December 1354 – Cambridge may be preparing for the season of festivities, but physician Matthew Bartholomew is about to spend the twelve days of Christmas searching for a killer …
The winter of 1354 is as bad as anyone can remember: as heavy snow smothers the countryside, ice chokes the flour-mills, causing the price of food to spiral upwards once more. But however cold the weather gets, for two individuals it is about to get even colder. A drunken attempt at blackmail by Norbert Tulyet, errant scholar of the Franciscan Hostel of Ovyng, leaves him dead at the hostel door. And in St Michael’s church a second unidentified body holds an even greater mystery.
For Bartholomew and university proctor Brother Michael, the murders would be difficult to solve at any normal time of the year. But now they’ve got to deal with the students electing their annual Lord of Misrule, ushering in a period of chaos. And if that wasn’t enough, Bartholomew has a further serious distraction to deal with. Philippa Abigny, who he was once betrothed to, has returned to Cambridge with the man for whom she left him, the merchant Sir Walter Turke.
Walter and Philippa are on a pilgrimage to Walsingham for Walter to atone for a sin – in a heated dispute with a dishonest merchant, Walter defended himself and his assailant died. Bartholomew hopes that the couple’s stay will be brief, but he is about to be sorely disappointed. For not only does the mysterious body in church turn out to be Walter’s servant, but a brutal turn of events ensures that Walter will never leave Cambridge again …
Also by Susanna Gregory
A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE
A BONE OF CONTENTION
A DEADLY BREW
A WICKED DEED
A MASTERLY MURDER
AN ORDER FOR DEATH
A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12445-9
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Susanna Gregory
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Historical Note
To Charles Moseley
PROLOGUE
Feast of Saint Josse (13 December), 1354, near Cambridge
THE WINTER THAT GRIPPED ENGLAND WAS THE WORST anyone could remember. It came early, brought by bitter north winds that were laden with snow and sleet. The River Cam and the King’s Ditch – usually meandering, fetid cesspools that oozed around the little Fen-edge town like a vast misshapen halo – froze at the end of November, and children made ice skates from sheep bones. Both ditch and river thawed soon after, but not before claiming two lives: a pair of boys rashly ignored the ominous cracks and increasing slushiness, and plunged through the treacherous surface to their deaths.
At the beginning of December came the first heavy snows, smothering the countryside with an ivory blanket and transforming the brown desolation into a landscape of dazzling, pillowy white. As the snow continued unabated, buildings and trees disappeared beneath drifts. Because winter had come so early, people were unprepared. They had not cut enough firewood, stored enough vegetables, salted enough meat or ground enough grain. Ice choked the mills, and prevented them from satisfying the demand for flour. The price of food – already high after the plague that had ravaged the country five years before – began to spiral upwards again.
More than one family perished when the soft powder crusted over and sealed roofs or blocked chimneys, so that smoke from their fires suffocated them while they slept. Beggars, stray dogs and even folk tucked up in their beds froze to death during the night, and were found dusted silver by frost’s brittle fingers. Others fell victim to shivering agues, or hacking coughs that seared the lungs. Others still broke bones on the icy streets or were crushed by skidding carts or horses. Some refused to allow the weather to interfere with long-laid plans, and set out on journeys from which they never returned: they failed to take into account that icy blizzards could suck warmth and vigour from weary bodies, and make them long for rest among the downy-soft drifts at the sides of the roads – rest that turned into sleep of a more permanent nature.
Josse knew he was taking a risk by travelling from London to Cambridge when the weather was so foul, but he was young, strong and confident. He was a messenger by trade, a man who made his living by carrying written and spoken communications from one person to another. The early winter had been a boon for him, since his services had been in demand by people wanting to inform others about changes of plan brought about by the storms. Usually, Josse confined his business to London, where he lived, but he had been paid handsomely to deliver the letter from the Thames merchant to the Cambridge friar, and half a noble was not a sum to be lightly declined.
The journey of sixty miles would usually have taken a good walker like Josse two or three days. But the snows had slowed him down, and by the sixth day of travelling he had only reached the village of Trumpington, still two miles from Cambridge. He was frustrated by the time he had lost: buxom Bess at the Griffin Inn back at home had agreed to wait for him, but he knew it would not be long before she grew lonely and allowed another man to warm her bed. Bess would inherit the Griffin when its current owner died, so it was more than mere lust or affection that was driving Josse to complete his mission and return with all haste.
As he ploughed through the drifts, his feet felt like lumps of ice, and his legs ached from lifting them high enough to step forward. The lights of Trumpington’s tavern gleamed enticingly through the sullen December day, golden rays of warmth in a world that was cold and white. He decided to rest, reasoning that an hour with a goblet of hot spiced ale in his hands would give him the strength needed to finish the journey before dusk. It was just after noon and, although the days were short, he still had about three hours of good daylight left – more than enough to allow him a brief respite from his journey. He pushed open the creaking door of the Laughing Pig, and entered.
Because ploughing and tilling were impossible as long as snow covered the ground, the tavern was filled with men. They were pleased to see a new face, and the taverner provided Josse with free ale in return for news from London. Josse was good at telling stories, and more time had passed than he had intended by the time he rose and said his farewells. The landlord tried to stop him, claiming that more snow was expected and that the road had been all but impassable earlier that day, but, with the arrogance of youth, Josse shook off the man’s warnings, donned his cloak and set off down the Cambridge road. The landlord watched him go, then poured himself a cup of mulled ale, grateful that he was not obliged to undertake such an unpleasant journey.
Josse had second thoughts himself almost as soon as the landlord closed the door, shutting off the comfortable orange glow from the tavern and leaving him in the twilight
world of black and white. However, he told himself that almost two weeks would have passed by the time he returned to London, and that Bess had a short memory. He hefted his pack over his shoulder and began to plough clumsily through the drifts.
The landlord had not been exaggerating when he said the stretch of road between Trumpington and Cambridge would be the worst part of the whole journey; it was not long before the effort of walking had the messenger drenched in sweat. Josse stopped for a moment to catch his breath, but the wind whipped around him, freezing the clammy wetness that trickled down his back. He started moving again, slowly and wearily. The day began to fade, dusk coming early because of the heavy-bellied clouds that slumped darkly overhead.
Fearfully, Josse began to wonder if he would ever reach Cambridge, and acknowledged that he should have listened to the landlord after all. His leg muscles were burning and his back aching, so he turned his mind to what celebrations might be held that evening to observe the feast of St Josse. He gave a thin smile and muttered a prayer. The saint for whom he was named would watch over him.
Soon, the darkness was complete. Clouds blotted out any light that might have come from the moon, and it began to snow, great stinging flakes that hurt his eyes and pricked his face like sharp needles. He sank to his knees, and felt the first hot tears of panic roll down his cheeks.
Then he saw a light. Eagerly, he staggered towards it, hope surging within him. St Josse was watching over him after all! The light came from a lamp swinging outside a priory chapel: the friars had evidently anticipated that there might be travellers on the road, and the torch was a beacon to guide them to warmth and safety. His chest heaving with the effort, Josse reached the priory, then plunged on to where other lights gleamed in the winter darkness.
He passed a noisy tavern with a crude drawing of a man wearing a crown swinging over the door. The King’s Head, Josse surmised. Its occupants were singing lustily, yelling one of the bawdy songs that were always popular around Christmas time. Near the inn was a sombre building with a red tiled roof, which Josse supposed was one of the Colleges. Scholars were a rebellious, unruly crowd, and Josse was heartily glad there was no university developing in the area of London where he planned to live. A board pinned next to the sturdy gate told him that the College was called Peterhouse.
Next to Peterhouse was a church. A sharp new statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a plinth atop what was clearly a recently finished chancel, her blank stone eyes gazing across the road and her hand raised in benediction. An older, chipped statue stood forlornly down in the churchyard, and Josse recognised the characteristic square face and curly beard of St Peter. Here was something that had happened frequently since the plague: an old church – in this case St Peter’s – rededicated to St Mary, because many believed she was more likely to intercede on their behalf should the pestilence ever come again.
But it was no time for thinking about the Death and the changes it had brought, because Josse had at last reached the town gate. He started to make plans, his terror at almost being swallowed by the storm already receding. First, he would deliver his letter to the friar, then he would find a cosy inn, hire a pallet of straw near the fire and sleep until dawn the following day. And then he would set off towards home – to London, Bess and her tavern.
He hammered on the gate, hoping that the guards had not gone home early, secure in the knowledge that no sane person would want access to the town on an evening when a blizzard raged. He was in luck. The sergeant on duty was Orwelle, a reliable man who slept little because his dreams still teemed with memories of the Death – especially of the dear son he had lost. While his companions dozed, Orwelle usually stayed awake, idly rolling dice in games of chance against himself. He had finally managed to banish the chill from his feet, and was not pleased when a knocking meant that he was obliged to go outside.
Because it was bitterly cold, and Orwelle did not want to spend longer than was necessary away from the fire, his questioning of the messenger was brief. He asked to see the money that Josse carried and, satisfied that he could pay for his needs and would not beg, Orwelle opened the gate and allowed him inside.
Josse made his way up the High Street, drawing level with another of the town’s Colleges, this one identified by a long and complex name that was carved into the lintel over the door. The title involved guilds and saints, and Josse could not make sense of the snow-filled letters. Someone, however, had taken a piece of chalk and had written a simple ‘Bene’t College’ next to it. Josse rested there for a few moments, catching his breath and offering another prayer of gratitude to St Josse for a safe deliverance while he fingered the letter he was going to deliver.
As he stood, feeling his heartbeat slow and his breathing become more regular, he saw he was not the only man braving the elements that night. A scholar wearing a black tabard was struggling through the drifts towards him. The fellow glanced at Josse as he joined the messenger in the dim pool of light filtering through the College’s glass windows. With a start, recognition passed between them, but before they could speak a peculiar hissing sound distracted them both.
At first, Josse did not know what had made the noise, but, suddenly, something of colossal heaviness landed on top of him, blotting out all light and wrapping him in an icy, wet coldness. He was too startled to do anything, but then he tried to move and found he could not. With a sharp stab of horror, he realised exactly what had happened: the snow from the roof of Bene’t had fallen, probably loosened by the fire the scholars were burning in their hall. It had sloughed off like sand, and Josse had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He was held fast. He could wriggle one finger, but he could not move his arms or legs. He opened his mouth to shout to the fellow in the tabard to dig him out, but snow immediately poured into it, and he found he could not breathe, either. He became frantic, trying to draw air into his lungs. But he was helpless. His mind screamed in terror, even as a peculiar lethargy crept over him. His last thoughts were of bitter regret. He had almost delivered his message, and he could have spent Christmas with Bess, in London.
20 December 1354, Cambridge
Josse was not the only man to die as the small market town prepared to make the best of the miserable weather and celebrate Christmas. The icy winds had abated somewhat since he had reached Cambridge, and there had been no blizzards for several days. It was still cold, however, and the snow that had already fallen stood in large, odorous heaps, speckled brown, yellow and green with sewage, dirt and any other rubbish that could be caught in the wheels of carts or the hoofs of horses and flung up. Many of the drifts, including Josse’s, had solidified into mounds of hard, unyielding ice, and the man who had recognised him was comfortable in the knowledge that it would be some time before the messenger was released from his icy tomb.
The parts of the river and the King’s Ditch that had fast currents had broken free of the ice, and were once again ferrying their sinister olive-black contents around the town’s edges. Offal, dead animals and discarded clothing bobbed past, turning this way and that, while shelves of ice jutted tantalisingly across the more sluggish sections, inviting the foolish or unwary to skate on them. The rutted surfaces of the town’s roads froze nightly, creating a series of ankle-wrenching furrows that were then mashed into an icy sludge by the feet and wheels that ploughed along them during the daylight hours – a dismal cycle of freeze and thaw of which Cambridge’s citizens had grown heartily weary.
Christmas was not the most important festival of the year, but it was one people enjoyed nonetheless. The celebrations began on Christmas Day and lasted twelve nights. Churches were decked with greenery – although some priests balked at pagan traditions being allowed in houses of God – and special foods were cooked by those who could afford them. However, Norbert Tulyet could not help but notice that the icy weather had made the town strangely subdued that year, and that the atmosphere of pleasurable anticipation was uncharacteristically lack-lustre.
&n
bsp; Norbert had spent an agreeable evening in the company of a woman who had flattered him and made him feel important. Being told he was intelligent, handsome and worthy was not something that happened very often, and while he considered the woman right in every respect, it also engendered feelings of resentment that more people did not share her opinions. He felt particularly angry with his uncle, who claimed that Norbert was a disappointment to him, and constantly asked why he was not more like his own son, Richard. Richard Tulyet had been Sheriff for some years, but had recently been obliged to relinquish the post in order to help with the family business. Richard had not complained overtly, but he had made it clear that he would not have had to resign if his dissolute cousin had done what was expected of him.
Determined that Norbert should possess the means to support himself before he was turned loose on the world, his uncle had taken him to Ovyng Hostel, so that he might learn the skills necessary to become a clerk or a lawyer: the number of contested wills since the plague meant that there was no shortage of work for such men. But Norbert had not enjoyed his letters when he was a boy, and he did not like studying grammar, rhetoric and logic now that he was a man. He soon discovered that Ovyng was not a suitable place for a pleasure-loving fellow like himself.
Ovyng was a hostel for Franciscans who, not surprisingly, deplored Norbert and his excesses. In return, Norbert loathed everything about the Grey Friars – from their shabby habits and leaking boots, to their tedious lessons and preaching about morality. Fortunately for Norbert, Ovyng’s principal was very grateful for the fees the Tulyets paid for their kinsman’s education, and intended to keep their reluctant pupil for as long as possible. This meant that most of Norbert’s bad behaviour went unreported, and the young man was free to do much as he wanted. His uncle continued to pay for the privilege of a University education, the friars made valiant but futile attempts to teach Norbert the law, and cousin Richard watched it all with thinly veiled contempt.
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 1
