As he stood, feeling his heartbeat slow and his breathing become more regular, he saw he was not the only man braving the
elements that night. A scholar wearing a black tabard was struggling through the drifts towards him. The fellow glanced at
Josse as he joined the messenger in the dim pool of light filtering through the College’s glass windows. With a start, recognition
passed between them, but before they could speak a peculiar hissing sound distracted them both.
At first, Josse did not know what had made the noise, but, suddenly, something of colossal heaviness landed on top of him,
blotting out all light and wrapping him in an icy, wet coldness. He was too startled to do anything, but then he tried to
move and found he could not. With a sharp stab of horror, he realised exactly what had happened: the snow from the roof of
Bene’t had fallen, probably loosened by the fire the scholars were burning in their hall. It had sloughed off like sand, and
Josse had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He was held fast. He could wriggle one finger, but he could not move his arms or legs. He opened his mouth to shout to the
fellow in the tabard to dig him out, but snow immediately poured into it, and he found he could not breathe, either. He became
frantic, trying to draw air into his lungs. But he was helpless. His mind screamed in terror, even as a peculiar lethargy
crept over him. His last thoughts were of bitter regret. He had almost delivered his message, and he could have spent Christmas
with Bess, in London.
Josse was not the only man to die as the small market town prepared to make the best of the miserable weather and celebrate
Christmas. The icy winds had abated somewhat
since he had reached Cambridge, and there had been no blizzards for several days. It was still cold, however, and the snow
that had already fallen stood in large, odorous heaps, speckled brown, yellow and green with sewage, dirt and any other rubbish
that could be caught in the wheels of carts or the hoofs of horses and flung up. Many of the drifts, including Josse’s, had
solidified into mounds of hard, unyielding ice, and the man who had recognised him was comfortable in the knowledge that it
would be some time before the messenger was released from his icy tomb.
The parts of the river and the King’s Ditch that had fast currents had broken free of the ice, and were once again ferrying
their sinister olive-black contents around the town’s edges. Offal, dead animals and discarded clothing bobbed past, turning
this way and that, while shelves of ice jutted tantalisingly across the more sluggish sections, inviting the foolish or unwary
to skate on them. The rutted surfaces of the town’s roads froze nightly, creating a series of ankle-wrenching furrows that
were then mashed into an icy sludge by the feet and wheels that ploughed along them during the daylight hours – a dismal cycle
of freeze and thaw of which Cambridge’s citizens had grown heartily weary.
Christmas was not the most important festival of the year, but it was one people enjoyed nonetheless. The celebrations began
on Christmas Day and lasted twelve nights. Churches were decked with greenery – although some priests balked at pagan traditions
being allowed in houses of God – and special foods were cooked by those who could afford them. However, Norbert Tulyet could
not help but notice that the icy weather had made the town strangely subdued that year, and that the atmosphere of pleasurable
anticipation was uncharacteristically lack-lustre.
Norbert had spent an agreeable evening in the company of a woman who had flattered him and made him feel important. Being
told he was intelligent, handsome and worthy was not something that happened very often, and while he
considered the woman right in every respect, it also engendered feelings of resentment that more people did not share her
opinions. He felt particularly angry with his uncle, who claimed that Norbert was a disappointment to him, and constantly
asked why he was not more like his own son, Richard. Richard Tulyet had been Sheriff for some years, but had recently been
obliged to relinquish the post in order to help with the family business. Richard had not complained overtly, but he had made
it clear that he would not have had to resign if his dissolute cousin had done what was expected of him.
Determined that Norbert should possess the means to support himself before he was turned loose on the world, his uncle had
taken him to Ovyng Hostel, so that he might learn the skills necessary to become a clerk or a lawyer: the number of contested
wills since the plague meant that there was no shortage of work for such men. But Norbert had not enjoyed his letters when
he was a boy, and he did not like studying grammar, rhetoric and logic now that he was a man. He soon discovered that Ovyng
was not a suitable place for a pleasure-loving fellow like himself.
Ovyng was a hostel for Franciscans who, not surprisingly, deplored Norbert and his excesses. In return, Norbert loathed everything
about the Grey Friars – from their shabby habits and leaking boots, to their tedious lessons and preaching about morality.
Fortunately for Norbert, Ovyng’s principal was very grateful for the fees the Tulyets paid for their kinsman’s education,
and intended to keep their reluctant pupil for as long as possible. This meant that most of Norbert’s bad behaviour went unreported,
and the young man was free to do much as he wanted. His uncle continued to pay for the privilege of a University education,
the friars made valiant but futile attempts to teach Norbert the law, and cousin Richard watched it all with thinly veiled
contempt.
Earlier that evening, Norbert had informed Principal Ailred that he planned to celebrate the Feast of St Thomas
with his uncle. Ailred had chosen to believe him, because he was not in the mood for an argument he knew he would not win
anyway: Norbert would leave the hostel whether he had permission or not, but Ailred was sure it would not be to visit his
family. Ailred was right: Norbert had other business in mind.
First, Norbert had been obliged to meet men who had lent him money. Their demands for repayment had become more aggressive
over the last few days, and this was a problem, because Norbert had already spent the three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence
they had lent him, and had none left to give back. Begging another day’s grace, Norbert had escaped to the King’s Head, where
he had enjoyed a good meal – still to be paid for – and won a salted fish from another patron in a game of dice. The fish
was tucked under his arm in a piece of sacking, and he planned to sell it to his ever-hungry Franciscan classmates. The evening
had improved thereafter, and he had passed the next few hours with a woman whose company he enjoyed more each time they met.
By the time he left the tavern, he was drunk and it was late. Unfortunately for him, the clouds had thinned during the evening,
leaving a full moon to illuminate Cambridge’s dismal streets like a great white lantern. The snow reflected the moonlight,
making it brighter than ever, and even the drunken Norbert knew it was not a good night for dodging proctors and beadles –
the men who prowled the streets looking for scholars breaking the University’s rules. Hoping to avoid such an encounter, he
took the towpath along the river, weaving his way along it unsteadily. As he walked, icy water seeped through his shoes in
a way that was far from pleasant, and his thoughts turned maudlin.
Much of his pique was directed against his cousin. It was Richard who had recommended the cut in Norbert’s allowance, which
had obliged him to borrow to pay for his pleasures. So, it was Richard’s fault that he was now under pressure from the lenders
to give it back. The latest demand
had been intimidating, and he wondered whether he should break into his uncle’s house in order to steal what he needed to
pay them off. Since the town was full of travelling entertainers, all hoping to make money during the Christmas season, one
of them would probably be blamed. Norbert’s wine-soaked mind told him that burglary was a good idea, and he was about to wend
his way to the Tulyet home on Bridge Street, when he spotted someone walking towards him.
He staggered quickly to one of the wall buttresses behind Trinity Hall and waited with a thudding heart. His first thought
was that the figure was a beadle, who knew perfectly well that the back of Trinity Hall provided plentiful hiding places for
undergraduates. Norbert did not want to be fined for drunkenness or to spend the rest of the night in a miserable cell with
others who had enjoyed too much wine. But the man who hastened quickly through the snow was only Doctor Bartholomew from Michaelhouse,
who was far too engrossed in thoughts of his patients to notice furtive shadows lurking at the backs of colleges.
The physician entered one of the hovels that lined that part of the river like a row of broken teeth. A candle burned dimly
within, and, with wine-fuelled curiosity, Norbert tottered forward to peer through a gap in the woven willow-twig walls, all
thoughts of stealing from his uncle temporarily forgotten. Inside, he saw Bartholomew kneeling on the ground to tend an old
man whose painful, hacking cough fractured the silence of the night. The patient was Dunstan, and his equally ancient brother
Athelbald hovered anxiously over them like a skeletal angel. Simultaneously fascinated and repelled by the treatment the physician
was giving the sick man, Norbert edged around to the rear of the hut, where the twigs were more rotten and afforded a better
view of the scene within.
He had not been watching for long when he became aware that he and Bartholomew were not the only men out at a time when most
law-abiding folk were tucked up in
their beds. Low voices drifted to him on the still night air, and Norbert stiffened, holding his breath and hoping the speakers
would pass by without seeing him.
‘I am growing weary of your demands,’ one man hissed furiously, as he and a dark-cloaked companion drew level with the hut.
‘You push me too far.’
Norbert heard Dark Cloak sneer his contempt. ‘I have only just started.’
‘You will be sorry for this,’ warned the first man venomously, his beard wagging in the moonlight. ‘I am not a man who easily
forgives, and I have a long memory.’
‘So do I,’ claimed Dark Cloak in a furious whisper. ‘You have done me a great wrong, and I do not let such matters pass unremarked.
You
will
pay.’
Their voices faded as they moved along the towpath towards Small Bridges. Norbert rubbed his chin, trying to make sense of
their conversation. He left his hiding place and set off after them; he was fortunate that all their attention was on their
quarrel, or they would have heard his clumsy pursuit far sooner. They walked stiffly, as though being in such close proximity
to each other was anathema, and Norbert was fairly sure the bearded one held a knife. He tried to walk closer, to hear more
of their discussion. The disagreement reached a climax when the towpath met the Mill Pool, and the two men stopped dead in
their tracks, facing each other like enraged fighting cocks.
‘You committed a foul crime!’ Dark Cloak was shouting, all attempt to keep his voice low forgotten. Norbert supposed it did
not matter, since there were no houses nearby and no one was likely to overhear him anyway. ‘You should think about that before
you make those kind of threats.’
‘I do not care what you—’ Both men turned abruptly when Norbert trod on a rotten piece of wood and its sudden crack gave away
his presence.
Norbert was not afraid. His drunken mind had been mulling over what he had heard, and it occurred to him
that their argument could be turned to his advantage. What he had in mind was a tempting and easy alternative to burgling
his uncle’s house.
‘Crimes,’ he slurred with a dissolute leer, waving his fish at them. ‘And blackmail. I heard you both, gentlemen. Crimes and
blackmail are illegal, and unless you want me to repeat this conversation to the King’s justices, you will make it worth my
while to keep silent.’
The two men gazed at him in astonishment, before glancing at each other, then returning their mystified stares to the dishevelled,
red-eyed spectre that swayed before them. Norbert became aware that the hostility that they had aimed at each other was now
focused wholly on him. Suddenly he felt uneasy.
‘It strikes me that
you
are attempting to blackmail
us
,’ said the bearded man eventually, not bothering to hide his contempt at the ludicrous nature of Norbert’s demand. ‘You will
also be fined or imprisoned if you take this tale to the Sheriff.’
This had not occurred to Norbert. He stood still for a moment, his mouth working like that of a landed fish as his alcohol-soaked
mind thrashed about for an answer. But the bearded man was taking no chances. The knife was in his hand when he stepped forward.
With horror, but far too late, Norbert realised that he had made a serious mistake in attempting to extort money from this
pair. Gripping his fish like a talisman, he turned to flee, but he had taken no more than two or three steps before he felt
something thump hard into his back. A searing pain drove all else from his mind. He felt his legs give way, and he slumped
to the ground.
Dark Cloak eyed his companion uneasily. ‘That was unnecessary.’
‘What would you have me do? Pay him, as well as you? One of your kind is more than enough for me, thank you very much.’
Dark Cloak took a step away, not liking the expression
on his companion’s face, and was glad he had thought to mention earlier that others knew his whereabouts and his business,
or he suspected he might well have suffered the same fate as the unfortunate drunk. The bearded man made an annoyed sound
when he saw that Norbert’s blood had splattered up his sleeve. His weapon was stained, too, and he hurled it with all his
might into the river, before scooping up a ball of snow to clean his hand.
Tossing away the knife had been premature, however. While Dark Cloak argued with the killer, Norbert struggled to his feet,
trying to ignore the agonising ache in his back that made it difficult to breathe, and started to run. But his legs were heavy
and unresponsive, as though he were moving through a vat of treacle. Terror drove him to put one foot in front of the other,
forcing him along the towpath. He was aware that his attacker was coming up behind him, but pushed the knowledge from his
mind, obeying some deep-rooted instinct that urged him to reach Ovyng Hostel. He passed the huts where he had watched Bartholomew
tend the sick man just moments before, and felt the fish slip from his numb fingers. He glanced at it with regret as he staggered
on, sorry to abandon it when it would have fetched a few pennies. But he no longer had the strength to carry it. He turned
up Henney Lane, his breath coming in painful, laboured gasps, irrationally reasoning that his attacker would leave him alone
now that he was no longer on the towpath.