The rubble was still settling when he arrived, and powdery snow that had been hurled into the air was drifting downward like
fine dust. Bartholomew scanned the wreckage in horror, trying to spot anything human. All he could see were smashed beams,
piles of mouldy thatch and a broken door on which a child had painted a bright flower. Bartholomew felt sick. He started to
move toward the mess, but someone caught his hand and stopped him.
‘It is not safe, Matthew,’ came a woman’s low, pleasant voice.
Michael seized the physician’s other arm when he tried to shake her off. ‘Matilde is right, Matt. Wait until it has settled,
then we can go in with ropes and planks.’
Bartholomew stared at Matilde. ‘But Yolande is a friend of yours.’ Yolande de Blaston was one of the town’s more energetic
Frail Sisters, with a list of regulars that included the Mayor, a number of burgesses and several high-ranking
University men. Her occupation doubtless explained why most of her children looked nothing like her carpenter husband.
‘She is safe,’ said Matilde. ‘She and her family are staying with me, because Robert knew the snow would weaken his roof.’
‘No one was in?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.
She smiled at him. ‘You are a good man to be concerned for a tradesman and his family. But Yolande and her brood are well,
and filling my little home with their noise and laughter. I do not know what they will do now, though. They cannot stay with
me for ever, nor can they pay the high rents charged in the town.’
‘Yolande should make use of her contacts,’ said Bartholomew, jumping as a beam snapped and the rubble settled further. Dust
flew out in a choking cloud. ‘Perhaps the Mayor can help.’
‘You mean she should pressure her regulars into doing something for her?’ asked Matilde, her eyes twinkling in amusement.
‘I am surprised at you for making such a suggestion, Matthew! But it is a good idea. I shall recommend that she acts on it.’
‘There is nothing to do here, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We should go to the King’s Head, before Harysone decides to go dancing
somewhere we cannot find him.’
‘Harysone?’ asked Matilde distastefully. ‘I do not like him. His teeth are too long.’
‘You are a woman of discerning taste,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘I do not like him, either.’
‘I will walk with you,’ said Matilde, handing Bartholomew her basket to carry. It was heavy, and he looked under the coverings
to see why. There was a slab of ham, a pudding made with currants and spices, and bread. There were apples, too, albeit wrinkled
and shrunken, and a bottle containing figs soaked in what was probably honey. That would cost a small fortune, he thought.
‘I admire a woman with an appetite,’ said Michael, one
hand snaking towards some fruit. ‘You are right to carry victuals with you: you never know when hunger might strike.’
‘They are not for me,’ said Matilde, laughing as she pushed the monk away. ‘They are for the old men who live on the river
bank – Dunstan and Athelbald. If I ate this kind of fare every day, I would be the size of Philippa Turke.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at her. ‘Why do you mention her?’
She gave him an innocent smile. ‘Only because Edith tells me you and Philippa were once sweethearts – betrothed, no less.
I had no idea you liked large women, Matthew.’
‘I like any women,’ said Michael comfortably, as though the comment had been directed at him. ‘Fat, thin, tall, short. They
are all God’s creatures, and I treat them accordingly.’
‘Philippa was different when we were courting,’ said Bartholomew defensively, before Michael could delve too deeply into his
personal preferences in Matilde’s presence. Although he could not explain why, he always felt uncomfortable when Michael made
lewd comments in front of the woman he admired, and something made him want to protect her from them, despite the fact that
her former profession had probably left her more than adequately equipped to deal with the likes of Michael. ‘She has changed
in more ways than just her size.’
‘It must be odd to see her again after so many years,’ said Matilde expressionlessly. ‘I imagine you were delighted to learn
she was here.’
‘Not exactly. I did not know what to think. She came with her husband, who was undertaking a pilgrimage.’
‘But he is now dead and she is a widow,’ said Matilde. ‘That means that she is free to pursue any potential partner she pleases.
Perhaps she will pursue you.’
‘She has grown too large to pursue anyone, I would imagine,’ said Michael, blithely ignoring the fact that he cut no mean
figure himself. ‘Still, I suppose she may hanker for the handsome physician who captured her heart when she was in the flower
of her youth.’
‘Her husband was very wealthy,’ said Matilde, addressing Bartholomew. ‘So, your Philippa is probably anticipating a rosy future
for herself.’
‘She is not “my” Philippa,’ said Bartholomew, a little nettled. ‘And I am sure Turke’s sons will inherit most of his wealth,
if not all of it. Indeed, she may be even poorer than me.’
‘We shall see,’ said Matilde, retrieving the basket from him when they reached St Michael’s Lane. Without a backward glance,
she walked away, heading for the sorry hovels that lined the river bank. Bartholomew gazed after her, resentful of her insinuations,
while Michael chuckled softly.
‘She is jealous, Matt. That is a good sign. Now you have two women who would like you to be their husband – a fat, greedy
widow or a retired courtesan. It is quite a choice!’
‘There is Giles Abigny,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the short, neat figure hurrying through the Trumpington Gate before
a heavy dray cart pulled by four large horses blocked it. Abigny wore his travelling cloak and his brown hat with the drab
plume. Michael headed towards him, the rotten fish still clamped under his arm, and Bartholomew began to wonder whether they
might be destined to spend the whole day in company with the thing.
‘Nasty weather,’ said Abigny amiably, rubbing his gloved hands together in an effort to warm them. ‘I do not recall another
winter like it. Did you know that the London road is now totally blocked? And the Ely causeway has been impassable since before
Christmas, or Philippa and I would have left by now. We are marooned, unless we want to go to Huntingdon.’ He shuddered fastidiously.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Michael, glancing through the gate at the snow that was piled high on each side of the road to
Trumpington. ‘It is no day for a stroll, and you are limping.’
Abigny grimaced, and raised one foot to show where the leather on his boot had been slit. ‘Chilblains. You have no
idea how painful they can be. I always thought they were an old man’s complaint, so what does that tell you about me, Matt?’
‘That you should wear thicker hose and larger shoes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And that you should wash your feet each night to
ensure the wounds do not fester. Do you want a potion to ease the discomfort?’
Abigny shot him a surprised smile. ‘My old room-mate is a physician, and yet I did not think to ask him for a remedy! I would
be eternally grateful if you could provide me with anything that would make walking less of an ordeal. When can I have it?’
‘I will bring it this afternoon.’
‘If walking is so painful, then why are you out?’ asked Michael nosily.
‘I had business to attend,’ said Abigny. He gave the monk a faint smile. ‘You do not want the details. Suffice to say that
arranging the transport of a fishmonger’s body to a distant burial site is not an easy matter. There are many factors that
need to be taken into account.’
‘Out there?’ asked Michael, indicating the Trumpington Road, where there stood two Colleges, the King’s Head, a church, two
chapels, the Gilbertine Friary, a windmill and a smattering of houses, but nothing that would help solve the problems associated
with taking a corpse to London.
‘Out there,’ agreed Abigny with an enigmatic smile. ‘But it is too chilly to talk here and my feet pain me. I am sure you
two have much to occupy your time, so I shall be on my way. Do not forget that potion, Matt. If you deliver it today, I shall
leave you my worldly goods when I die.’
‘Your fiancée might have something to say about that,’ said Bartholomew. He watched Abigny hobble away, then turned to Michael.
‘What did you make of that?’
They started walking again, but had the misfortune to meet a cart coming the other way, spraying up dirty snow with its great
wooden wheels as it went. Bartholomew ducked behind a stack of barrels, but Michael did not, and swore
furiously at the grinning carter while he brushed the filth from his cloak.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the monk testily, looking in both directions for more carts before making his way to the tavern.
‘Make of what?’
‘Make of the fact that Giles is in pain, yet is willing to walk outside the town. You know as well as I do that no embalmers
or coffin-makers live out here. So, what was he doing?’
‘He has behaved oddly ever since he arrived,’ said Michael. ‘Like Philippa’s, his reaction to Turke’s death is curious. I
told you yesterday there was something unsavoury about the whole incident, and Giles’s secretive manner has done nothing to
make me think any differently.’
‘Turke’s death
and
the fact that Philippa did not mention she had hired the Chepe Waits in London,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Frith and Makejoy told
me about that, and so did Quenhyth.’
Michael shrugged. ‘I do not think the Waits are important – not like her strange reaction to her husband’s death. Perhaps
she had simply forgotten about the jugglers. Even you must see that a band of travelling entertainers is not something that
is likely to occupy the mind of a woman with a household to run for very long.’
‘I disagree. Entertainers are hired for important occasions – events that stick in people’s memories. And the Waits are memorable,
because their act is so poor.’
‘Perhaps there were more talented members in the troupe at that time,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or they wore different costumes.’
‘Not according to Quenhyth. He recalls them just as they are – the same people and the same clothes.’
‘So, what are you saying? That Philippa has a sinister motive for not telling you she hired a troupe of vagrants? Perhaps
she wants to woo you – as Matilde believes – and thinks admitting to an association with the Chepe Waits will put you off.
Or perhaps she guessed – correctly, I imagine – that you would not be interested in the details of her
household affairs. Talking about how to hire vagrants is not recommended as a topic to impress potential suitors with.’
‘I am not a potential suitor,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And even if she regards me as fair game now – which I am sure she does
not, given that she decided against me when I was younger, fitter and less grey – she certainly did not do so while her husband
ate his dinner next to her.’
Michael raised his eyebrows, his expression mischievous. ‘She may have realised Turke ranked a poor second to your charms,
and so decided to move him into the next world.’
Bartholomew sighed impatiently. ‘Do not be flippant, Brother! I am uneasy about this link between her and the Waits. There
is also the fact that her dead manservant – Gosslinge – was in the King’s Head with Frith. I am sure it is significant.’
‘Do not forget we have been told that Harysone was in the King’s Head with the Waits, too,’ said Michael. ‘So, what shall
we do? Shall we arrest Philippa and take her to my prison, where I can question her about the men she hired last summer? Or
shall I arrest the Waits, and demand to know why Philippa denied knowing them?’
Bartholomew gave him a rueful smile. ‘You are right, there is nothing to be gained from these speculations. Philippa will
be gone as soon as the snow clears, and I will probably never see her again.’
W
HEN BARTHOLOMEW AND MICHAEL REACHED THE KING’S
Head with the fish it was past noon, and they discovered Harysone had ignored the physician’s advice to rest, and was in
the tavern’s main room, holding forth to a group of pardoners. The pardoners wore black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, and
Michael became aware that there was a similarity in their clothes and the ones favoured by Harysone. His eyes narrowed with
dislike: Michael detested pardoners, and was as rabid in his loathing of them as William was in his hatred of heretics and
Dominicans.
‘So that is why I detected a spirit of evil in the man,’ the monk said, nodding with grim satisfaction when he saw his suspicions
had some basis. ‘He is a pardoner. You know how I feel about pardoners.’
‘I do,’ said Bartholomew hastily, hoping that a prompt reply would deliver him from the diatribe he sensed was going to follow.
It did not.
‘Pardoners are an evil brood,’ Michael hissed, beginning to work himself into a state of righteous indignation. ‘They travel
the country and make their fortunes by preying on the sick, the weak and the gullible. They peddle false relics, and the promises
of salvation they offer in their pardons are nothing but lies.’
‘Speaking of false relics. I wonder whether that thing Turke gave Langelee is really a saint’s finger,’ said Bartholomew,
attempting to change the subject. He did not think Harysone’s occupation was relevant to the enquiry, especially since he
was not practising his trade in the town, but was only selling his books.
‘Not if it originated with a pardoner,’ said Michael, refusing to take the hint. ‘It is probably not even a finger. Did you
inspect it?’
‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I do not interfere with potentially sacred objects to satisfy my idle curiosity.
It is not unknown for men to be struck down for mistreating holy relics.’
‘Their pardons are the most wicked thing of all,’ said Michael. ‘They spend their evenings writing them on old pieces of parchment,
to make them appear ancient, and then they sell them to the desperate for high prices. The last pardoner I had the pleasure
to drive from my town had a box that contained pardons for every sin from gluttony to lust.’
‘Did you buy any?’
Michael ignored him. ‘They allow criminals to salve their consciences by purchasing pardons, instead of giving themselves
up to the law. And, of course, they encourage vice.’
‘How do they do that?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Michael was in full stride and would not be stopped until he had had his
say. For a man normally so sanguine, it was remarkable how the mere mention of pardoners could reduce the monk to paroxysms
of bigotry.
‘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.’
‘Thank you, landlord,’ said Michael, assuming that he was included in the offer as he settled himself opposite Harysone.
‘Watching that particular performance has induced in me the need for strong drink. You had better make it some of that lambswool
you brew at this time of year, not just common ale.’ Lambswool was hot ale mulled with apples, and the King’s Head Yuletide
variety was known to be mightily powerful.
The landlord was too relieved to see Harysone stop dancing to take exception to Michael’s cheeky demands. He nodded to a pot-boy,
who went to ladle the hot liquid into three jugs, then stood over the monk’s table, wiping his hands on a stained apron. ‘Pig,’
he stated bluntly.
Michael glared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Pig,’ repeated the landlord. ‘It is what we are serving today. Roasted pig, cooked
with some old pears I found at the back of the shed and a few onion skins for flavour. Do you want some?’
‘I do,’ said Michael, oblivious to the fact that the landlord had made his midday offering sound distinctly unappealing.
Bartholomew supposed it was the man’s way of informing Michael that the presence of the Senior Proctor in his inn was an unwelcome
one, and he hoped to shorten the visit by making the monk believe there were no victuals that he would want to linger over.
‘And I shall have some bread, too.’
‘Bread?’ asked the landlord, as though it was some exotic treat. ‘We do not have that.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘No bread? What kind of tavern does not keep bread? How do you expect me to eat the juice and the fat
from the pig? Lick the platter?’
‘Flour is expensive these days,’ said the landlord. ‘The price of a loaf has trebled since the snows came, and most of my
patrons cannot afford such luxuries.’
‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The cost of grain has risen hugely since the mills were forced to stop working
by frozen water. You will have to make do with pig.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said Harysone, baring his huge teeth in a strained grin of welcome as the landlord went to the kitchen.
‘How nice to see you again.’
His eyes glittered moistly as they moved up and down Michael’s person. Instinctively, the monk hauled his cloak up around
his neck, like a virgin protecting her maidenly virtues. Bartholomew sat next to Michael, and resisted the urge to draw up
his hood when he was treated to the same disconcerting appraisal. Harysone reached under the table and produced a copy of
the text he had shown the physician earlier, thumping it in front of Michael with a loud crack that made several people jump.
‘Here is my little BOOK,’ he said loudly, apparently determined that everyone in the tavern should hear him. ‘You have not
seen it yet, Brother. Perhaps you have come to purchase a copy, so that you, like other folk with a thirst for answers to
the greatest of philosophical mysteries on Earth, can improve your knowledge – especially relating to fish.’
‘Fish?’ queried Michael, unable to help himself. ‘What do they have to do with philosophy?’
Harysone pretended to be surprised. ‘How can you ask such a thing? Fish were fashioned by God on the second day of creation,
before trees and after cattle.’
‘Fish did not make an appearance until day four,’ argued Michael immediately. He was a theologian, after all, even if his
duties as Senior Proctor meant he did not spend as much time studying as he should. ‘
After
trees and
before
cattle.’
‘Details,’ said Harysone dismissively. ‘But a learned man, such as yourself, would find a great deal to interest him in my
small contribution. You can have it for virtually nothing – three marks.’
‘You charged the scholars of Valence Marie two marks,’ said Michael with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you imagine me to be a fool, easily
parted from his money?’
‘The price has risen since I visited Valence Marie,’ said Harysone blandly. ‘You know how it is. A week ago, bread cost a
penny, now it is three. The more people clamour for a thing, the more valuable it becomes.’
Michael reached out to examine the book, tugging the heavy wooden cover open, then turning the pages. ‘It is not
very long,’ he remarked critically. ‘And the writing is enormous. Did you scribe it for those with failing eyesight?’
‘Yes,’ said Harysone, unoffended. ‘Scholars have trouble with their eyes, because they spend their time reading ancient manuscripts
in bad light. So I ordered my clerk to make the writing large.’
Michael snapped the book closed. ‘Unfortunately, I have no time to debate with you the statement: “Bonéd Fishe, not Womin,
were phormed from Addam’s Ribb”, which is a pity, because I am sure I would enjoy myself. But while we are on the subject
of fish, do you recognise this?’ He slapped the tench on to the table, so hard that the head broke off to careen across the
surface and drop to the floor on the other side. An unpleasant odour emanated from it.
‘Tench,’ said Harysone, with a fond smile. ‘The queen of fish.’
‘This particular queen of fish was in the possession of Norbert when he was murdered,’ said Michael uncompromisingly, even
though there was scant evidence to prove such a statement, and the monk himself had not even been entirely convinced about
the tench’s relationship with the dead man. ‘I have been told he won it from you in a game of chance.’
‘Yes,’ said Harysone, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did lose a tench to a man, now that you mention it. But I do not know his
name, nor do I see how my fish could have had him murdered.’
‘So, you did not kill him to take it back again?’ asked Michael bluntly.
Harysone’s expression hardened. ‘I did not. It is not an especially good specimen, as you can no doubt see, and was already
past its best when this man – Norbert you say he was called – won it from me. He was welcome to it. But I do not have to sit
here and listen to your accusations.’ He started to stand. ‘So, if there is nothing else …’
‘Just the matter of your wound,’ said Michael, indicating that the pardoner was to sit again. ‘You claim you were stabbed
by a student.’
‘It pains me dreadfully,’ said Harysone, adopting a pitiful expression as he lowered his rump on to the bench. ‘I shall have
to claim compensation from your University, because the injury inflicted on me by a scholar means that I am unable to work.
Indeed, I can barely walk.’
‘I am not surprised you are in pain if you prance around so vigorously,’ said Bartholomew pointedly. ‘The wound is not deep,
but I told you to rest, not writhe about like a speared maggot.’
‘I was dancing,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘Although I am a pardoner by trade, I am famed for the rare quality of my jigs. I
practise most days, and my body is used to the movement. Dancing will not hurt my back – unlike knives.’