Bartholomew was impressed. ‘You are not a student of medicine, yet you know Galen?’
Ulfrid grinned. ‘Your description of cures for infections last week was so vivid and horrible that you claimed the attention of every student in the room, even though most were supposed to be listening to different lessons. You will not find a scholar in the College who does not know Galen’s solutions for festering wounds. It served me well, though: it won me a pair of dice.’
‘I am glad to hear it was of some use,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what he should deduce about his teaching skills from Ulfrid’s careless confidences. ‘The man who wrote this essay – was his name Harysone?’
Ulfrid nodded. ‘He is staying at the King’s Head while he persuades people to buy his book. However, if his knowledge of Galen is anything to go by, I think folk should save their money.’
Bartholomew was inclined to agree. ‘Why was he making bets?’
‘He wants to make lots of people aware of his book,’ said Ulfrid disapprovingly. ‘You know how it is: if people know about a thing they are more likely to buy it, regardless of whether it is good or bad. The same thing happened last year with gum mastic – it was said to remove the scent of wine from the breath and was an excellent glue. People’s obsession with it faded after a while, but not before enough had been sold to float the ark.’
‘So, Harysone is selling his wares,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It seems he was telling Michael the truth. He said he was here to dispense copies of his work.’
‘He dances,’ said Ulfrid, more disapprovingly than ever. ‘In a way I have never seen before. I did not know whether to laugh or be offended. It reminded me of a Turkish whore I once saw in Bath. His display certainly seized everyone’s attention – which I imagine was what he intended.’
Bartholomew took his leave of Ulfrid, and wandered into the yard. There were three masses planned for Christmas Day, a pattern that would be repeated at churches, friaries and abbeys all over the country. At midnight there was Angel Mass, a pretty occasion, with candles filling the church with golden light, and the building rich with the scent of freshly cut branches. Bartholomew went to his room to don his ceremonial gown and hat, then waited in line with his colleagues until Langelee led the procession to St Michael’s.
Wynewyk went first, struggling under the weight of an immense cross that was part of the College’s treasury and that had been a gift from a wealthy benefactor. Bartholomew hoped he would not drop the thing – at least, not while the townsfolk were looking – and was grateful it only made an appearance on special occasions.
Behind Wynewyk walked Langelee, resplendent in his best robes. He cut a fine figure, his broad shoulders and barrel-shaped body made even more impressive by the addition of ample gold braiding and tassels. Bartholomew thought he looked like a wall hanging, and preferred the simpler style of the Fellows’ ceremonial gowns. These were ankle-length, and tied with a belt at the waist. They were made of scarlet worsted cloth, and the hem and neck were trimmed with fur – ermine for most, although Bartholomew’s was squirrel. The hats matched, and formed a ‘hood turban’ once they had been twisted around the head and the folds arranged properly.
The students followed the Fellows, also dressed in their finery, and bringing up the rear were the servants. Agatha the laundress was at the very end, doubtless believing that the best had been saved for last. She wore a sleeved surcoat that was designed to hold the contours of the body. In Agatha’s case this was unfortunate, given that those contours should have been reserved for her eyes only. She had persuaded the barber to arrange her hair in the latest fashion, which comprised vertical plaits running from the temples to the jaw and held in place by a net. It made her face appear even larger and more square, and Bartholomew saw several onlookers gape at the spectacle as she strode majestically past them.
‘Langelee has hired jugglers for the Twelve Days,’ said Clippesby to no one in particular as they walked. Talking while processing to mass was frowned upon, but without William’s disapproving presence, the scholars were more inclined to break the rules. ‘They are due to arrive tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Kenyngham, surprised. ‘We have never had jugglers before.’
‘Jugglers, singers and dancers,’ elaborated Suttone disapprovingly. Since arriving at Michaelhouse, he had adopted some of William’s more austere habits and had become increasingly humourless and dismal. ‘It is wrong, in my humble opinion. The Twelve Days should be a time for prayer and contemplation, not for heathen rites.’
‘We have been praying and contemplating all through Advent,’ commented Michael bitterly. ‘I think it is an excellent idea to hire a few entertainers. After all, King’s Hall does it.’
‘King’s Hall is a secular institution,’ argued Suttone. ‘It is a training ground for men who will eventually work as clerks for the King. Michaelhouse, however, is a College noted for the religious vocations of its Fellows and masters.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Clippesby brightly. ‘Matt has not taken major orders, and neither have Langelee and Wynewyk.’
‘Nonetheless, I feel it is inappropriate to demean our celebrations by adding a secular element to them,’ insisted Suttone primly. ‘I want no jugglers, dancers or singers at any feast I attend.’
‘The jugglers are not very talented,’ Clippesby went on, ignoring him. ‘I saw them performing in the Market Square, before Langelee secured their services for Michaelhouse.’
‘Heaven help us!’ breathed Wynewyk uneasily. ‘If you find fault with them, they must be dire indeed. You are not a critical man.’
‘Do you mean the troupe who wear red and gold?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby, recalling that he had watched them from behind a tombstone when Michael had been stalking Harysone. ‘You are right: they are not very good.’
‘There are four of them,’ Clippesby went on. ‘Two men and two women.’
‘Women?’ gasped Suttone in a horrified screech. ‘Women?’
‘Excellent,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together in gleeful delight. ‘That should liven the place up a little.’
‘You will be disappointed with their work,’ warned Clippesby, as if he imagined that the monk’s pleasure derived solely from anticipation of the troupe’s artistic talents. ‘However, the election of the Lord of Misrule will provide us with a good deal of enjoyment.’
‘Do not tell me Michaelhouse permits that dreadful custom, too!’ groaned Suttone, holding one bony hand to his head in despair. ‘I thought we were above that kind of thing.’
‘We are not, thank God,’ said Michael vehemently. ‘Who will the students elect? Do you know, Matt?’
‘I hope it is not Gray again,’ replied Bartholomew uneasily. ‘He is too clever, and knows exactly how to create the most havoc. We would be better with someone more sober – like Ulfrid – who would temper his excesses with common sense.’
‘You sound like William,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Where is your sense of fun, man? This is the season when conventions are abandoned and regulations are relaxed. It has its purpose: the easing of rules makes people understand why they are there in the first place, and actually serves to enforce the proper order of things when the celebrations are over. And anyway, it does not hurt for convention to be flouted for a few days each year.’
‘It depends on what exactly is being flouted,’ Suttone pointed out. ‘But we shall see. How are your enquiries proceeding over the death of Norbert?’
‘They are not,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I spent yesterday trawling the taverns in search of anyone who might be able to tell us about Norbert and his woman – Dympna. But I discovered nothing I did not already know.’
‘Dympna?’ asked Kenyngham, startled. ‘But she is a saint.’
‘You know her?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Who is she? Why do you imagine her to be saintly? She cannot be that virtuous if she was dallying with Norbert.’