‘You closed the river?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because of the thaw?’
Orwelle nodded. ‘I have lived near the water for fifty years, and I know its wiles. The ice stopped being safe this morning, so I gave orders that no games should be played on it today. Morice was furious, because he wanted to hire out skates for ice bandy-ball and ice-camping. He claims my actions have lost him a fortune.’
‘He is not fit to be Sheriff,’ said Michael in disgust, looking angrily at the arrogant man on the grey horse.
‘Why are you here, Brother?’ asked Orwelle. ‘Have you come to try your hand at bittle-battle? I can lend you my club and a ball, so you will not have to pay to hire Morice’s.’
‘Not in the snow, thank you,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘It would ruin my stroke. I am good at bittle-battle; no one can use a long stick to knock a tiny ball into distant holes like me.’
‘How about wrestling?’ asked Orwelle, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are probably good at that, too.’
‘Tilting,’ said Michael, picking the game where the object was to charge a horse at a pivoting bar and knock it hard before it swung back and dismounted the rider. ‘I excel at tilting. But I am not here to win prizes today. Have you seen Ailred from Ovyng? We shall never find him among these crowds.’
‘He left when I closed the river, because he wanted to skate. His students are here, though – in that snowball fight over there.’
Bartholomew looked to where he pointed, and could see Franciscan habits among the swirling crowd heaving icy missiles at anyone in the vicinity. Shrieks and howls filled the air, not all of them delighted ones. The physician could see blood on several faces, and suspected the Sheriff would need to police the event very carefully if he did not want it to turn into something darker and more dangerous. Already apprentices, fresh from the wassail stall, were reeling to join the throng, while scholars were massing on the sidelines, evidently planning some kind of retaliatory strategy.
‘Where did Ailred go?’ asked Michael. ‘Home?’
‘To find some quiet patch of river where he can skate without being warned of the dangers, I imagine,’ said Orwelle disapprovingly. ‘Although, I must say he is extremely good; I have watched him before.’
Bartholomew and Michael abandoned the simmering atmosphere of the Sheriff’s winter games, with Michael passing orders to Beadle Meadowman to keep an eye on the snowball fight and Bartholomew promising the Austin Canons his services, should they be required later. They then made their way along the towpath that ran beside the river.
The river possessed several arms and drains that ran this way and that, comprising an interlacing system of waterways. The King’s Ditch and the river met in the south near Small Bridges, where they formed the Mill Pool. The King’s Mill, which stood nearby, used the power of the swift current to drive its sails and grind its corn, although this could not operate as long as the river was frozen. It stood still and silent, the massive wheel that drove the mill lifted out of the water to protect it from the ice. The Mill Pool itself was sluggish compared to the rest of the river, so it invariably froze first and thawed last in icy weather. It was here that Bartholomew and Michael found Ailred.
The Franciscan had attracted a small but appreciative audience as he demonstrated his skills. His bone skates were fastened to his feet with leather thongs, and the blades had been carefully sharpened, so they hissed and sizzled as they cut across the ice. Others had also been enjoying a little gentle recreation while the ice remained firm, but had ceased their efforts to watch the spectacle provided by the priest. Ailred seemed to soar, rather than skate. He jumped and skipped and danced and turned, and did not seem like the same man who had sat grim-faced gutting fish in Ovyng’s dismal chamber a few days before.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, impressed. ‘Where did he learn to do that?’
‘He is good,’ said Bartholomew in admiration. ‘He makes the others look clumsy.’
‘He is enjoying it, too. Look at his face; he is ecstatic.’
The friar was laughing, encouraging his audience to join him, and rocking with mirth when they attempted to emulate him and failed. He made skating look easy, which Bartholomew knew it was not. It was simple enough if the surface was smooth and the skates well made, but Bartholomew could see the ice was pitted and ridged, and marvelled that the friar did not trip himself. A crowd of admiring children gathered around him, and he began to instruct them. The sound of their delighted chatter rose to where Michael and Bartholomew stood watching, and they were loath to disturb him while the youngsters were enjoying his company.
Eventually, Ailred abandoned the ice, although he was clearly reluctant to do so. His departure was followed by disappointed cries from his new friends, who begged him to stay and ‘play’ with them. Amused to be invited to join a children’s gang, Ailred patted one or two affectionately on the head, then sat on the bank to untie the leather straps that held his skates in place.
‘Those are good blades, Father,’ said Michael, making the Franciscan jump by coming up behind him and speaking loudly. ‘But they look old. You must have had them for some time.’
‘Years,’ said Ailred, flushed and happy from his exertions. ‘I love skating, and had these made specially for me before I became a friar. But what can I do for you? I am sure you did not brave this inclement weather just to watch my little display.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We came to ask more questions about Norbert – questions that we think might help us find his killer at last.’
‘Really?’ asked Ailred, bending a leg so he could inspect one of his feet. ‘That is good news. You were taking so long I was beginning to fear it would never be solved. Damn! A broken thong!’
‘We are very close to solving this mystery,’ said Michael, although this was news to Bartholomew. ‘We have uncovered a good deal of evidence since you and I last spoke – including the fact that you are a member of Dympna.’
Ailred glanced sharply at him. ‘Who told you that? It is supposed to be a secret. Was it Kenyngham? He is at Michaelhouse, so I suppose he must have decided that loyalty to a member of his College was more important than Dympna.’
‘It was not Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘And our source is irrelevant, anyway. The point is that we know. I am surprised you were among Dympna’s members. Your hostel is not wealthy.’
‘I do not provide the money myself,’ said Ailred, a little testily. ‘That came from people during the plague, who pledged their wealth to benefit others. Many friars were given quite large sums, with instructions to pass it to the poor. But Kenyngham and I decided handing out coins with gay abandon was a short-term solution, and we needed to think more carefully about what we could achieve. So, we established Dympna.’
‘You were an original member?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I was an early member,’ corrected Ailred. ‘The original ones were Kenyngham, Giles Abigny and three Dominicans. The Black Friars died, Abigny left the town, and Kenyngham was obliged to appoint new colleagues. He chose me. Currently, we also have Dick Tulyet, who is discreet, honest and absolutely trustworthy, and Robin, who is not.’
‘Nearly all the Cambridge Dominicans died during the Death,’ said Bartholomew soberly to Michael. ‘Of all the Orders, they suffered the heaviest losses, because they continued to visit the sick and grant them absolution.’
‘They were good men,’ said Ailred sadly. ‘I still remember them in my prayers, and so do those who have been helped by their legacy. Even the Franciscans and the Carmelites pray for them, because they have benefited from Dympna.’
‘Let us return to Norbert,’ said Michael, not much interested in Dympna’s lofty history. ‘You heard Godric say that Norbert had received messages from Dympna, and that he went to meet “her” in St Michael’s. Why did you not tell us about Dympna then? It would have saved a lot of trouble.’