A Killer in Winter (59 page)

She turned to Michael. ‘When I return home, I shall send funds from my inheritance that will help to establish a new Dympna.’

‘All right,’ said Michael warily. ‘Although I am not sure we need another of those.’

‘It will be safe in the hands of good men,’ said Philippa.

‘Ailred was a good man,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Abigny pointed
to the sky, and took his sister’s arm. ‘We should go, or we shall have to delay our departure until tomorrow – and I am certain
Edith and Oswald want us gone.’

‘Edith has offered us her home when we return from Walsingham,’ said Philippa shyly. She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘When I come
back, with all stains of these horrible events wiped from my conscience, perhaps I could stay a while in Cambridge, and you
and I could resume our friendship
Perhaps where we left off, all those years ago?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘It is a tempting offer, but we have both changed over the years. Although I shall always remember you
with affection, my heart belongs to another.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Philippa, disappointed. ‘But I wish you happiness nonetheless. Do not spurn her because she is poor,
and make the mistake I made.’

‘I will not,’ promised Bartholomew.

The huge drift of snow outside Bene’t College did not thaw as quickly as was hoped, but attacking it with shovels proved to
be hard and futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge were obliged to let it melt in its own time. It did so gradually, and
people commented on its slowly diminishing size when they passed it on the High Street. Children played on it, using its slick
sides for sliding, while some enterprising souls caused a good deal of delight by carving faces into it. Morice’s was one
that was prominently featured, and Agatha’s was another.

Weeks passed, until eventually it dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only
the very base remained. It was Kenyngham who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking from Michaelhouse to his friary
when he saw the hand of the long-dead Josse protruding from it. He knelt, sketching a benediction and muttering prayers for
the soul of a man who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in Josse’s hand.
Kenyngham removed it from the dead, white fingers, and read the message.

It was from John Fiscurtune the younger to Ailred, and informed the friar of the imminent visit of his nephew and his ‘plan’
to relieve Turke of more money. Kenyngham recalled the events that had unfolded that Christmas with a shudder. He folded the
parchment carefully, and put it in his scrip, intending to hand it to Michael later. But first, there was a man’s soul to
pray for, and Kenyngham lost
himself in the sacred words of a requiem for a man he had never met.

Sheriff Tulyet tried hard to discover the dead man’s identity, but Josse had carried nothing to give him any clues, and a
week later he was buried in an unmarked grave in a quiet corner of St Botolph’s churchyard. Quenhyth, recently returned from
delivering Turke’s body to Chepe, heaved a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that someone clever, like Michael or Bartholomew,
would tie the time of Josse’s death to one of the days that Quenhyth had slipped out of Michaelhouse and had gone to the King’s
Head. Gray had told Quenhyth on two occasions that someone there had a note from his father, but both times the summons had
transpired to be a cruel joke that had seen Quenhyth fined by William for being in a tavern. In normal circumstances, Quenhyth
would have ignored Gray’s message, but he had left home on bad terms with his family, and he had so desperately wanted them
to write and tell him that all was forgiven.

Quenhyth recalled the day vividly. It had been after dusk, and the streets were deserted as he had struggled through the blizzard
to the inn. When he had seen Josse, he had stopped dead in his tracks and stared in disbelief. It was the man who had stolen
away his lovely Bess and broken his young heart: Josse was older and more handsome, and the fickle tavern wench had abandoned
Quenhyth for the sturdy messenger without a backward glance. To soothe his hurt, Quenhyth had decided to give up his apprenticeship
as a fishmonger and become a physician instead, wanting to change every aspect of his unhappy life.

When the snow had sloughed off Bene’t College’s roof to land on Josse, Quenhyth’s first reaction had been to rush across and
begin digging him out. But he had stopped himself. If Quenhyth could not have Bess, then Josse should not have her, either.
He had stood for a long time, staring at the pile of snow and thinking about what would be happening underneath. And then
he had gone to the tavern.

When he attended Josse’s requiem – the only person to
do so – Quenhyth felt a grim satisfaction. Life was definitely looking better: he was reconciled with his father, Gray had
left Michaelhouse to take up a new appointment in Suffolk, and no one had discovered his connection with the messenger he
could have saved. Yes, he thought; things were turning out very well indeed.

Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his
scrip in search of pennies, and did not notice Josse’s forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel noticed, however,
and snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure
squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to Robin of Grantchester for a penny.

Robin suffered from poor eyesight when the light was dim, and could not make out the words, either. He did not care what it
said anyway, because parchment was parchment, and too valuable not to be reused. He scraped it clean with a knife, then rubbed
it with chalk, and sold it for three pennies to Godric, the principal of Ovyng Hostel. Robin went to spend his windfall on
a jug of spiced ale at the King’s Head, where he listened, yet again, to Agatha relating the tale of the camp-ball and the
gargoyle at St Mary the Great.

Later that night, Godric wrote a prayer on the parchment he had purchased from Robin. Then he folded it, and took it to the
grassy mound in St Michael’s churchyard, where Ailred had been laid to rest. He scraped a shallow hole and inserted the prayer
inside, before bowing his head and walking away.

C
HRISTMAS IS PAGAN IN ORIGIN, AND CELEBRATED MIDWINTER
and the shortest day. The Church saw that people were unlikely to relinquish this popular glimmer of
fun in the dark, fog-bound days of December, and incorporated it into its own religious calendar. Even today, some pagan motifs
survive – the decking of homes and churches with green boughs, the eating of special foods, and the singing of particular
songs.

Many of the traditions associated with Christmas today derive from the Victorians – the giving of gifts, the ‘season of peace
and goodwill’, silver balls and glittery tinsel. In the fourteenth century, Christmas seems to have been a far more earthy
and raucous occasion – an excuse for eating and drinking, and having a rollicking good time. Records from Benedictine abbeys
list extra food and treats that were purchased for the festival, while contemporary chroniclers report kings putting on lavish
entertainment and supplying astonishing amounts of food for lucky guests. But although the records of one or two Cambridge
Colleges mention Christmas, it is not known exactly what happened there. Term was over, so it is possible some scholars went
home. However, travelling in winter could be difficult, so it is likely that many remained.

Christmas marked the end of Advent, so the lifting of dietary restrictions meant feasts – and feasts meant meat. Richer folk
had roast boar (flavoured with rosemary and bay, and often with an apple), although the poor made do with boar-shaped pastry.

Marchpanes (the medieval equivalent of marzipan) were a traditional favourite at Christmas. They were fashioned
into models called ‘subtleties’. Over the years, these became increasingly elaborate, with scale models of castles and cathedrals
served by Cardinal Wolsey in 1527.

Other foods included hackin (a large sausage that went into boiling water at daybreak), shrid pie (a meaty, oblong affair
that had a basket with a doll on the top – an early version of a crib), mutton, pork, cheese and souse (pickled pig feet and
ears). To drink there was mead, church ale (strong beer that was sold in churches or churchyards) and ‘lambswool’ (hot ale
mulled with apples). Wassailing, which survived the Victorianisation of Christmas, had its origin in toasting the success
of fruit trees, and involved using stored fruit and plenty of alcohol.

Christmas entertainment took two forms. Experts could be hired in, or games could be organised for everyone to play. Records
show that King’s Hall hired people with the mysterious titles of ‘buccinator’, ‘fistulator’, ‘ludens’, ‘ioculator’, ‘lusor’,
‘wayt’ and ‘pleyar’. It is probable these folk were professional entertainers, although whether they were hired in groups
or did individual turns is difficult to say. In addition to these shadowy figures, there were also municipal entertainers
– town ‘waits’, although these were not mentioned in Cambridge until 1394. In 1350–51, King’s Hall spent two shillings and
fourpence on minstrels. In 1306, a woman called Matilda Makejoy was paid as a minstrel, indicating that women, as well as
men, were in the business.

Entertainment that could be joined by everyone included indoor and outdoor games. Gambling was frowned upon by Church and
University alike, but restrictions were relaxed at Christmas, and small stakes on games of chance were permitted. Dicing with
bones (the familiar cubes of today came later) could take several forms. Hasard was a straightforward throwing game, while
raffle used three dice and you had to roll higher scores than your rival. Cross and pile was essentially heads and tails,
while queek involved rolling pebbles across a chequered board, with bets being placed on whether they would land on light
or dark squares. The
more intellectual backgammon was being played in England in the eleventh century, and chess arrived with the Conquest. Merels
was a board game akin to solitaire. Cards were a later invention, and did not become popular until the fifteenth century.

Outdoor games were often rough, particularly camp-ball. This was basically rugby, and involved a leather ball that had to
be passed between fellow team members. There were two goals, which could be several miles apart, and hundreds of people joined
in. It was often violent, and people were sometimes stabbed, usually when they fell against knives carried in belts. Mostly
the ball was thrown, although ‘kicking camp’ used feet. ‘Ice-camping’ involved a lot of skidding and shoving on frozen rivers
and lakes, while ice bandy-ball was a bat and ball game that also had few fules.

Boy bishops and lords of misrule are mentioned in fourteenth-century manuscripts. These were a paradox: they turned rank and
social order upside-down, but at the same time they reinforced the rules by underlining what was normal for the rest of the
year. It was a symbolic occasion, where seniors waited on their juniors, gambling was permitted and cross-dressing was a source
of entertainment. Nevertheless, matters sometimes got out of hand, especially in a town like Cambridge, where the atmosphere
was often volatile.

The climate of northern Europe has not remained unchanged over the last six hundred years. The ‘Little Ice Age’ of the sixteenth
and early seventeenth centuries underlines the Earth’s capacity for environmental change on a global scale. The fourteenth
century experienced its own set of ‘unprecedented’ weather conditions, just as we are today. The climate after 1200 grew colder,
and there was an increase in rainfall. Records tell us there was an exceptionally long and bitter winter in 1306–07, while
there was a series of very wet summers between 1310 and 1317. In a country where weather is naturally unpredictable and variable
– especially when the economy was strongly rural and
poor harvests affected lives at every level – weather was a popular topic of conversation. Then, as now, folk would doubtless
claim that things had been better in the past.

The Fraternity of Fishmongers became the Company of Fishmongers in the early 1370s. Several prominent names emerge during
the middle of the fourteenth century, showing that this guild was powerful in the City of London, and that its members wielded
considerable influence. Walter Turke was a fishmonger, who lived in Chepe in 1350. He had a house near the old fish market,
and was buried in St James’s Church on Garlicke Hythe. Friday Street was a popular location for fishmongers, since it was
convenient for the river, but not too close to the noxious stenches of fish. Friday Street today is a noisy canyon of glass-sided
buildings, and only its name suggests its ancient origins.

Finally, many of the characters in this book were real people. Ralph Langelee was Master of Michaelhouse until 1361. William
(Gotham) and Michael (de Cawston) were also members of Michaelhouse in the middle of the fourteenth century, as were John
Clippesby and Thomas Suttone. Thomas Kenyngham was a founding member, who resigned his Mastership before 1354. John Wynewyk
was a Michaelhouse benefactor, mentioned in the Otringham Book (Otringham was Master of Michaelhouse in 1423, so Wynewyk’s
association was before this date).

Ovyng Hostel was owned by Michaelhouse. It was purchased in 1329 by John de Ilegh – the executor of Hervey de Stanton’s will
– and was a house with a long garden that stood at the junction of Milne Street and St Michael’s Lane. Like other Cambridge
halls of that time, it would have had a principal and a handful of students. Little is known about it, and we do not know
who was its principal in the 1350s.

Cambridge in the fourteenth century was very different to the pretty, much-visited town we know today. It would have been
indescribably dirty, and even the lives of rich merchants would have been bleak compared to our own. The Church dominated
almost every aspect of life, and
murders and accidental deaths were far more common than now. However, walk through Cambridge early one morning, before the
streets are full of students on bicycles flocking to lectures and cars choke the narrow streets, and you will sense something
of the past in the sturdy Colleges and ancient street patterns. You may even hear scruffy scholars called to meals when church
bells chime the hour or imagine the noisy, boisterous crowds that once gathered in the Market Square to play Christmas camp-ball
or to rail against weak or corrupt town officials. Visit, and see for yourself!

For more information on the Bartholomew novels and medieval Cambridge, visit the Matthew Bartholomew website at
www.matthewbartholomew.co.uk.