A Killer in Winter

‘By dispensing pardons for future use,’ Michael replied angrily. ‘I saw Mayor Horwood making a bulk purchase of five pardons for adultery just before All Souls Day – one for the sin he had just committed with Yolande de Blaston, and another four for their assignations over the coming month. It is not right! Do you know why there are so many pardoners in Cambridge now? Because it is Christmas, and they know the lords of misrule will be encouraging behaviour that normally sends folk rushing for a confessor. I shall have to ensure their stay is so uncomfortable that they all leave at the earliest opportunity.’

‘They are doing nothing wrong,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Pardoning is not against the law.’

‘It should be,’ declared Michael. His eyes narrowed as he

watched the object of his dislike begin a curious sequence of motions. ‘What is he doing over there? I thought you said he was in such pain that he was barely able to stand.’

‘That is what he told me.’ Bartholomew was surprised to see Harysone out of bed, let alone moving with such vigour. ‘I gave him a dose of poppy juice and laudanum, but it seems he exaggerated his agonies – either that or my medicine is more potent than I thought.’ He strongly suspected the former, and supposed the removal of the metal, combined with an effective pain reliever, had all but banished any discomfort Harysone might have suffered.

‘Yes, but what is he doing? Is it a contortion that will ease his pain?’

‘Not one he learned from me,’ said Bartholomew, watching the peculiar movements of the pardoner with open curiosity.

‘Now I shall show you an estampie with music,’ Harysone announced to his companions, blithely unaware that he was the object of Michael’s hostile attentions. ‘Landlord?’

The landlord clapped his hands and one of his patrons stepped forward. The man began to sing a well-known song called ‘Kalenda Maya,’ the words of which had been written by the famous troubadour Raimbault de Vaquieras a century and a half earlier. It was a love lament, telling of how the singer would fret until he received news that his lady still loved him. The King’s Head rendition made it sound as though the singer was giving his woman an ultimatum, and was more threatening than pining. Although Bartholomew did not much care for the ‘carol-dancing’ that was currently popular, nor for the new vigorous jumping dance called the ‘saltarello’, he liked estampies. Harysone’s idea of an estampie, however, was unique, and Bartholomew could see why he had believed the pain in his back had originated with it.

The pardoner began by standing with his hands at his side. Then, as the dance began, he produced an elaborate walk that was part strut and part slink, and reminded Bartholomew of a chicken he had once watched after it

been fed large quantities of wine. Then followed a series of leaps, each one involving a lot of leg flexing and windmilling arms. Harysone’s hips ground and rotated like those of Ulfrid’s Turkish whore, and his entire body seemed to undulate and quiver, partly in time with the music, but mostly not.

‘That is disgusting,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘I cannot watch.’

Neither could Harysone’s fellow pardoners. After a few moments of appalled astonishment, they drained their cups and left, obviously unwilling to be associated with the figure that gyrated so obscenely in the middle of the tavern. They cast apologetic grins at the landlord and muttered that they were going to St Botolph’s, where a strong brew called church ale was being sold by the scholars of Valence Marie. Church ale was a popular Christmas tradition, and was usually dispensed in graveyards or – if the rector gave his permission – inside the church itself, hence its name. Bartholomew had always assumed it was sold on holy ground so that the services of a priest could be easily secured for those who drank too much of what was often a very poisonous tipple.

There were a number of women present in the tavern, and Harysone had their undivided attention. Agatha was among them, and she watched Harysone with her jaw open so wide it was almost in her lap. The fierce and sturdy matrons who served ale to the tavern’s fierce and sturdy patrons had been brought to a standstill, thirsty customers forgotten, while several of the Frail Sisters were spellbound. One of them trotted forward and joined the pardoner, trying to match her movements to his. The men in the tavern had much the same reaction as Michael, and turned to their drinks so that they would not have to see.

‘Enough, Master Harysone,’ cried the landlord in agitation, as more of his regulars headed for the door. ‘Thank you for the demonstration. It has been most enlightening. Now, sit down and rest, and I shall bring you some ale.’