‘No, I mean she is a saint,’ repeated Kenyngham. ‘She was a princess in ancient times, who allowed herself to be slain rather than succumb to the unwanted attentions of her incestuous father. She was kind to the poor and especially understanding of the insane.’
‘Clippesby should petition her, then,’ said Suttone matter-of-factly.
‘I doubt a long-dead princess has been sending Norbert notes,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘I need to know about a real, living Dympna, not someone who died centuries ago.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to pass to Dick Tulyet – at least, nothing I feel I can tell him. Norbert had huge debts, and I have learned that if women were not available to satiate his needs, then men would do. This means that I cannot even be sure that Dympna is a lady. She could be anything, even an animal.’
‘Animals do not arrange to meet their lovers by writing notes, any more than do dead saints,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So, I think you can safely confine your enquiries to living humans.’
Angel Mass passed without incident, and Bartholomew forgot Philippa as he admired what the parishioners had done to the church. Every window boasted a woven wreath of yew and rosemary, and someone had managed to climb up to the rafters to hang bunches of herbs from them, so that the church was sweetly fragrant with their scent. It even masked the stale odour of the old albs. Mistletoe, being a pagan plant, was, of course, banned from churches, although Bartholomew saw white berries hidden among one or two of the wreaths, as the townsfolk staged a discreet rebellion. As he watched Michael and Kenyngham celebrate mass at the high altar, the latter’s aesthetic face rapt as he performed his sacred duties, the physician wondered what Christmas would bring to Michaelhouse and its scholars that year.
CHAPTER 3
After angel mass, the scholars returned to Michaelhouse, where they slept until dawn heralded the second service of Christmas Day – Shepherd’s Mass. Bartholomew dozed fitfully, partly because the mellowing effects of the wine had worn off, but also because he was not unaffected by the excited anticipation that pervaded the town. There was an atmosphere of celebration and eagerness, especially among children, whose eyes shone bright in the candlelight, and the air was thick with the smoke of early fires as people began their culinary preparations. Stews and specially hoarded foods were being readied, while cakes and fruit were brought out from storage.
As they walked, Bartholomew felt something brush his face, and looked up to see flecks of white sailing through the air, swirling around the scholars’ robes and settling on cloth-clad shoulders. They darkened the charcoal-grey sky further still, but brightened the streets where they began to settle, whitening the dull brown muck of previous falls.
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, glowering at the sky as though the flakes were a personal insult. ‘It is not supposed to snow until January at the earliest. We have suffered calamity after calamity since the Death – hot summers, where the grain baked to dust in the fields, wet autumns that brought floods, and now early snows.’
‘I remember snow at Christmas when I was young,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not as unusual as everyone claims.’
‘It is unusual,’ declared Suttone, who had been listening to the discussion, and who never allowed an opportunity to pass without mentioning his ever-increasing obsession with impending death and destruction. ‘The weather has grown more fierce because of the plague.’
‘It has not,’ said Bartholomew, becoming weary of explaining that while diseases might well be affected by the climate, the reverse was impossible. ‘The weather is determined by winds and tides, not by sickness.’
‘The weather is determined by God,’ corrected Suttone severely. ‘Is that not so, Kenyngham?’
‘You just said it was caused by the plague,’ countered Bartholomew immediately.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Langelee mildly. ‘You can save this sort of thing for the debating halls. And you are all wrong, anyway. In the words of Aristotle, both the plague and the bad weather are things that just happen, and no amount of reasoning and philosophising will help us understand why.’
‘Those do not sound like Aristotle’s sentiments to me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that Langelee was seriously mistaken. ‘He was a philosopher, and his life was spent speculating about things that have no obvious explanation. He never claimed that because there was no immediate answer we should not try to think of some.’
‘He did other things, too,’ said Langelee, enigmatically vague. ‘But I do not have time to teach you about them now. Here we are at the church. Silence, if you please.’
Having had the last word, he led his scholars inside St Michael’s, where the temperature was even lower than the frigid chill of outside. As the first glimmers of sunlight filtered through the windows, dulling the gleam of gold from the candles, the ceremony began.
Shepherd’s Mass was an important event, and the church was full. The scholars from Ovyng, Physwick, St Catherine’s and Garrett hostels were there, along with the folk who lived in the parish of St Michael. These were a mixed bag, ranging from the families who occupied the seedy shacks that lined the river, to some of the wealthiest merchants in the town. Since benches were provided only for the old or sick, the rest of the parishioners were obliged to stand together in the nave.
Obvious barriers were apparent. The rich were at the front, where they could see what was happening; their servants stood behind them, forming a human wall to prevent them from coming into contact with the rabble who massed at the back of the church. With some trepidation, Bartholomew looked for Philippa, but she was not there. He did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Sheriff Morice stood near the rood screen. He looked smug and affluent, and a redness in his cheeks suggested that he had not bothered to wait for the end of mass before imbibing a little breakfast ale to drive away the chill of early morning. By contrast, the folk from the riverbank huts were pinched and white, some with a cadaverous look that indicated starvation might well claim them before winter relinquished its hold.
Although the men, women and children at the rear of the building were jammed elbow to elbow and scarcely had room to stand, one member of the congregation had plenty of space. This was Robin of Grantchester, the town’s surgeon. He was short and slightly hunched, with dark, greasy hair and a mournful expression that did little to inspire confidence in those unfortunate enough to fall prey to his dubious skills. His clothes were caked in old blood, none of it his own, while the knife bag he carried at his side clanked ominously with his every movement.
Halfway through a psalm, Bartholomew became aware that Michael had stopped chanting, and was glowering towards the nave with an expression that caused more than one person to shift uneasily. However, the real object of his glare was blissfully unaware that if looks could kill then his soul would already be well on its way to the next life. Harysone was present, holding a wide-brimmed hat in his hands and looking very imposing in his black cloak and matching gipon. Bartholomew could see the pale gleam of his long teeth from the chancel, and was reminded of one of the mean-eyed rats that lived near the river.
‘What does he want?’ hissed Michael venomously. ‘He has no right to be here.’
‘He has every right to be here,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘He is doing nothing wrong.’
‘He has come to see whether we have discovered the man he killed,’ determined Michael. ‘Look! He keeps glancing across at the albs.’
‘Actually,’ said Bartholomew, for the first time fully appreciating why the monk detested Harysone so, ‘he is looking at Matilde.’