Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 8

Although Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee spent the rest of the day in the library, working with increasing desperation to locate the documents Radeford had hidden – or duplicates of them – they met with no success. When the light failed, and they were finally compelled to desist, all three were tired, discouraged and frustrated.

‘I cannot recall a time when this place was more popular,’ beamed Dean Talerand, when he came to lock the door after them. ‘No one had been in here for weeks before you arrived, but in the last three days alone, we have had Dalfeld, several vicars, Abbot Multone, Oustwyk, Prioress Alice and even Mayor Longton – and he cannot read!’

‘Did they say what they wanted?’ asked Michael, immediately suspicious.

Talerand waved a careless hand. ‘Oh, this and that. We have a lot of material here, as you know – leases, cartularies, papal bulls, land grants, rents, deeds and privileges, not to mention books.’

‘Not very many books,’ said Bartholomew resentfully, recalling the riches he had been promised. It had not taken him long to learn that the minster’s collection comprised mostly obscure legal texts, and that the few medical tomes he had located were ones he had already read.

‘We have what we need,’ said Talerand, his amiability fading a little. ‘And Surgeon Fournays did not complain when he came to consult Theophilus’s’ De Urinis.’

‘Did he find it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around doubtfully.

‘He did not say, although I expect he did, because he stayed for quite a while. But it is almost time for compline, so you must excuse me.’

The scholars left the minster, dejection showing in the heaviness of their steps. When they reached the precinct gate, they found Cynric waiting. The book-bearer was also disheartened, having spent an unproductive day asking questions in taverns and interviewing fletchers.

‘I vote we abandon our struggles in the library,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘For all we know, these other visitors have already found what Radeford hid and laugh at us while we waste our time there.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Everyone Talerand mentioned just now is a suspect for something – spying, trying to cheat us over Huntington, shooting at Sir William. Or perhaps they came to ensure they had left no trace of the poison that killed Radeford.’

‘And I am suspicious of Talerand himself,’ said Langelee. ‘He seems pleasant, with his smiles and charming eccentricity, but there must be more to him, or he would not have seen off two very determined rivals. Moreover, why did Longton come, when he cannot read? I think I shall pay him a visit this evening, and ask.’

‘Then please be discreet,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘We are dealing with a cunning and ruthless killer, and you may be walking into the lion’s–’

‘I survived this place for years without your advice,’ scoffed Langelee. ‘I think I can manage one drunken Mayor by myself, thank you.’

‘I hope he is right,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Master stride away, his bearing soldierly again now he had set himself a mission. ‘Cynric? Would you…’

‘I will not let him come to harm,’ promised the book-bearer, slipping off into the shadows, and treading as silently as a cat.

‘I shall spend the evening with Multone,’ said Michael. A wolfish expression crossed his face. ‘He is generous with the wine, but I can imbibe far more than he, so we shall see what he lets slip in his cups. What will you do, Matt? Visit Fournays and do the same to him?’

‘Not tonight,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I just want to walk.’

‘Be careful, then. Remember someone has already tried to kill you, possibly more than once.’

It was not a comforting thought, and the warning meant that Bartholomew jumped at every unusual sound. Eager to leave the lively but disconcerting bustle of Petergate, he turned left, and found himself near the Bedern. As he passed, he noticed the vicars’ back gate was open. He glanced around quickly, and as no one was looking, he crossed the street and stepped inside.

The grounds were deserted, but lights blazed from the hall and the clatter of cutlery on plates indicated that the residents were at their evening meal. His thoughts full of Radeford and the villain who had cut short his life, Bartholomew crept towards the building. Its windows had the luxury of glass, but one pane had broken and the wood that replaced it had warped in the rain so that voices drifted out and he was able to see and hear the vicars’ conversation. Unfortunately, they were only discussing the price of shoes; some of them intended to treat themselves again the following day.

Bored, he studied their surroundings, noting that the hall was unusually fine, with a dais at one end, on which sat Ellis, Jafford, Cave and two others. The remainder perched on benches that ran at right angles to it. Delicious smells wafted out, reminding him that he had barely eaten all day. The meal was a sumptuous one, and included an inordinate amount of meat, along with a platter of boiled cabbage that no one had touched.

A vast assortment of church silver was displayed behind the dais, all beautifully polished. Bartholomew stared at it. Was Cotyngham’s there, and he had known when it was removed that he would never have it back? Was that what had turned his wits? Before Bartholomew could ponder the matter properly, Sub-Chanter Ellis stood, and the rumble of idle chatter died away.

‘The scholars lied to us,’ he announced. Even from a distance, Bartholomew could see the red wetness of his lips. ‘They claimed Radeford had found the codicil, but I am reliably informed that they have spent the last three days in the library. In other words, they are still looking for it.’

‘The deceit was almost certainly Radeford’s idea,’ added Cave. The lamplight cast shadows on his face, making him appear more ape-like than ever. ‘By saying he had the document, he hoped we would drop our case. It is a sly ruse, but one Dalfeld told us to expect. It is a common trick among lawyers, apparently.’

Bartholomew clenched his fists in impotent anger, itching to storm the place and inform Cave that he was wrong: Radeford would never have stooped to such low tactics.

‘Ergo, we shall persist with our claim,’ determined Ellis. ‘It is unethical for Huntington to go to a foundation that lies so far away. Its moneys should stay here, in York.’

A few vicars nodded agreement, but most stared at the tables, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that they were uncomfortable with the aggressive stance their sub-chanter had taken.

‘How is Cotyngham?’ asked Jafford suddenly. He shrugged when everyone looked at him in puzzlement. ‘If he regains his wits, he may decline to tender his resignation, in which case our dispute with Michaelhouse is irrelevant.’

‘It will be relevant eventually,’ Cave pointed out. ‘So we may as well settle it now.’

‘And if Cotyngham does recover, we shall ask Warden Stayndrop to keep him where he is, anyway,’ added Ellis. ‘It would be bad for a village to have a mentally unstable priest.’

‘You mean we should tell Stayndrop to imprison him?’ Jafford’s face was white with shock. ‘No! I will not be party to it! Besides, Stayndrop would never agree. He–’

‘He will oblige us if we offer him money,’ interrupted Ellis shortly. ‘I have not met a friar yet who refuses a generous gift for the poor.’

A number of vicars exchanged horrified glances and Jafford opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment there was a loud yell from outside. Bartholomew turned to see two men running towards him. With dismay, he realised he had been so engrossed in eavesdropping that he had failed to watch for servants, and these had seen him framed against the light from the windows. The shout alerted the vicars, and several of the younger, more sprightly ones were already heading for the door.

Cursing the reckless whim that had driven him there in the first place, Bartholomew raced towards the gate. The servants hared after him, bawling their indignation. More voices joined in, and Bartholomew glanced behind him to see a number of priests were already hot on their heels.

Could he escape from so many? He knew he had to try – Cave was one of those in front, and he did not like to imagine what would happen to him if he fell into those vengeful hands.

Bartholomew flew through the gate and turned towards the main road, sprinting as hard as he could, although it was not easy in unfamiliar terrain, and he could tell from the rattling footfalls behind him that his pursuers were gaining. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in gasps.

How could he have been so foolish? Even if he survived the trouncing they were sure to give him, the incident was going to reflect badly on Michaelhouse, and might even cost them Huntington. He reached another of York’s many churches, and tore around the end of it, wondering whether to risk ducking down an alley – the danger being that it might be a dead end. But before he could decide, disaster struck.

Someone materialised in front of him, and although he tried to avoid a collision, he was moving far too fast, and the impact sent him flying. He scrambled upright, but the tumble had lost him vital moments, and capture was now inevitable.

Fortunately, the person he had crashed into had other ideas. A powerful hand fastened around his arm, and he was hauled into the damp, cobwebbed recesses of a graveyard yew. Moments later, the vicars tore past, howling their outrage when they saw their quarry had disappeared. Several had the presence of mind to peel off and search the churchyard, but none thought to look in the tree.

‘That was a close call,’ said Marmaduke, when they had gone. ‘Cave has a nasty temper, and is not above expressing it with his fists. What were you doing to annoy him?’

‘Eavesdropping,’ confessed Bartholomew, seeing no point in adjusting the truth. The tale was likely to be all over York the following day, and there was nothing to be gained from lying.

The ex-priest regarded him askance. ‘I know I said I wanted to help Michaelhouse, but assisting spies was what not quite what I had in mind! Still, I am glad to have been of service.’

‘They have a lot of church plate,’ Bartholomew heard himself say, and supposed relief at his escape was making him gabble. ‘Behind the dais in their hall.’

‘They do. It is a wealthy foundation, and Ellis has always been partial to silver.’

‘Would you recognise Huntington’s?’

Bartholomew was not sure why he had asked, because he and Marmaduke could hardly march into the Bedern and demand to inspect their collection. And what if Marmaduke did identify Cotyngham’s? Ellis would claim he was minding it until Cotyngham had recovered, and no one would find fault with that – it would be irresponsible to send it back to an empty church.

‘No,’ replied Marmaduke, bemused by the question. ‘Although I did enjoy visiting the village and its church. Cotyngham was kind to me after I was defrocked – generous in his sympathy and in more practical ways. Indeed, it is largely because of him that I did not commit a mortal sin and cast myself into the river in my shame and despair.’

‘Was Cotyngham the kind of man to lose his wits because someone had made off with his church’s silver?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or because something was said to unsettle him?’

Marmaduke shook his head in incomprehension. ‘What strange questions you ask tonight! Perhaps you are losing your wits, and it is because you still have not prayed to Sampson’s toe.’

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Will you answer?’

There was something in his voice that made Marmaduke stop berating him and consider his reply. ‘Five years ago, I would have said no,’ he answered eventually. ‘But that was before an uncle of mine was driven insane by shock. His experience taught me that the ways of the human mind are a mystery known only to God, and that anyone might suffer spells of madness.’

‘Your kinsman regained his sanity after being kept in isolation,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Fournays had told him. ‘You recommended a similar cure for Cotyngham.’

Marmaduke gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Hardly! I told Fournays about my uncle, but who takes any notice of a defrocked priest?’

‘Fournays did. He based Cotyngham’s treatment on what you told him.’

Marmaduke regarded him in astonishment. ‘Really? He told me it was a remedy he had devised through horoscopes and books. But it is late, and you look tired. Shall I escort you back to the abbey? You might be safer with me than alone.’

Bartholomew was certain of it.

The following day was a Sunday, and as Langelee, Michael and Cynric had returned to the hospitium very late, all four Michaelhouse men overslept. The bells for High Mass woke them, and then it was a rush to dress in time. Afterwards, they returned to the hospitium to discuss the information they had gleaned from their various expeditions.

‘Longton claimed he was in the library looking for the charter pertaining to York’s mint,’ said Langelee. ‘The Archbishop is agitating to see it, apparently, but Talerand is dragging his feet.’

‘Because he has lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Longton explain how he was going to identify this document when he cannot read?’

‘By its seal,’ explained Cynric, after Langelee had confessed sheepishly that he recalled very little of the Mayor’s conversation after their tenth cup of wine. ‘Which is large, green and distinctive.’

‘I am not sure what to make of what I learned,’ said Michael. ‘Abbot Multone told me that he wanted to read Augustine’s Sentences, but when I started to debate the text with him, I discovered that he knows it extremely well – better than me, and I have been teaching it for years.’

‘Then why did he want to consult it?’ demanded Langelee immediately.

‘Quite,’ replied Michael.

‘What about Oustwyk?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he explain why he went to the library?’

Michael nodded. ‘To look for Sentences when Multone failed to locate it. Both were suspiciously interested in my enquiries, bombarding me with all manner of questions, none of which I answered truthfully. Matt? Did you discover anything helpful?’

No one was impressed when the physician recounted his adventures at the Bedern.

‘You should not have taken such a risk, boy,’ declared Cynric admonishingly. ‘At least, not without me there to help you. Cave would not have been gentle, had you been caught.’

‘We would have lost Huntington for certain,’ added Langelee, disgusted. ‘And for what? The knowledge that the vicars think Radeford was sly, and that they are not above bribing the Franciscans to keep Cotyngham locked up? We already knew they were unsavoury.’

‘All I can say is thank God for Marmaduke,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think they recognised you? It will be wretchedly inconvenient if they did, because none of us can give you an alibi: Multone knows you were not with me, and Longton knows you were not with the Master or Cynric.’

‘Perhaps Marmaduke will oblige,’ suggested Langelee. ‘But you had better borrow my spare cloak and hat today, Bartholomew. We do not want the vicars identifying yours from last night.’

Suitably chastened, Bartholomew offered to visit Fournays that morning, to ask about the surgeon’s visit to the library and the diagnoses he had made on the dead executors. Michael decided to accompany him, while Cynric elected to resume his trawl for helpful gossip in the taverns.

‘And I shall return to the library.’ Langelee raised his hand. ‘I know I said it was a waste of time yesterday, but Longton showed me several cleverly hidden drawers in his furniture last night – perhaps the library has some similar devices. If so, I shall find them.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Michael. ‘Or we may have to sell Huntington to pay for the damage.’

Langelee nodded in a way that said he would do what he liked, and strode off purposefully. Cynric also hurried away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to walk to the abbey gate together.

‘Langelee is wasting his time,’ predicted Michael. ‘He will not find the codicil or Radeford’s hiding place, not given the number of people who have been granted access to the library since he secreted them. Besides, perhaps the vicars have a point: maybe Radeford did say he found the codicil as a ruse to make them drop their claim.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I never knew him to lie, especially to us.’

‘Perhaps, but experience has taught me that you never really know a person. Take you, for example. I would never have predicted that you would single-handedly invade the Bedern.’

Bartholomew sighed unhappily. ‘I had been thinking about Radeford, and nothing seemed too great a risk when the prize was unveiling his killer.’

Michael patted his shoulder comfortingly. ‘Perhaps we shall do it today.’

Fournays lived on a road named Hungate, which ran behind the Carmelite Priory, and as Bartholomew and Michael walked there, the city dripped. Water oozed from saturated thatches, gutters and trees, while the drains at the side of the road had been transformed into treacherous, fast-flowing streams.

They had not gone far when they met Mayor Longton. Pund was at his side, and both looked fragile, indicating that Langelee had not been the only one who had imbibed too much the previous night. A gaggle of liveried but slovenly henchmen were in tow.

‘My brother says he owes you his life,’ replied Longton with a careful smile, as if he was afraid his brains might drop out if he employed too many facial muscles. ‘Would you like to see him again? I am sure he would appreciate the kindness, and we can walk there together.’

Supposing no harm would come from asking whether William had had any further thoughts on who might have shot him, Bartholomew nodded. Longton led the way, weaving through the bustle of the main street, sometimes acknowledging the greetings of the people he passed, sometimes not.

‘I remembered something this morning,’ the Mayor said as they went. ‘Thoresby banned Sunday trading recently, and as advocatus ecclesiae, William was responsible for ensuring that everyone knew it. The merchants were livid, because foodstuffs spoil, and Gisbyrn was especially vexed. It is a good motive for him wanting my poor brother dead, would you not agree?’

As it probably involved large sums of money, Bartholomew did. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and hoped it would not mean they were obliged to question every tradesman in York, because it would take an age. He also wondered why William had not mentioned it.

‘What did Myton think of these restrictions?’ asked Michael, moving to another subject.

Longton blinked. ‘Myton? He died long before this particular edict came into force.’ He pondered the question anyway. ‘But he would have approved – he was very devout. He died of a softening of the brain, you know, which is nasty, but mercifully quick.’

‘A number of people seem to have suffered mercifully quick ends in the last few years,’ observed Michael. ‘Including seven of Zouche’s executors.’

‘Mostly of spotted liver and debilities,’ nodded Longton, then sighed. ‘Poor Myton. I wish he were alive today – he would not have let these vile merchants amass so such power.’

‘How would he have stopped them?’

‘With words – he was very good at reasoning with people. He even kept Langelee in check when they worked together, and you do not need me to tell you that that was something of a feat.’

‘Did Myton have any views on French spies?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.

Longton nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. He hated them, but who does not? Most people think the Holy Trinity Benedictines are responsible, but they are decent men, with excellent taste in imported wine. The Carmelites, on the other hand, make their own.’

‘How is your search for the mint’s charter coming along?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

Longton waved a dismissive hand. ‘My answer to you is the same as it was to Langelee last night: I shall pay Dalfeld to produce another one, because that inept Dean has lost the original.’

‘Dalfeld is good at counterfeiting, then, is he?’ probed Michael, amused by the bald admission.

Longton nodded blithely. ‘The best. You should consider hiring him to produce a codicil if you cannot locate one, because the vicars will never be able to tell.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael blandly. ‘We shall bear it in mind.’

William was sitting in a chair when they arrived, pale but in good spirits. When Bartholomew inspected the wound, he found it was healing well, which the knight attributed to Fournays changing the bandages twice a day. Bartholomew warmed to the surgeon even more when he learned that wine had been forbidden, too, and the patient had been ordered to drink boiled broth instead.

‘Gisbyrn still denies attacking you,’ said Longton to his brother. ‘But when I trick a confession out of him, he will hang, because no merchant shoots my brother and lives to tell the tale.’

‘No!’ exclaimed William, horrified. ‘You cannot–’

‘I shall do as I please. But discussing that villain will impede your recovery, so we shall talk about something else instead. Such as my plan to prevent the Foss from flooding.’

He began to oblige, although it sounded an ill-conceived and confused strategy to Bartholomew. William also voiced reservations, but Longton declared angrily that there was nothing wrong with his arrangements, and stalked out in a huff, although not before he had drained the wine in his cup.

‘Did you know Myton?’ asked Bartholomew of William, in the slightly awkward silence that followed Longton’s departure. He was not sure why he wanted to know, and supposed he was curious about the man because so many people had mentioned him.

‘Yes, of course.’ William was transparently grateful for the change of subject. ‘He was a decent fellow, although perhaps a little pompous.’

‘Everyone else says he was venerable and discreet,’ said Michael.

William smiled. ‘Yes, but “venerable” is a word that is often applied to haughty men, while “discreet” can be synonymous with secretive. He gave lots of money to the vicars-choral – for obits to shorten his time in Purgatory – so he must have been worried about his venial sins.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Michael.

‘Zouche was fond of him, and he worked well with Langelee. I fell out with him when he reported Marmaduke to Thoresby. He should have told me first, and I would have resolved the matter quietly. Instead, he went to the Archbishop, who felt compelled to make an example.’

‘For peddling false relics?’

William nodded. ‘It was not as if Marmaduke was keeping the money for himself, and defrocking him was too severe a punishment. He was only trying to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry – as an executor, he felt guilty that the project had foundered.’

‘So Myton had his failings,’ mused Michael.

‘Yes, but you will not find many people prepared to list them. He was popular, and when he died, any defects in his character were conveniently forgotten. It happens.’

‘Your brother has just told us that you might have accrued enemies by helping Thoresby to ban Sunday trading,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

William sighed. ‘My brother would love a merchant to be guilty of harming me, and he exaggerates their anger against the prohibition. They were peeved, of course, but they understand it is for the good of their souls. Moreover, they know it was not my idea.’

But Bartholomew was not sure whether he believed him – or rather, he was not sure whether he believed that the merchants had accepted the ban with as much equanimity as William seemed to think. He and Michael thanked the knight for his cooperation, and took their leave.

To reach Fournays’s house, they had to pass the Carmelite Priory. The gate opened as they passed, and Penterel stepped out, Wy and Harold at his heels. They were laughing at something Wy had said, but their merriment abated when they saw the scholars, and they came to ask after their well-being following Radeford’s burial. Their concern seemed sincere, and Bartholomew failed to understand why their easy manners were insufficient to combat the dislike they had engendered by suing people. When they had to take refuge inside a doorway to talk, because stones were hurled by three sullen youths, he broached the subject.

‘Those are Elen Duffield’s sons,’ explained Wy. He made a threatening gesture at the lads, which earned him a reproving glare from his Prior. ‘We took her to court for debt.’

‘We had no choice,’ said Penterel, his expression pained. ‘She owed us a fortune, and we needed it back to provide alms for the poor.’

‘She has never forgiven us,’ added Harold. ‘Although it was hardly our fault she lost the case: she should not have purchased wine from us if she could not afford it.’

‘She could afford it,’ said Wy. ‘She is a wealthy woman. She just disliked having to pay for something after it was gone, and hoped we would forget about it if she procrastinated long enough.’

‘The people of York are not very good losers when it comes to the law,’ said Penterel ruefully.

‘And the vicars-choral do not help,’ Wy went on, his scarred face resentful. ‘They spread nasty rumours about us. And do you know why? Because they stole our topsoil to make themselves a nice garden, and were embarrassed and angry when we challenged them over it. Of course we sued them! What did they expect?’

‘We did not want to take legal action,’ sighed Harold. ‘But they refused to bring it back, and where were we supposed to grow our cabbages?’

‘But we bear them no grudge,’ said Penterel with a serene smile. Harold nodded to say it was true, although Wy’s glower suggested he was still bitter. ‘Most are sober, honest men.’

‘And others are liars and thieves,’ stated Wy, earning another reproving look, one that did nothing to shame him into silence. ‘Namely Ellis and Cave. Neither are very nice.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘They are not.’

Fournays’s home was a pleasant one, separated from the Carmelite Priory by a wooden fence. The house was stone, suggesting his practice was lucrative, and his garden was extensive enough to boast vegetable plots, two wells and an orchard complete with a herd of goats. There was also a herbarium, and Bartholomew was astonished by the number and variety of plants growing in it.

‘Yes,’ said Fournays proudly, when the physician complimented him. He was sitting in a spacious, well-scrubbed kitchen, eating fragrantly scented stew and fresh bread dipped in melted butter. ‘I like mixing my own remedies.’

‘So you know about poisons, then?’ asked Michael innocently.

Fournays regarded him askance. ‘Of course. What medicus does not? Why do you–’

‘Do you mind living here?’ Michael turned abruptly to another matter, aiming to disconcert, and Bartholomew winced. He liked the surgeon, and did not want him subjected to one of the monk’s interrogations. ‘So close to the foundation that strikes terror into so many city purses?’

‘The Carmelites and I have an agreement,’ replied Fournays, blinking at the change of topic, but answering anyway. ‘I bequeath them this house when I die, and they leave me alone while I am alive.’

Michael gaped. ‘But it must be worth a fortune! Surely that is too high a price to pay for peace. Do you not have heirs?’

‘They died of the plague. Bleak days…’ Then Fournays shook himself, and forced a smile. ‘Did you have any success in lancing buboes, Bartholomew? I found that–’

‘Please!’ exclaimed Michael with a shudder. ‘Not when I am about to eat.’

‘Are you about to…’ began Fournays, startled, then stopped when the monk sat at the table and produced a spoon. He nodded good-naturedly, and called for a maid to bring bowls.

Bartholomew was not hungry, and ate only to be polite, but even so he was forced to admit that the stew was excellent, flavoured as it was with a wide variety of herbs from the garden.

‘So you do not mind leaving your estate to the Carmelites?’ said Michael, returning to the subject like a dog with a bone. ‘I would.’

‘I imagine so, given that you are a member of a rival Order,’ replied Fournays, smiling. ‘But they may as well have it. They will say obits for me, and it is an attractive offer, because my sins are great.’

‘Are they indeed?’ purred Michael. ‘And which ones give you particular concern?’

‘Avarice and gluttony.’ Fournays smiled again. ‘The same as you, Brother.’

Michael’s expression was cold. ‘So you are giving them this property willingly?’

‘Yes. They were always threatening to sue me when my goats escaped into their precinct before, but now they just return them with a smile. It is worth the price, and I cannot take my wealth with me when I die. I am content with the arrangement.’

‘We have been hearing about Zouche’s executors,’ said Bartholomew, feeling it was time to ask what they particularly wanted to know. ‘How they died of spotted liver and debilities.’

‘And Hugh de Myton, who had a softening of the brain,’ added Michael.

‘I was sorry to lose them,’ sighed Fournays sadly. ‘Especially Myton. Everyone liked him.’

‘Not everyone,’ said Michael. ‘We have been told that he was secretive and haughty.’

‘Myton?’ exclaimed Fournays, shocked. ‘No! He did a great deal to keep the peace, and now he has gone, there is outright war between Mayor Longton and John Gisbyrn. He is greatly missed!’

‘Whose side are you on?’ asked Michael.

Fournays considered carefully. ‘Gisbyrn’s, I think. He and his cronies are sober, quiet men, who raise the tone of the place, whereas Longton and his followers are debauched. Of course, the merchants are brutally ruthless in business, and woe betide anyone who stands in their way.’

‘You were telling us how Zouche’s executors died,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘I know spotted liver and debilities when I see them,’ obliged Fournays. ‘And they were as plain as day on Neville, Playce, Christopher, Welton, Stiendby and Ferriby. Incidentally, Roger had a debility, too – I examined his corpse more carefully later. It must have struck him down when he was near the King’s Fishpool, causing him to fall in and drown.’

‘Ferriby claimed he was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told his fellow vicars–’

‘Ferriby was not in his right wits,’ interrupted Fournays. ‘You cannot give credence to anything he said, especially once he was afflicted with a debility. Besides, who would want to kill him? He was old, addled and refused to go anywhere except the Bedern and the minster.’

‘I am not sure I would recognise spotted liver, a debility or softening of the brain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What are the symptoms?’

Fournays pursed his lips, although whether at the physician’s deficiency or the need to explain was unclear. ‘They are similar for all three conditions: waxen skin, absence of breathing, floppiness of limbs and an unnatural chill. In addition, spotted liver is distinctive by causing a dullness in the eyes; a debility produces blue lips; and a softening of the brain … well, suffice to say that it is always fatal.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly: the reply was ridiculously vague, and Fournays had listed signs that would be present in virtually anyone dying or newly dead. ‘Do you see many of these cases?’ he asked, not sure what else to say.

‘No more than I would in any city. But if you are concerned about contracting them, always wear a hat and keep a tincture of St John’s wort to hand. That should keep you safe.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you read it in Theophilus’s De Urinis?’

Fournays shot him a sharp look. ‘No. I have been unable to consult that particular tome, because the Dean has misplaced it. I took one look at the muddle he calls a library, and left.’

‘Really?’ pounced Michael. ‘Because he told us you stayed for some time.’

‘Then he is mistaken,’ said Fournays firmly. ‘But that should not surprise you, if his memory is anything like his system for filing documents.’

‘What about Myton?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael only helped himself to more bread and butter. ‘What happened to him exactly?’

Fournays stared at the table. ‘A softening of the brain. At least, that is what I tell everyone. But you are a medicus – you understand that suicide is not a sin when a soul is in terrible torment…’

‘Myton killed himself?’

‘He opened his veins. But he was a decent man, and I did not want him buried in unhallowed ground or deprived of the obits he had bought, so I adjusted the truth. It was a softening of the brain in a way, though: everyone who commits self-murder has a troubled mind, and should be viewed with compassion, not condemnation.’

Bartholomew did not admit that he sometimes ‘adjusted the truth’ regarding suicides, too, because Michael was listening, and he did not want to burden the monk with such knowledge. ‘What drove Myton to such an end?’ he asked instead.

‘I have already told you – the other day, when we dragged Roger from the King’s Fishpool.’

‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless business practices?’

‘Yes. Myton had old-fashioned standards, and could not compete. When he died, everything he owned went to Gisbyrn to pay his debts, except the property he had already given the vicars-choral for obits. It was fortunate he had arranged those in advance, or he would have lost them, too.’

‘No one knows he took his own life, except you?’

Fournays nodded. ‘And I am only confiding in you because I trust you not to tell anyone else. You are a fellow medicus, and Brother Michael is your friend.’

‘I suppose it explains why there were rumours that he was murdered,’ sighed Michael. ‘The gossips sensed something amiss, and capitalised on it.’

‘Yes,’ said Fournays ruefully. ‘Their malicious speculations did cause me anxiety for a while.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, once they were outside. ‘Was Fournays telling the truth about these debilities and spotted livers?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think he genuinely believes that ailments with those names killed the seven executors.’

‘But he is mistaken? The truth is that he has no idea what killed them?’

‘Yes, but I do not know what kills most of my patients, either. Take old Master Kenyngham, for example. He died of something I called a seizure, but I do not know whether it was bleeding in the brain, failure of some vital organ, or an unrelated complaint that had gone undetected for years. And we never will know without anatomy.’

‘Then I suppose we shall remain ignorant,’ said Michael. ‘Because I cannot imagine a situation where we shall ever be supplied with that sort of information. But what about the poisons Fournays grows in his garden? Did you see one that would explain Radeford’s symptoms?’

‘No! Fournays has no reason to harm Radeford.’

‘None that we know of,’ corrected Michael. ‘I half expected him to drop something in our stew, and I only asked him for some to see whether he would try. But he must have known I was watching, so he decided against it. Oh, Lord! We are about to run into a bevy of vicars-choral.’

Bartholomew looked around rather desperately when he saw Ellis, Cave, Jafford and several of the younger vicars walking in a tight cluster towards them. The clatter made by their wooden pattens on the cobbles made them sound purposeful and authoritative.

‘At least try to look innocent,’ hissed Michael crossly. ‘You could not come across as more guilty if you wore a sign around your neck saying you broke into their domain last night.’

‘We will reach Petergate if we run down that alley,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then we–’

‘I am not running anywhere,’ interrupted Michael firmly. ‘Not only is it undignified, but they will almost certainly catch me. Besides, you said they did not see your face, and you are wearing different clothes today. Just be nonchalant – they have no reason to suspect you.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable as the distance narrowed between them and their rivals. ‘You are not the one they will beat to a pulp.’

‘We had an intruder last night,’ said Cave without preamble. He stared at Bartholomew with a smouldering dislike. ‘The culprit is playing with fire.’

‘We have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael shortly. ‘What intruder?’

‘One who invaded the Bedern to spy,’ replied Cave coldly. ‘But be warned: if it happens again, the culprit will be sorry. We shall protect our property by whatever means we deem necessary.’

‘Is that what happened with Cotyngham?’ asked Michael, going on the offensive himself. ‘You defended your property? Or what you thought should be your property?’

The blood drained from Cave’s face, although whether from guilt, shock or temper was impossible to say. ‘We had nothing to do with that. How dare you say such things!’

‘Incidentally, we have evidence to identify the villain who ransacked Cotyngham’s house,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Burglary is an unsavoury crime with which to be associated.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Ellis, outraged. ‘Yesterday, you intimated that we murdered Radeford, and today, you call us burglars. It is not to be tolerated!’

‘I said we have evidence to identify a felon,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘I did not accuse anyone. Or is it a troubled conscience that causes you to leap to your own defence with such vigour? But never mind this – tell me what you think of Sir William Longton instead.’

‘What?’ asked Ellis, disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. ‘Sir William Longton? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘Am I to assume that you dislike him?’ asked Michael, although the vicars had said nothing to indicate such a conclusion was warranted.

Ellis’s wet lips tightened. ‘I have never given it much thought, although he has a tendency to be sanctimonious in his dealings with us. It is not an attractive trait.’

‘But not one worth shooting a man for,’ added Cave in a whisper that was vaguely unnerving. His eyes were almost invisible under his simian brow. ‘It would be a waste of an arrow.’

‘I see.’ Michael’s tone of voice made it clear that Cave and Ellis were firmly on his list as suspects for the knight’s attempted murder. Meanwhile, Jafford and the other vicars were listening in open-mouthed horror, and Bartholomew suspected they were keen to bring the discussion to an end before any more incautious remarks were made, but did not dare, lest the sub-chanter or his henchman vented their spleen on them.

‘You claim to have the codicil that gives you Huntington,’ said Ellis, after taking a deep breath to calm himself. He smiled, slyly and without humour. ‘So show it to us. Do not be shy. The moment you do, and we are satisfied as to its authenticity, Huntington will be yours.’

‘But if we are unconvinced, we shall challenge you,’ added Cave. ‘Dalfeld says we will win, and it will be a nice addition to the hundred and fifty-seven houses we already own.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘A hundred and fifty-seven? Yet you are prepared to fight us over one measly church? What kind of men are you?’

‘Ones who work hard to safeguard our foundation’s future,’ replied Cave. The words were innocuous enough, but Bartholomew was acutely aware of the menace with which they had been spoken, especially when the henchman favoured him with a look that showed he knew exactly whom he had chased towards Petergate the previous evening. ‘Just like you.’

‘Is that what you were doing in the minster library?’ asked Michael. ‘Looking for–’

‘We have better things to do than bandy words with you,’ interrupted Ellis abruptly. ‘Come, brethren. Let us buy these shoes, before the cobbler assumes we are not coming.’

Head held high, he sailed away, pattens clacking. Jafford shot the scholars an agonised glance as he passed, but Cave made no move to follow. He stayed where he was, staring at Bartholomew. The physician forced himself to gaze back, but the silence was unsettling, and he was on the verge of looking away when Cave turned abruptly and started after his companions.

Unfortunately, the aura of forbidding hauteur he had striven to create was considerably diminished when he tripped over an uneven cobble. He was obliged to jig an ungainly dance to regain his balance, during which the broken lace came loose and his shoe fell off, forcing him to put his stockinged foot in the filth of the street. He regarded the resulting mess in dismay.

‘We know where you damaged your footwear,’ said Michael softly. ‘And why.’

He spun around and stalked away, so did not see the venomous glower that followed him. Bartholomew did, though, and his stomach twisted in alarm, certain the monk’s remark had done nothing to make their stay in York any safer.

When Bartholomew and Michael reached Petergate, they saw two familiar figures, heads together as each struggled to hear what the other was saying over the noisy bustle of the street. They were Mardisley and Jorden, deep in an intellectual discussion as usual. Bartholomew enjoyed a good debate himself, but not to the exclusion of all else, and he was beginning to see them as fanatics.

‘How is Cotyngham?’ he asked as they passed, half expecting them not to hear him.

Mardisley stopped, and it took a moment for him to pull his mind from theology to the present. ‘The same, according to our infirmarian: drooling and witless.’

‘Just like you, then,’ quipped Jorden. ‘Or you would accept my contentions about the Virgin.’

‘Isabella is coming this way, loaded down with books,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Perhaps she has some that will help you with your debate.’

‘She might,’ acknowledged Jorden. ‘But the price of borrowing them will be to listen to her opinions, and I do not want to hear them.’

‘Because she is a woman?’ asked Bartholomew, a little coolly.

‘Yes,’ replied Jorden, unfazed by his disapproval. ‘The female brain cannot cope with theology, and I do not want my own polluted by her reasoning.’

Bartholomew was ready to argue, but both friars had hurried away before he could speak. He turned to see Isabella almost on them, breathless and hot as she struggled to carry her bundle of tomes in such a way that they would not be damaged by the rain. Helen was with her, toting a heavy basket covered by a cloth. Alice walked between them, dressed in a brazenly secular cloak, and making no effort to help either.

‘We are going to the Franciscan Priory,’ Helen explained, in reply to Michael’s polite enquiry.

‘To take my best texts to Cotyngham,’ added Isabella. ‘He used to enjoy discussing them with me, and we thought they might help him regain his wits.’

It was a kindly thought, especially as books were expensive, and she could not be sure the sick man would not dribble on them.

‘And I have baked him some pastries,’ added Helen, lifting the cloth to reveal a mouth-watering array of treats. Michael bent to inspect them more closely. ‘But I doubt the infirmarian will let us in, which is a pity, because I am sure Cotyngham would benefit from Isabella’s reading.’

‘I can think of other activities that might work faster,’ murmured Alice. She seemed about to elaborate, but Michael interrupted.

‘Cakes are bad for invalids,’ he declared with considerable conviction. ‘Give them to me.’

Helen laughed at his transparency. ‘I shall deliver them to the friary, if it is all the same to you, Brother. But I made others. Shall I send a parcel to the abbey later?’

‘No,’ replied Michael, eyes glistening. ‘I shall collect them now. Matt will take Cotyngham’s share to the friary, thus saving you a walk. This is no weather for a lady to be out.’

He shoved the basket into Bartholomew’s hand and marched her away, leaving her too startled to object. Alice winked meaningfully at Bartholomew before following, and with an uncomfortable start the physician saw he was expected to convince Isabella of the joys of masculine company on their journey to see Cotyngham. Feeling manipulated on all sides, he took the books from Isabella, and together, they began to walk.

‘How is your play progressing?’ he asked, suspecting it might not be easy to escape if they embarked on a theological discussion, so choosing something less contentious instead.

She turned a radiant smile on him, and for the first time he saw why Radeford had been so smitten. It transformed her: her eyes sparkled, and she revealed small white teeth that were perfectly even. She was a beauty, and Archbishop Zouche had been right to charge Alice with ensuring that she knew what she was doing before taking vows that would bind her for life.

‘Very well, and I think the Abbot will be pleased. There is a great deal of theology in it, and he told me to choose something that would educate and enlighten those who watched.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was Multone’s own fault that she had selected Hrotsvit’s tedious ramblings: he should have been more precise with his instructions.

With endearing enthusiasm, she described the contributions Radeford had made, and when they arrived at the friary, Bartholomew was surprised the time had passed so quickly.

‘I have talked non-stop,’ she said apologetically, as Bartholomew knocked on the gate. ‘But I wanted you to know that Master Radeford did much to improve The Conversion of the Harlot, and I am sorry he will not be here to see it. We plan our first performance on Tuesday – two days’ time.’

‘I am sure he would have been delighted to know he had helped,’ said Bartholomew, and she gave him a smile of such sweet sadness that he felt a lump rise in his throat. Fortunately, the door was answered just then, because he would not have been equal to carrying the discussion any further.

‘You may come in, sir,’ said the lay-brother, when Bartholomew had explained their business. ‘But Sister Isabella cannot. I am sorry, but those are my orders.’

‘But Cotyngham and I were friends before his illness!’ objected Isabella, disappointed. ‘And my reading may help him to recover. Doctor Bartholomew thinks so, and he is a medicus.’

‘Perhaps another time,’ said the lay-brother, not unkindly. ‘I shall ask Warden Stayndrop.’

Isabella tried to argue, but the fellow was immovable, so Bartholomew carried the books and the basket to the infirmary alone.

Cotyngham was sitting in a chair this time, although his lolling head and vacant eyes were the same. Bartholomew unwrapped the gifts, and explained what they were. There was no response, so he knelt by the priest’s side and peered into his face. The patient was slightly breathless, and his pulse was racing. Supposing his own presence was the cause, and unwilling to distress him further, Bartholomew touched him gently on the shoulder and left.

That evening, the scholars were subdued as they sat in the hospitium, huddled around a fire that was insufficient to drive the chill from their bones. Bartholomew cupped his hands around a goblet of mulled wine, feeling warmth seep from it into his icy fingers.

‘It is still raining,’ he remarked to no one in particular.

Langelee nodded. ‘And people are worried. There will be a high tide on Tuesday, and if water from the sea meets water from flooded rivers, there will be trouble. It has happened before.’

‘It is because York is corrupt, and God does not like it,’ said Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Its merchants are venal, its Mayor is a drunkard and its priests have forgotten that they are supposed to be poor, chaste and obedient. That novice – Isabella – told me.’

‘Then Isabella is wrong,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘There is nothing amiss with York.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Its main streets have excellent drains; its houses are smarter and cleaner than the ones in Cambridge, with better facility for sanitation; and its hospitals are among the best I have ever seen. Even better than the magnificent foundation at Tonnerre in Burgundy.’

‘We should review where we are with our various investigations,’ said Michael, his tired voice indicating that he made the suggestion reluctantly. ‘Starting with the shooting of Sir William.’

‘I found the man who made the arrow,’ said Cynric with casual insouciance. ‘He uses chicken feathers as fletching, to reduce costs. They are less accurate than goose, but cheaper.’

‘Who would want to buy arrows that fly poorly?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Mayor Longton,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘He orders them by the cartload for the townsmen to practise with, ready to defend York against the French.’

‘And he expects to repel them with inferior missiles?’ Michael remained nonplussed.

‘He expects the enemy to come in such numbers that any arrow shot forward will find a target,’ explained Cynric. ‘So accuracy is less important to him than volume.’

‘In other words, the missile can tell us nothing helpful?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘These hen-arrows are produced in such quantity that anyone might have got hold of one?’

‘Yes and no. The one that injured Sir William came from an unusual batch. You see, the fletcher’s apprentice had an ague, so another lad was hired to produce the heads. And he made them slightly differently. Unfortunately, the really distinctive part is the barb, but that was damaged during the surgery.’

Langelee groaned. ‘Damn you, Bartholomew! Could you not have been more careful?’

‘Mayor Longton orders wealthy individuals or foundations to buy arrows for the city’s defence,’ Cynric went on before the physician could answer. ‘A sort of tax. The fletcher named four who paid for this particular consignment: Ellis, Dalfeld, Fournays and Gisbyrn. He could have narrowed it down further still if the barb had been intact.’

‘Gisbyrn?’ pounced Michael, before Langelee could berate Bartholomew again. ‘So Longton might have been right when he accused him?’

‘He might,’ nodded Cynric.

‘Gisbyrn will not have loosed the missile himself,’ mused Langelee. ‘He will have asked Frost to do it. The man is a professional warrior, after all.’

‘This is not evidence,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is speculation.’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And all are likely to blame the others. So without the additional evidence of the barb, we have no real answers about Sir William. I am sorry.’

‘There is no need to apologise – we do not know what might transpire to be useful,’ said Michael encouragingly. He moved on. ‘Our second investigation is Huntington. Master?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Langelee in disgust. ‘If Radeford did hide the documents in some secret drawer in the library, then I cannot find it.’

‘Matt and I discovered that Zouche’s executors are dying in suspicious circumstances,’ said Michael. ‘And that Surgeon Fournays is at the heart of it.’

‘We did nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, startled by the conclusion.

‘He confidently gave verdicts on seven men, using dubious diagnoses,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Something sinister is happening, and he is almost certainly involved. I know you like him, Matt, but I would rather you kept your distance. He may have poisoned Radeford, too, because–’

‘A herb garden is not evidence of murder,’ objected Bartholomew, knowing exactly where the discussion was going. ‘I have one at Michaelhouse. Does that make me a suspect, too?’

‘You are not called to account for seven suspicious deaths,’ retorted Michael. ‘Eight, if you include Myton, because we only have Fournays’s word that he…’ He trailed off, remembering just in time not only that Myton had been Langelee’s friend, but that they had been charged not to tell anyone that he had committed suicide.

‘And finally, there is the enquiry into the chantry chapel,’ said Cynric. He smiled when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘You had forgotten it, but I have not. And I have uncovered a clue.’

‘You have?’ asked Langelee eagerly. ‘What?’

‘I got talking to Oustwyk, who introduced me to some people. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it was Dean Talerand who discovered that Archbishop Zouche’s fund was dry. The money was kept in a special rosewood chest, see, in the minster treasury.’

‘I remember that box,’ said Langelee. ‘It was a gift from the Queen. Zouche was fond of it.’

Cynric nodded. ‘The executors knew the gold was dribbling away, but none of them monitored it properly. Then the Dean went to pay a mason one day, and it was all gone.’

‘Yes,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘And with no money, the craftsmen laid down their tools, and nothing has been done since. We already know all this.’

‘But,’ said Cynric, raising a triumphant finger, ‘the night before this discovery, the Dean saw someone near the box, acting oddly. He believes the money had probably run out weeks before, and assumes this person was weeping over an empty chest. But what if Talerand was wrong, and the box still had some money in it? What if the man he saw was a thief was making his final raid?’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘Who was it?’

‘Christopher Malore,’ replied Cynric triumphantly. ‘One of the executors.’

‘One of the dead executors,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘Who cannot answer questions.’

‘He cannot,’ said Cynric. ‘But he has a brother. And Anketil Malore is very much alive.’