A Killer in Winter

Josse had second thoughts himself almost as soon as the landlord closed the door, shutting off the comfortable orange glow from the tavern and leaving him in the twilight world of black and white. However, he told himself that almost two weeks would have passed by the time he returned to London, and that Bess had a short memory. He hefted his pack over his shoulder and began to plough clumsily through the drifts.

The landlord had not been exaggerating when he said the stretch of road between Trumpington and Cambridge would be the worst part of the whole journey; it was not long before the effort of walking had the messenger drenched in sweat. Josse stopped for a moment to catch his breath, but the wind whipped around him, freezing the clammy wetness that trickled down his back. He started moving again, slowly and wearily. The day began to fade, dusk coming early because of the heavy-bellied clouds that slumped darkly overhead.

Fearfully, Josse began to wonder if he would ever reach Cambridge, and acknowledged that he should have listened to the landlord after all. His leg muscles were burning and his back aching, so he turned his mind to what celebrations might be held that evening to observe the feast of St Josse. He gave a thin smile and muttered a prayer. The saint for whom he was named would watch over him.

Soon, the darkness was complete. Clouds blotted out any light that might have come from the moon, and it began to snow, great stinging flakes that hurt his eyes and pricked his face like sharp needles. He sank to his knees, and felt the first hot tears of panic roll down his cheeks.

Then he saw a light. Eagerly, he staggered towards it, hope surging within him. St Josse was watching over him after all! The light came from a lamp swinging outside a priory chapel: the friars had evidently anticipated that there might be travellers on the road, and the torch was a beacon to guide them to warmth and safety. His chest heaving with the effort, Josse reached the priory, then plunged on to where other lights gleamed in the winter darkness.

He passed a noisy tavern with a crude drawing of a man wearing a crown swinging over the door. The King’s Head, Josse surmised. Its occupants were singing lustily, yelling one of the bawdy songs that were always popular around Christmas time. Near the inn was a sombre building with a red tiled roof, which Josse supposed was one of the Colleges. Scholars were a rebellious, unruly crowd, and Josse was heartily glad there was no university developing in the area of London where he planned to live. A board pinned next to the sturdy gate told him that the College was called Peterhouse.

Next to Peterhouse was a church. A sharp new statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a plinth atop what was clearly a recently finished chancel, her blank stone eyes gazing across the road and her hand raised in benediction. An older, chipped statue stood forlornly down in the churchyard, and Josse recognised the characteristic square face and curly beard of St Peter. Here was something that had happened frequently since the plague: an old church – in this case St Peter’s – rededicated to St Mary, because many believed she was more likely to intercede on their behalf should the pestilence ever come again.

But it was no time for thinking about the Death and the changes it had brought, because Josse had at last reached the town gate. He started to make plans, his terror at almost being swallowed by the storm already receding. First, he would deliver his letter to the friar, then he would find a cosy inn, hire a pallet of straw near the fire and sleep until dawn the following day. And then he would set off towards home – to London, Bess and her tavern.

He hammered on the gate, hoping that the guards had not gone home early, secure in the knowledge that no sane person would want access to the town on an evening when a blizzard raged. He was in luck. The sergeant on duty was Orwelle, a reliable man who slept little because his dreams still teemed with memories of the Death – especially of the dear son he had lost. While his companions dozed, Orwelle usually stayed awake, idly rolling dice in games of chance against himself. He had finally managed to banish the chill from his feet, and was not pleased when a knocking meant that he was obliged to go outside.

Because it was bitterly cold, and Orwelle did not want to spend longer than was necessary away from the fire, his questioning of the messenger was brief. He asked to see the money that Josse carried and, satisfied that he could pay for his needs and would not beg, Orwelle opened the gate and allowed him inside.