Susanna Gregory
The Mark Of A Murderer
PROLOGUE
Oxford, 10 February 1355 (St Scholastica’s Day)
The Swindlestock Tavern had been painted a delicate pale gold the previous summer, so it stood handsome and resplendent among its more shabby neighbours. The inn was noted for the quality of its brewing, its fine spit roasts and the genial hospitality of its landlord Master Croidon, a squat, cheery-faced man who possessed the kind of belly that indicated he had no small liking for ale himself. His kind brown eyes invited confidences, and this made him popular among those for whom drinking also required a ready listener.
The tavern was peaceful when the scholars entered, but the low murmur of amiable conversation and the busy clatter of pots from the kitchen were not to last. Walter Spryngheuse and his friends walked to a table near the fire, and set about divesting themselves of their ice-clotted cloaks and hats. The wind rattled the window shutters and sent a frigid blast down the chimney, scattering ashes and sparks across the flagstone floor as Croidon came to tend the new arrivals, wiping his hands on his apron and exchanging pleasantries with other patrons as he went.
‘What can I fetch you, sirs?’ he asked, smiling an affable welcome. Drinking in the town’s hostelries was forbidden to members of the University, and the ones who flouted the rules nearly always caused trouble. But Croidon knew Spryngheuse and his colleagues to be sober, decent men, who often used his inn as a venue for their lively discussions on philosophy and natural science, and he did not fear bad behaviour from them. He glanced around as pellets of snow pattered against the window shutters, and did not blame the scholars for choosing his cosy tavern over the cold, draughty halls they called home.
‘Ale,’ replied Spryngheuse, edging closer to the fire. ‘Warmed, if you please. And what are you cooking today?’
‘Mutton,’ replied Croidon. ‘The poor animal froze to death inside her byre two nights ago. It has been a long and bitter winter, and I shall be glad to see it end.’
The clerks nodded heartfelt agreement. It had been one of the worst winters anyone could remember, with roads choked by snow since Christmas, and the river frozen hard, like stone. Life in many University foundations could be dismal even in good weather, and the atrocious weather had rendered some unbearable. Spryngheuse longed to abandon his studies and escape to the relative comfort of his family’s manor in the diocese of Hereford, but the roads west were all but impassable, and only a fool undertook long journeys while violent storms raged.
The scholars finished ordering their meal, then huddled around the table to discuss the latest theories emanating from Merton College on speed and motion. Spryngheuse was a Merton man himself, and used his association with the foundation’s great philosophers to impress the others. His good friend Roger de Chesterfelde was a member of Balliol, which also had its share of clever thinkers, and they began a bantering, light-hearted argument, while the others listened and laughed at the quick-witted insults that were tossed this way and that.
One did not smile, however. He was a slight, serious-faced man who wore the dark habit of a Benedictine. Croidon had not seen him before, and was under the impression that he had attached himself to Spryngheuse’s party without an invitation – the taverner doubted the monk’s tense, dour demeanour would have encouraged the others to befriend him. As soon as Croidon had gone to fetch the ale, the Benedictine made his first move.
‘Heytesbury of Merton is an ass,’ he declared, so harshly and unexpectedly that even the Balliol scholars were taken aback by his vehemence. ‘His theories about uniformly accelerated motion are flawed and illogical.’
Spryngheuse stared at him in astonishment. ‘You are mistaken, Brother: Heytesbury is widely acclaimed as the best natural philosopher Oxford has ever known.’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted the monk aggressively. ‘That honour belongs to Wyclif of Balliol. Is that not true, Chesterfelde?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Chesterfelde, although the tone of his voice was uneasy: it was one thing to assert supremacy with good-natured raillery, but another altogether to be downright rude about it. He jabbed the bemused Spryngheuse in the ribs in an attempt to revert to their former levity. ‘Wyclif is still young, but he is already the superior of your bumbling Mertonians. Just imagine what he will be like when he is the same age as Heytesbury!’
‘Here is your ale, gentlemen,’ boomed Croidon jovially, bearing a tray loaded with jugs. ‘Warmed against the chill of winter.’
‘But you have not heated it as much as you would a townsman’s,’ said the monk, sipping it with distaste. ‘And I asked for wine, anyway.’
‘You did not!’ declared Croidon indignantly. ‘You all ordered ale, and if it is not as hot as you would like, then you can blame the weather. I assure you, I treat all my patrons the same.’
‘Bring me wine,’ ordered the monk, thrusting the ale back at the landlord, so hard that some spilled on the man’s apron. ‘I cannot drink this vile brew.’
Croidon knew better than to argue with bellicose customers. Wordlessly, he took the jug and went to fetch a different drink. The monk’s companions regarded him uncomfortably.
‘That was unmannerly, Brother,’ said Chesterfelde. His face, usually bright with laughter, was flushed, and Spryngheuse was reminded that his friend had an unfortunate tendency to lose his temper rather more quickly than most men. ‘Croidon is right: how can he warm his ales when the weather is so bitter? He is only mortal, and cannot magic hot ale from cold casks.’
‘We are breaking University rules by coming here, but Croidon turns a blind eye as long as we are well behaved,’ said Spryngheuse, resting a hand on Chesterfelde’s arm to calm him. ‘So keep a civil tongue in your head, if you please, Brother. I do not want to be reduced to drinking my ale at Balliol, for God’s sake!’
The others laughed, easing the tension that had arisen at the prospect of an unpleasant altercation between Chesterfelde and the Benedictine. Chesterfelde smiled, too, his flare of temper subsiding. He was always ready to enjoy a joke, and was about to retort with a teasing insult aimed at Merton, when Croidon arrived.
‘Here is your wine,’ the landlord said, placing a goblet in front of his awkward patron, along with several coins that were the change from Spryngheuse’s groat. ‘It is the best we have, and I warmed it myself with the poker from the fire.’
‘It is filth,’ declared the Benedictine, spitting it on the floor. Croidon gaped in disbelief as the monk turned to his companions. ‘Will you allow this scoundrel to sell poor quality brews to scholars, while he saves the best for the secular scum who infest the city?’
‘Hey!’ shouted a listening mason indignantly. ‘Watch your mouth! It is scholars who are scum around here, with their uncouth manners and slovenly ways.’
‘Well?’ demanded the monk, ignoring the mason and fixing Chesterfelde with a challenging glare. ‘Will you sit there and let this vagabond insult your University?’
‘No harm has been done,’ said Spryngheuse hastily, aware that Chesterfelde was beginning to rise to the bait. ‘I think-’
‘And we have been cheated, too!’ interrupted the monk, pointing at the money Croidon had left on the table. ‘Look how much we have been charged. He has one price for students and another for the rest of his patrons.’
‘I must have made a mistake,’ said Croidon, bewildered. He was certain the number of coins had been correct.
‘That is not good enough,’ snapped the monk. ‘Frozen ale, filthy wine and now you try to swindle us.’ He appealed to his companions. ‘Will you let this thief treat us like ignorant peasants?’
‘Not I!’ declared Chesterfelde, incensed by the very notion. He snatched up the monk’s goblet and brought it down hard on Croidon’s head. The landlord dropped to his knees with a howl of pain, and blood dribbled between the fingers he lifted to his scalp.