‘Other than the name of his home manor?’ asked Godric. ‘He always catches more trout from the river than anyone else, and
he prefers fish to meat. But that is all.’
‘It may be enough,’ said Michael, nudging Bartholomew in the ribs. ‘But we should have this discussion with Ailred himself.
Come, Matt. Let us see this Franciscan on his skates.’
Bartholomew and Michael took their leave of Godric, and struggled back through the melting drifts in the direction of the
Great Bridge. At last they reached the river, which curved around the western side of the town and looked like another road,
with its frozen surface and recent dusting of snow. However, all manner of filth lay strewn across its surface – sewage, animal
manure, inedible items from the butchers’ stalls, fish entrails, rotting vegetables, and some items Bartholomew dared not
identify, although he suspected they had once belonged to a dog.
Because it was a winter Sunday, and a day when many folk enjoyed a day of rest, there was a large gathering of people near
the Great Bridge and on the water meadows that lay to either side of it. The fields were prone to flooding in spring, and
so were mostly devoid of houses – although a few desperate folk had erected shacks along the edges. The meadows were used
for grazing cattle in the summer, but now they were blanketed in snow and were the venue
for the town’s traditional First Day of the Year games.
Sheriff Morice had seized control of the event, and was sitting astride his handsome grey stallion, watching the proceedings
from the vantage point of the bridge itself. He was surrounded by his lieutenants, a gaudy and frivolous group who, like Morice,
were more interested in making money than in promoting law and order. The townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the games, although
there was none of the excited anticipation associated with the annual campball.
A number of activities were in progress. Butts had been set up, and townsmen were showing off their skills with bows and arrows.
Dangerously close to their line of fire was a game of ice bandy-ball, where strong men smacked a small wooden sphere with
terrific force, so that anyone in its path could expect serious injury. Meanwhile, an impromptu session of ice-camping had
started, using the same leather bag that Agatha had powered into the gargoyle’s maw a few days earlier. It was more a case
of ‘snow-camping’ than ice-camping, because the soft surface was slowing the speed of the game. Bartholomew thought this would
mean fewer injuries for the participants, although he could not but help notice that it, too, ranged perilously close to the
butts.
Nearby St Giles’s was supplying church ale to the spectators, and women stood behind trestle tables, selling slices of the
sausage-like hackin. A shrid pie was on display, too, decorated with its traditional pastry baby-in-a-basket. Bartholomew
noticed that the women had cut their wedges carefully around the crib, with the result that the baby was left teetering atop
a pastry precipice.
A crowd had gathered around a stall where hot spiced wine was being sold for wassailing. Some folk had already toasted the
health of too many friends, and had passed out in the snow. Bartholomew hoped they would not be left to freeze to death after
the games had finished, but was reassured by the watchful presence of the Austin Canons from the nearby Hospital of St John.
He felt a tug on his cloak,
and turned to see Sergeant Orwelle, a grizzled veteran who usually manned the town’s gates.
‘Morice is demanding a penny from anyone who wants to play in the games,’ he said with disapproval. ‘That is why there are
not as many folk as we expected. Morice says it is because I closed the river, but I think it is because he is charging for
something that was free last year.’
‘You closed the river?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because of the thaw?’
Orwelle nodded. ‘I have lived near the water for fifty years, and I know its wiles. The ice stopped being safe this morning,
so I gave orders that no games should be played on it today. Morice was furious, because he wanted to hire out skates for
ice bandy-ball and ice-camping. He claims my actions have lost him a fortune.’
‘He is not fit to be Sheriff,’ said Michael in disgust, looking angrily at the arrogant man on the grey horse.
‘Why are you here, Brother?’ asked Orwelle. ‘Have you come to try your hand at bittle-battle? I can lend you my club and a
ball, so you will not have to pay to hire Morice’s.’
‘Not in the snow, thank you,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘It would ruin my stroke. I am good at bittle-battle; no one can use
a long stick to knock a tiny ball into distant holes like me.’
‘How about wrestling?’ asked Orwelle, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are probably good at that, too.’
‘Tilting,’ said Michael, picking the game where the object was to charge a horse at a pivoting bar and knock it hard before
it swung back and dismounted the rider. ‘I excel at tilting. But I am not here to win prizes today. Have you seen Ailred from
Ovyng? We shall never find him among these crowds.’
‘He left when I closed the river, because he wanted to skate. His students are here, though – in that snowball fight over
there.’
Bartholomew looked to where he pointed, and could see Franciscan habits among the swirling crowd heaving icy
missiles at anyone in the vicinity. Shrieks and howls filled the air, not all of them delighted ones. The physician could
see blood on several faces, and suspected the Sheriff would need to police the event very carefully if he did not want it
to turn into something darker and more dangerous. Already apprentices, fresh from the wassail stall, were reeling to join
the throng, while scholars were massing on the sidelines, evidently planning some kind of retaliatory strategy.
‘Where did Ailred go?’ asked Michael. ‘Home?’
‘To find some quiet patch of river where he can skate without being warned of
the dangers, I imagine,’ said Orwelle disapprovingly. ‘Although, I must say he
is
extremely good; I have watched him before.’
Bartholomew and Michael abandoned the simmering atmosphere of the Sheriff’s winter games, with Michael passing orders to Beadle
Meadowman to keep an eye on the snowball fight and Bartholomew promising the Austin Canons his services, should they be required
later. They then made their way along the towpath that ran beside the river.
The river possessed several arms and drains that ran this way and that, comprising an interlacing system of waterways. The
King’s Ditch and the river met in the south near Small Bridges, where they formed the Mill Pool. The King’s Mill, which stood
nearby, used the power of the swift current to drive its sails and grind its corn, although this could not operate as long
as the river was frozen. It stood still and silent, the massive wheel that drove the mill lifted out of the water to protect
it from the ice. The Mill Pool itself was sluggish compared to the rest of the river, so it invariably froze first and thawed
last in icy weather. It was here that Bartholomew and Michael found Ailred.
The Franciscan had attracted a small but appreciative audience as he demonstrated his skills. His bone skates were fastened
to his feet with leather thongs, and the blades had been carefully sharpened, so they hissed and sizzled as they cut across
the ice. Others had also been enjoying a little gentle recreation while the ice remained firm, but had
ceased their efforts to watch the spectacle provided by the priest. Ailred seemed to soar, rather than skate. He jumped and
skipped and danced and turned, and did not seem like the same man who had sat grim-faced gutting fish in Ovyng’s dismal chamber
a few days before.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, impressed. ‘Where did he learn to do that?’
‘He is good,’ said Bartholomew in admiration. ‘He makes the others look clumsy.’
‘He is enjoying it, too. Look at his face; he is ecstatic.’
The friar was laughing, encouraging his audience to join him,
and rocking with mirth when they attempted to emulate him and failed. He made skating look easy, which Bartholomew knew it
was not. It was simple enough if the surface was smooth and the skates well made, but Bartholomew could see the ice was pitted
and ridged, and marvelled that the friar did not trip himself. A crowd of admiring children gathered around him, and he began
to instruct them. The sound of their delighted chatter rose to where Michael and Bartholomew stood watching, and they were
loath to disturb him while the youngsters were enjoying his company.
Eventually, Ailred abandoned the ice, although he was clearly reluctant to do so. His departure was followed by disappointed
cries from his new friends, who begged him to stay and ‘play’ with them. Amused to be invited to join a children’s gang, Ailred
patted one or two affectionately on the head, then sat on the bank to untie the leather straps that held his skates in place.
‘Those are good blades, Father,’ said Michael, making the Franciscan jump by coming up behind him and speaking loudly. ‘But
they look old. You must have had them for some time.’
‘Years,’ said Ailred, flushed and happy from his exertions. ‘I love skating, and had these made specially for me before I
became a friar. But what can I do for you? I am sure you did not brave this inclement weather just to watch my little display.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We came to ask more questions about Norbert – questions that we think might help us find his killer
at last.’
‘Really?’ asked Ailred, bending a leg so he could inspect one of his feet. ‘That is good news. You were taking so long I was
beginning to fear it would never be solved. Damn! A broken thong!’
‘We are very close to solving this mystery,’ said Michael, although this was news to Bartholomew. ‘We have uncovered a good
deal of evidence since you and I last spoke – including the fact that you are a member of Dympna.’
Ailred glanced sharply at him. ‘Who told you that? It is supposed to be a secret. Was it Kenyngham? He is at Michaelhouse,
so I suppose he must have decided that loyalty to a member of his College was more important than Dympna.’
‘It was not Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘And our source is irrelevant, anyway. The point is that we know. I am surprised you
were among Dympna’s members. Your hostel is not wealthy.’
‘I do not provide the money myself,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘That came from people during the plague, who pledged
their wealth to benefit others. Many friars were given quite large sums, with instructions to pass it to the poor. But Kenyngham
and I decided handing out coins with gay abandon was a short-term solution, and we needed to think more carefully about what
we could achieve. So, we established Dympna.’
‘You were an original member?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I was an early member,’ corrected Ailred. ‘The original ones were Kenyngham,
Giles Abigny and three Dominicans. The Black Friars died, Abigny left the town, and Kenyngham was obliged to appoint new colleagues.
He chose me. Currently, we also have Dick Tulyet, who is discreet, honest and absolutely trustworthy, and Robin, who is not.’
‘Nearly all the Cambridge Dominicans died during the Death,’ said Bartholomew soberly to Michael. ‘Of all the Orders, they
suffered the heaviest losses, because they
continued to visit the sick and grant them absolution.’
‘They were good men,’ said Ailred sadly. ‘I still remember them in my prayers, and so do those who have been helped by their
legacy. Even the Franciscans and the Carmelites pray for them, because they have benefited from Dympna.’
‘Let us return to Norbert,’ said Michael, not much interested in Dympna’s lofty history. ‘You heard Godric say that Norbert
had received messages from Dympna, and that he went to meet “her” in St Michael’s. Why did you not tell us about Dympna then?
It would have saved a lot of trouble.’
‘I said – several times – that you should not waste your time with Dympna, but you did not listen, and preferred to consider
Godric’s interpretations. I tried to stop you from following a futile line of enquiry without betraying Dympna, but you ignored
my efforts.’
‘You were Dympna’s “keeper” until recently,’ said Michael, unmoved by the reprimand. ‘Did you lend Norbert money?’
‘No,’ said Ailred shortly. ‘Norbert was not a worthy cause.’
‘Why did he receive messages from Dympna, then?’ pressed Michael.
Ailred looked tired. ‘I did not see these missives, so cannot tell you anything about them, other than to assure you that
my
Dympna did not send them. Perhaps Godric is right: there is a woman called Dympna who likes to send decadent young men messages
begging secret meetings. It is an unusual name, but someone may have christened a daughter after the saint, I suppose.’
‘There is another matter I would like to discuss,’ said Michael. ‘I understand you are from a village near Lincoln.’
‘Yes. I often think about Lincoln, and how much better it is than Cambridge. Its cathedral is the most splendid—’
‘You are from Fiscurtune,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And Fiscurtune is a village that has suffered the recent death of someone
who was born there – a relative of yours. James Fiscurtune had the misfortune to be stabbed by a fishmonger named Walter Turke.
I find it a curious coincidence that Turke happened to die while he was skating. He is
obviously as clumsy as you are talented.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ said Ailred, standing and testing the thong he had just repaired. ‘I know neither
Walter Turke nor John Fiscurtune.’
‘Precisely!’ said Michael in triumph. ‘The murdered man’s name was
John
Fiscurtune, not James. I knew you would hear the correct name and not the one I spoke. You
do
know him.’
‘I do not,’ said Ailred stiffly, although his denial was unconvincing.
‘You lied to us,’ Michael went on relentlessly. ‘You claimed you were with your students the evening St Michael’s Church was
invaded, but you were not. Why did you feel the need for dishonesty? What are you trying to hide from us?’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Ailred, sounding panicky. ‘If you are referring to Godric, then you should know he has not been
well. I have ordered him not to join the winter games today, so the warmth of indoors will help him recover his damaged wits.’