving chase: his assailant could be hiding anywhere by now. It was cold and dark anyway, and the physician had no desire to be out longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘He must have wanted his fish,’ said Athelbald, a little resentfully when he saw the package had gone. ‘You told me it was no good for eating.’

‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, I would not have eaten it.’

‘Not everyone can afford fastidious tastes like yours,’ grumbled Athelbald. ‘It would probably have been all right with a few fish guts begged from the eel catchers and a good long boil in water from the river.’

Bartholomew felt faintly queasy.

‘Come inside,’ said Athelbald, taking the physician’s arm to guide him back into the hut. ‘Whoever it was meant you no harm, or he would have used a knife and not his fists. We would do well to mind our own affairs, and ignore whatever happened here tonight.’

Bartholomew conceded that he was right, and returned to his duties with the old man’s ailing brother.

Meanwhile, Norbert had headed for Ovyng’s door, hoping that once he reached it he would be safe. Already he had tried screaming for help, but few folk were rash enough to respond to howls in the night, and all that had happened was that he had wasted valuable energy. He gained the door and grasped the latch, praying that the officious friars had not locked it after he had been careful to leave it open. He never found out. No sooner had his fingers touched the metal than there was a crushing pain in his head that all but blinded him.

The bearded man watched Norbert crumple into the snow. Dispassionately, he saw his victim’s eyes close, and a few moments later, heard his breathing stop. Norbert was dead. He dropped the stone and wiped his hand in the snow. It was too dark in the shadows of the lane to see whether the skull-shattering blow had stained his clothes, but he was fairly certain that it had not. He knew from experience that the first strike was relatively clean. He straightened his cloak, dried his wet hand on his jerkin, and made his way towards the High Street, thinking grimly about the unfinished business he still had to resolve with his dark-cloaked companion.

CHAPTER 1

22 December 1354, Cambridge

Matthew Bartholomew studied the man brother Michael pointed out to him. The fellow’s narrow face was framed by long grey hair that glistened with a generous coating of grease, and his unevenly bushy beard was dappled with white. He had moist hazel eyes and a set of enormous horse-like teeth, so large that his lips would never cover them without considerable effort and concentration from their owner. His clothes, however, were well-cut and elaborate, and he carried himself with a self-satisfied swagger, indicating that he considered himself to be the height of sartorial elegance and dashing good looks, even if the reality was somewhat different.

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused as he turned his attention to the dark-robed monk who knelt beside him. ‘What do you want me to say?’

Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘I have already told you. Were you not listening? I need you to give me your medical opinion of the man.’

Bartholomew regarded the burly Benedictine uneasily. ‘You want me to examine him? On what pretext? I cannot just march up and foist my attentions on him out of the blue. He would complain to the Sheriff – and he would be quite right to do so.’

‘Of course I do not want you to examine him,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Well, not up close, at least. I want you to study him from a distance, and tell me what you think.’

Bartholomew laughed, amused by the bizarre nature of the request. They were crouching in the churchyard of St Mary the Great, peering over a lichen-encrusted tomb to the Market Square, where the object of Michael’s attentions was purchasing ink and parchment from one of the stall holders. The man was apparently unaware that he was being observed, although Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before he found out, given that the monk was far too large to be properly concealed by the ancient stone, nor was he making any effort to keep his voice low. Michael had already attracted curious glances from several passers-by, while a small dog cocked its head with pert interest as it watched his antics.