Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 1

York, April 1358

The first thing Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse, did when he woke was fling open the window shutters. He and his companions had arrived late the previous night, when it had been too dark to see, and he was eager for his first glimpse of England’s second largest city.

‘Matt, please!’ groaned Brother Michael, hauling the blankets over his head as the room flooded with the grey light of early morning. ‘Have some compassion! This is the first time I have felt safe since leaving Cambridge two weeks ago, and I had intended to sleep late.’

Bartholomew ignored him and rested his elbows on the windowsill, shaking his head in mute admiration at what he saw. They had elected to stay in St Mary’s Abbey for the duration of their visit, partly because Michael had refused to consider anywhere other than a Benedictine foundation, but also because they were unlikely to be asked to pay there – and the funds the College had managed to scrape together for their journey were all but exhausted already.

The monastery was magnificent. It was centred around its church, a vast building in cream stone. Cloisters blossomed out of its southern side, while nearby stood its chapter house, frater, dormitory and scriptorium. But looming over them, and rendering even these impressive edifices insignificant was the minster, a fabulous array of towers, pinnacles and delicately filigreed windows. Bartholomew had seen many cathedrals in his life, but York’s was certainly one of the finest.

Master Langelee came to stand next to him, breathing in deeply the air that was rich with the scent of spring. It was a glorious day, the sun already bathing the city in shades of gold. It was a far cry from the miserably grey weather they had experienced in Cambridge, when it had drizzled for weeks, and the days had been short, dismal and sodden. Proud of his native city, Langelee began to point out landmarks.

‘Besides the abbey and the minster, there are some sixty other churches, hospitals and priories. From here, you can see St Leonard’s Hospital, St Olave’s–’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Michael, shifting irritably in his bed before the Master could name them all. ‘We know. You spoke of little else the entire way here.’

‘We had better make a start if we want to be home by the beginning of next term,’ said John Radeford, standing up and stretching. ‘We do not know how long this dispute will take to resolve.’

‘Not long,’ determined Langelee. ‘I remember quite clearly Zouche saying on his deathbed that Michaelhouse was to have Huntington.’

‘Then it is a pity you did not tell him to write it down,’ remarked Radeford. ‘Documents are what count in a case like this, not what people allege to have heard.’

‘I am not “alleging” anything,’ objected Langelee indignantly. ‘He said it.’

‘I am not disputing that,’ said Radeford impatiently: they had been through this before. ‘But the letter you received from Sir William Longton says that the codicil relating to this particular benefaction cannot be found. Our rivals will ask us to prove our case, and that will be difficult.’

‘The vicars-choral,’ said Langelee with rank disapproval. ‘They always were a greedy horde, and this business shows they have not changed. They have no right to flout Zouche’s wishes by claiming Huntington for themselves.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, reluctantly prising himself from his bed; there was no hope of further repose if his colleagues were going to chatter. ‘And it is fortunate that your friend wrote to tell us what was happening, or we might have been permanently dispossessed. I am no lawyer, but I know it is difficult to reclaim property once someone else has laid hold of it.’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Radeford. ‘The last case in which I was involved took seven years to settle.’

‘Seven years?’ Bartholomew was horrified, and turned accusingly to Langelee. ‘You said it would take a few days. I knew I should not have come!’

Langelee regarded him coolly. ‘You came because I ordered you to, and as a mere Fellow, you are obliged to do what I say. Besides, you said you wanted to visit the minster library, which has the finest collection of books in England. Or so I have been told.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply, for the first time wondering whether he had been sensible to believe the Master’s promises of what would be on offer in York. Langelee was not always truthful, and his general indifference to learning hardly made him a reliable judge of such matters.

‘And there are the hospitals,’ Langelee went on. ‘St Leonard’s is a massive foundation, and you are certain to learn a good deal there. Look – you can see it from here.’

He pointed, and Bartholomew saw he had not been exaggerating about that at least. It was massive, with smart red-tiled roofs and a sizeable laundry, which led the physician to hope that hygiene might feature in its daily life. He preached constantly in Cambridge about the benefits of cleanliness, but neither his medical colleagues nor his patients were very willing to listen. However, the sheer size of the building dedicated to washing in St Leonard’s gave him a sudden surge of hope.

‘But you are forbidden to offer anyone your professional services,’ warned Michael, retreating prudishly behind a screen to perform his morning ablutions; he hated anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘We brought you here to rest, not to exchange one set of patients for another.’

‘Quite,’ growled Langelee. ‘You may observe, read and discuss, but you may not practise. We cannot afford to hire another medicus to teach your classes if you collapse from overwork.’

‘There are better ways to rest than being dragged the length of the country,’ grumbled Bartholomew, declining to admit that the tiredness he had experienced on the journey was the healthy weariness of a day spent in fresh air, not the crushing fatigue that had dogged him at home.

Langelee did not deign to reply. ‘Where is Cynric?’ he asked instead.

Cynric, the fifth and last member of their party, was Bartholomew’s book-bearer, a wiry, superstitious Welshman, who was more friend than servant.

‘I sent him to fetch some bread and ale,’ replied Radeford. ‘I know Abbot Multone has invited us to join him for breakfast, but we should not waste time on lengthy repasts.’

‘It is not wasting time,’ objected Michael, who liked a good meal. He emerged from the screen a new man: his lank brown hair was neatly combed around a perfectly round tonsure, and he wore a habit sewn from the best cloth money could buy. He was tall as well as fat, so a good deal of material had been used to make its full skirts and generous sleeves. ‘It is being polite to our hosts.’

‘We can be polite once we have a better idea of where we stand with Huntington,’ argued Radeford. ‘It would be a pity to go home empty-handed, just because we squandered hours in–’

‘We will not go home empty-handed,’ vowed Langelee. ‘First, Michaelhouse is in desperate need of funds and we cannot afford to lose a benefaction. And second, and perhaps more importantly, it was what Zouche wanted. I owe it to him to see his wishes fulfilled.’

Partly because he was loath to offend the Abbot by rejecting an invitation, but mostly because he was hungry, Michael overrode Radeford, and insisted on eating breakfast in the frater. They all walked there together, admiring the monastery’s grounds and the many elegant buildings that graced them.

‘This will be easy to defend in times of trouble,’ remarked Cynric, looking around approvingly. ‘It is enclosed by high walls, and could seal itself off completely, should it choose.’

‘And I imagine it does choose, on occasion,’ said Radeford. ‘An abbey as obviously wealthy as this one must attract much unwanted attention.’

‘Actually, people tend to leave it alone,’ replied Langelee. ‘It is the Benedictine priory – Holy Trinity – that draws the trouble.’ He pointed across the river, to where sturdy walls and a squat tower could be seen in the distance. ‘Riots there were almost a daily occurrence when I lived here.’

‘Why?’ asked Cynric. ‘And why are there two Benedictine foundations in the same city?’

‘Actually, there are three,’ said Langelee with undisguised pride. ‘Because there is a nunnery, too. But Holy Trinity attracts dislike because it is an alien house, owned and run by the monks of Marmoutier in France. And as we are currently at war with the French, Holy Trinity is accused of harbouring spies.’

‘And do they?’ asked Cynric, looking as if he might stage an assault himself if the answer was yes. The Welshman was nothing if not patriotic.

‘Of course not,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although French intelligencers are at work in York. I spent years trying to catch them when I was employed by Zouche. But they are not in Holy Trinity.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘My Order would not condone that sort of thing.’

‘Prior Chozaico’s monks rarely leave their precinct for fear of being lynched,’ Langelee went on. ‘I would hate such confinement personally, but he says his is a contemplative Order, so his brethren do not object to being virtual prisoners. They are happy to stay inside and pray.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Radeford, ‘because I suspect York has much to offer.’

‘Oh, it does,’ Langelee assured him keenly. ‘The brothels are second to none, and we shall visit a few later, when it is dark.’

Bartholomew laughed when the others blinked their astonishment at the remark. As scholars, he, Langelee and Radeford were supposed to forswear relations with women, while Michael was a monk and Cynric was married. All the Fellows ignored the prohibition on occasion, but discreetly, and the notion of a brothel-crawl under the guidance of the Master was an activity none of them had anticipated as being on offer.

‘Of course, the best place for entertainment is the Benedictine nunnery,’ Langelee went on blithely. ‘Prioress Alice was in charge when I was here. And she knew how to enjoy herself.’

Michael stopped walking abruptly. ‘Is there anything else I should know before we go any farther? One of my Order’s foundations is accused of sheltering French spies, while another is famous for its recreational pursuits. What about this abbey – what does it do to make a name for itself? Should we lodge elsewhere? I have my reputation to consider, you know.’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Abbot Multone keeps good order, and nothing remotely exciting ever happens here. Your reputation will be quite safe at St Mary’s, Brother.’

The frater was as attractive on the inside as on the outside, with religious murals designed to inspire the monks to holy thoughts as they consumed their victuals. Bartholomew had been in enough Benedictine houses to know this was a ploy that rarely worked. It was an Order that fed its members well, and the monks’ attention tended to focus on their food, not on the walls.

He was hard pressed not to gape when it began to arrive, used as he was to the frugal fare of Michaelhouse. There was fresh fish, an impressive array of cheeses, several kinds of bread, stewed fruit and ale served in jugs large enough to be called buckets. The meal reflected the fact that the abbey was not only rich enough to buy whatever it chose, but that it was located in a city with access to the sea – goods were available both from the surrounding countryside and from overseas, which accounted for some of the more exotic wares provided.

‘If we eat like this every day, we shall go home the size of Michael,’ muttered Radeford to Bartholomew, as enough pottage was ladled into his bowl to feed a family for a week. He produced the silver spoon he always used at meals, being of the firm belief that horn ones were unhygienic. It was dirty from the last time he had eaten with it, so he wiped it on his cloak, a practice Bartholomew was sure negated any sanitary advantages the metal might have conferred.

‘I heard that,’ said the monk, offended. ‘I am not fat, I have heavy bones. It is a medical fact, as Matt will attest.’

Before Bartholomew could remark that it was not a medical fact recognised by any physicians, Abbot Multone, a short, bustling man with large white eyebrows, regarded them admonishingly.

‘We maintain silence during meals at St Mary’s.’

Thus rebuked, the only sounds for the rest of the repast were the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the mumble of a monk reading from the scriptures. Meals were supposed to be taken in silence in Michaelhouse, too, but scholars were a talkative crowd, and it was a rule they seldom followed.

‘Right,’ said Langelee, when the Abbot had intoned a final grace, signalling the end of the silence. ‘Now let us be about our business before we can be delayed any further.’

‘It is raining!’ exclaimed Michael in dismay as he stepped through the door. ‘How did that happen? The weather was glorious before we went inside.’

‘It is only a shower,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘It will soon clear up.’

‘It will not,’ muttered Cynric, appearing at Bartholomew’s side and making the physician jump by whispering suddenly in his ear. He crossed himself as he squinted up at the sky. ‘Look at the blackness of those clouds, boy! It is an omen – something very bad will happen to us here.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, who rarely took his book-bearer’s predictions seriously. ‘Besides, I am going home in a few days whether we have secured Huntington or not – I will never catch up if we miss the beginning of term, and we cannot afford to leave Father William in charge for too long. So there will not be time for dire misfortunes to befall us.’

‘There will,’ insisted Cynric earnestly. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, and although the rational part of his mind dismissed the warning as a lot of superstitious drivel, there was something about the utter conviction in the Welshman’s words that left him with a distinct sense of unease.

Langelee and his Fellows had just reached the abbey’s main gate when a voice caught their attention. A monk was running towards them, waving frantically. He was a short man, with bright eyes and a narrow head that gave him the appearance of an inquisitive hen.

‘Good. I caught you before you escaped. Come with me – Abbot Multone wants to see you.’

‘Why?’ asked Radeford anxiously. ‘Because if it is to berate us for chatting during breakfast, you can assure him it will not happen again. We are sorry.’

The monk grinned. ‘No, he just wants to meet you properly. I am Oustwyk, by the way, his steward. And if you want anything – anything at all – come to me first.’ He winked meaningfully.

‘Thank you,’ replied Michael. ‘Since you have offered, the edibles in your guest house–’

‘We call it the hospitium,’ interrupted Oustwyk. ‘We keep it for less exalted company, although I have always considered it far nicer than the draughty hall we use for wealthy visitors – the ones from whom we aim to wheedle benefactions.’

‘–in the hospitium are reasonably generous,’ Michael went on, blithely ignoring the subject of donations. Michaelhouse simply could not afford one. ‘But another jug of wine, a bowl of nuts and some pastries would not go amiss. For emergencies, you understand.’

Oustwyk waved a dismissive hand. ‘The hosteller will see to that. I was offering other services. I know York better than anyone, and can get you anything you want.’ He glanced at the physician. ‘Such as a hat. People do not go hatless in York. It is not seemly.’

‘He lost it falling off his horse,’ explained Langelee.

Bartholomew winced. He was an appalling rider, and the journey had taken far longer than it should have done because of his inability to control even the most docile of nags. But he disliked his colleagues remarking on it to strangers, even so.

‘Hats, cloaks, shoes,’ said Oustwyk, waving an expansive hand. ‘Women. Or even information.’

‘We can find our own women, thank you,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘I know–’

‘Information?’ interrupted Michael, speaking before the Master could say more than was politic. ‘In that case, you can tell us who they are.’

He pointed through the gate to the street, where a procession of thirty or so men in clerical robes was passing. All wore smart black cloaks that billowed impressively in the wind and matching hoods trimmed with white fur. They kept their elegant shoes from the filth of the street with wooden pattens, which made sharp clacking sounds on the cobbles.

‘The vicars-choral,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘They will have finished their prayers in the minster, and are now going shopping in Bootham – a street with excellent cobblers. The vicars like shoes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, bemused by the confidence.

‘You will not have vicars-choral in Cambridge, so I shall tell you about them,’ Oustwyk went on, apparently unaware that Michaelhouse was a quasi-religious foundation, so its members needed no such explanation from him. ‘The minster has canons, appointed to perform various functions, but most of them live away, so they appoint deputies to do their duties. These are called vicars-choral.’

‘Three have broken ranks, and are coming towards us,’ remarked Michael.

Oustwyk nodded. ‘The fat, sly one is Sub-Chanter Ellis, their elected leader. The one who looks like an ape is Cave, his henchman. And the pretty one is Jafford, who is popular with whores.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought Oustwyk’s descriptions were brutally accurate. Ellis was portly and his close-set eyes did make him appear devious; Cave had heavy brow-ridges and long arms that rendered him distinctly simian; while Jafford’s halo of golden curls and rosy cheeks would not have looked out of place on an angel.

‘Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene,’ explained Oustwyk. ‘In the minster. And as whores feel that particular saint watches over them, they are always hovering around it. The Archbishop disapproves, but Dean Talerand says they have a right to pray there, and Jafford is always very accommodating.’

Before Michael could ask Oustwyk exactly what he was saying about Jafford’s relationship with the city’s prostitutes, the vicars arrived.

‘You must be the scholars from Cambridge,’ said Ellis, with a distinct lack of friendliness. He had fat, red lips, which glistened with saliva. ‘We have been expecting you.’

‘Remember me, Ellis?’ asked Langelee, lifting his hat to reveal his face.

The sub-chanter gaped in astonishment. ‘Langelee? Good God! I know Cambridge is well behind Oxford in academic standing, but I did not imagine it had fallen low enough to admit you!’

Langelee’s grin of greeting faded, and Michael bridled, never one to tolerate criticism of his beloved University. Bartholomew and Radeford exchanged a pained glance, both sorry that the first exchange with their rivals for Huntington should be acrimonious.

‘I am Master of Michaelhouse,’ declared Langelee coldly. ‘It is by far the most scholarly College in the country, and we have the ear of the King.’

Neither claim was true: Michaelhouse was burdened with several members whose intellectual credentials were dubious, Langelee being one of them, while Bartholomew doubted the King was aware it even existed, let alone cared enough to give it his ear. Ellis evidently knew an empty boast when he heard it, because his moist lips curled into a sneer.

‘Then you must appeal to him for Huntington, because you shall not have it from us.’

‘But Zouche wanted it to go to Michaelhouse,’ objected Langelee, in the loudly belligerent voice he used to quell dissent in Fellows’ meetings. ‘And I am here to see his wishes fulfilled.’

The ape-like Cave stepped forward angrily, but Jafford laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. It was too soft to hear, but it stopped his colleague’s advance.

‘Zouche never told me that he intended some distant foundation to inherit a local church,’ said Ellis disdainfully. ‘And there are no documents to support your claim.’

‘Myton heard it, too,’ countered Langelee hotly. ‘He…’

‘Myton is dead, as you know perfectly well,’ sneered Ellis, when the Master faltered. ‘So he is hardly in a position to testify on your behalf.’

‘We were sorry to lose him,’ said Jafford, more gentle than his sub-chanter. ‘He was venerable and discreet, and York has been a poorer place since he went to live with God.’

‘Murdered,’ said Cave with malicious satisfaction. ‘There were rumours that he was murdered.’

‘None of which were proven,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Sir William Longton told me. But never mind Myton. There will be written evidence that Zouche wanted Michaelhouse to have Huntington, because he was an efficient administrator, so it is just a question of locating it. Besides, I imagine there is no document to support your claim, either.’

‘No, but he always said we were to have it,’ argued Ellis. ‘It was understood.’

‘He changed his mind,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘He knew our College’s founder, and appreciated the fact that Michaelhouse needs money. Not like you vicars, who already own half of York.’

‘We are fortunate in that respect,’ acknowledged Ellis, licking his lips as if the notion was pleasurable to him. ‘But he always promised us Huntington, and it would be immoral to let it go to an absent landlord. We will prevail.’

‘You will have to kill me first,’ vowed Langelee. Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, not liking the way Cave’s eyes glittered, as if contemplating how he would go about it. Again, Jafford’s hand landed warningly on his colleague’s shoulder.

‘There is no need for hot words,’ said Radeford quietly. ‘I am sure we can come to a–’

‘We have hired the best lawyer in York,’ interrupted Ellis, cutting across him contemptuously. ‘So any “evidence” you produce will be very carefully examined.’

It was tantamount to saying that Michaelhouse would cheat, and even Bartholomew, slower than most to take umbrage, was offended. Meanwhile, Michael was outraged, while the blood drained from Langelee’s face and his fists clenched at his sides. Cave threw off Jafford’s restraining hand.

‘It must have been expensive to make this journey,’ he stated, addressing not Langelee, but his three Fellows. ‘But Huntington is poor, so even if you do win, it will be a long time before you recoup your losses. Your Master is not here to help Michaelhouse, but because he thinks to do Zouche’s bidding – a man he loved like a father.’

‘We are not here to quarrel,’ said Radeford quickly, raising his hand as Langelee stepped forward furiously. ‘And there is no reason why this matter cannot be settled amicably.’

‘Settled amicably?’ echoed Ellis, regarding the lawyer as if he was something unpleasant on his shoe. ‘The only settlement we shall accept is your unconditional withdrawal. But we cannot waste time here when we have important matters to attend. Good day to you.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away, pulling Cave with him. Jafford lingered, though.

‘I am sorry,’ he said with a pained smile. ‘The shock of seeing you here must have prompted those hot words. I am sure our next meeting will be more cordial.’

‘We must ensure it is,’ said Radeford, troubled. ‘The last thing we want is conflict.’

Jafford’s smile relaxed as he sensed Radeford’s sincerity. ‘I quite agree.’

With a brief bow, he hurried after his companions, fair curls bobbing. Michael glowered at his retreating back, then addressed Langelee. ‘Please tell me there is no truth in what Cave just said.’

‘Of course there is not,’ snapped Langelee. ‘I do want to see Zouche’s last wishes fulfilled, but we are not here because of him. We are here because Michaelhouse needs the money.’

‘Is this why you chose to enrol in Michaelhouse when you came to Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because Zouche had a connection with it?’

‘No. I had forgotten about the bequest when I selected it as a place worthy of my talents. I only remembered two weeks ago, when Sir William wrote to tell me what the vicars were planning.’

‘Who is Sir William again?’ asked Radeford. ‘A friend?’

Langelee nodded. ‘He fought with Zouche and me at the Battle of Neville’s Cross, after which he was knighted. These days, he serves as the minster’s advocatus ecclesiae, which means he sees to its interests in various secular matters.’

‘And what about Cave’s other claim?’ persisted Michael. ‘That Huntington is poor. Is that true?’

The defiant expression on Langelee’s face told his colleagues all they needed to know. ‘Beggars cannot be choosers, Brother, and Michaelhouse is penniless. Even a poor church will benefit us.’

‘We had better visit the Abbot,’ said Bartholomew, before they could argue.

‘Yes,’ agreed Radeford, adding under his breath, ‘and then see about finding documents to prove our claim with all possible speed, because I do not want to miss the beginning of term for a pittance.’

Abbot Multone lived in a sumptuous two-storey building with a tiled roof. Its ground floor was given over to the clerks who carried out the complex business of running a foundation housing nigh on three hundred souls, while the top floor comprised a bedchamber, private chapel and solar. Oustwyk conducted the visitors to the solar, an elegant room with a large hearth and religious murals. A shelf of books graced one wall, and bowls of scented leaves were on the windowsills.

‘The Abbot must have gone to pray,’ said Oustwyk, finding the place empty, so hauling random tomes off the shelf and shoving them into the scholars’ hands. ‘He will not be long. Read these until I come back.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael, startled that they were to be left alone.

‘Someone is knocking at the door downstairs,’ explained Oustwyk. ‘I cannot answer it and stay with you at the same time. So peruse these lovely books until I return. I am sure you will find them interesting. Most people do.’

‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Radeford, when the steward had gone. He gestured to the volume he had been given. ‘I was expecting a theological tract, but this is a list of tips for raising pigeons for the pot. Does anyone want to swap?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Michael. ‘I have Liber de Coquina, a text famous for its tasty recipes, and I have just discovered one for chicken with dates. I am in the process of memorising it.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, who had been handed a manuscript on French pastries. A quick inspection of the shelf told him that Multone’s entire collection comprised books about food and how to prepare it. ‘I doubt it will transpire to be edible if you ask Michaelhouse to make it.’

‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Langelee, gazing in astonishment at the tome he had been given. ‘Did you know it is possible to eat cuckoo? With cherries?’

‘I think you will find cuniculus is rabbit, Master,’ said Bartholomew, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Cuckoo would be cuculus.’

Langelee was spared from further embarrassment when Oustwyk opened the door to admit two nuns in Benedictine habits. The younger, a novice, was pretty, with a heart-shaped face. There was a book under her arm, and sharp intelligence in her blue eyes.

Her companion could not have been more different. She had the baggy skin of a woman who had lived life to the full, and her worldly eyes said she was still far from finished with it. A ruby pendant took the place of the more usual pectoral cross, and her fingers were so cluttered with rings that Bartholomew wondered whether they were functional. The tendrils of hair that had been allowed to escape from under her wimple were dyed a rather startling orange.

‘Alice!’ exclaimed Langelee, regarding her in delight. ‘You are still here! I thought you would have been deposed by now … I mean, I assumed you would have moved to greener pastures.’

‘Ralph,’ purred Alice. ‘I did not think we would meet again. And I have missed you.’

Langelee treated her to a smacking kiss, while the novice gazed at the spectacle and Radeford gazed at the novice. Uneasily, Bartholomew saw the lawyer had been instantly smitten, and hoped it would not cause trouble – it was one thing for the Master to flirt with an old friend, but another altogether for a Michaelhouse man to fall for a woman intended for the Church.

‘Here!’ objected Oustwyk, hurrying forward to prise Alice and Langelee apart. ‘No nonsense in the Abbot’s solar, if you please. He will disapprove. And you do not want to be fined for licentious behaviour again, Prioress.’

‘No,’ sighed Alice. ‘I still owe the last one he levied. Of course, it was wholly unjust. It is hardly my fault that the vicars-choral like to visit me of an evening. They come for the music, you understand. As you may recall, Ralph, I play the lute.’

Langelee laughed, leaving Bartholomew with the distinct impression that ‘playing the lute’ was a euphemism for something else entirely. Alice’s companion was not amused, however.

‘Your music sees you in far too much trouble, Mother,’ she said worriedly. ‘Perhaps it is time you abandoned it, and took up something more suited to your age. Such as darning.’

‘I am not your mother, Isabella,’ snapped Alice, as Langelee’s eyes fastened speculatively on the younger woman. ‘How many more times must I tell you not to call me that?’

‘You are to all intents and purposes,’ countered Isabella. ‘You promised my uncle that you would act in loco parentis to me after he died.’

‘Isabella?’ asked Langelee, peering at the young woman’s face. ‘Good Lord! I did not recognise you! Little Isabella – Zouche’s niece! And you want to become a nun?’

‘I do,’ replied Isabella, although Alice made a gesture behind her back that said this was by no means decided. ‘How else shall I be able to study theology? It is my greatest passion, and if I had been born a man, I would be enrolled in your University by now.’

Langelee seemed unsure how to respond to this claim, never having felt anything remotely approaching passion for an academic discipline. ‘What about Helen?’ he asked rather lamely. ‘I believe she was another of Zouche’s nieces. Was she your sister, too? I cannot recall.’

‘Cousin,’ replied Isabella. ‘She made an excellent marriage to Sir Richard Vavasours, so she is Lady Helen now. Unfortunately, he died on a pilgrimage to Canterbury four years ago.’

Remembering his manners, Langelee introduced his colleagues, although Radeford became uncharacteristically tongue-tied when it was his turn to be presented. Bartholomew supposed Isabella was pretty, but he was in love with a woman named Matilde, and the novice paled in comparison to her. The fact that he had not seen or heard of Matilde in almost three years had done nothing to diminish his affection, or to soothe the heartache her disappearance had caused him.

‘Minding Isabella has not been easy,’ said Alice to Langelee, speaking as if the younger woman could not hear. ‘She will insist on accusing high-ranking officials of being greedy and corrupt.’

‘Because they are,’ asserted Isabella. ‘It would be disingenuous to say otherwise.’

‘Worse yet,’ Alice went on, ‘she had to answer to Archbishop Thoresby for apostasy.’

‘Apostasy?’ echoed Langelee, startled. ‘I thought she just said she wanted to be a nun.’

‘I do,’ declared Isabella. ‘But that does not mean I must meekly accept everything I read. And St Augustine’s concept of original sin is wrong. He says here that–’

‘Not now,’ said Alice wearily, as the novice began to fumble in the book she was carrying.

Langelee grinned in a manner that was distinctly predatory. ‘I shall discuss theology with you later, Isabella. As a philosopher, I am more than qualified to say whether or not you are an apostate.’

‘You will not have time, Master,’ said Radeford, finding his voice at last. He smiled shyly at Isabella. ‘He is not very interested in religious debates, anyway. But I am. Very interested.’

While Radeford proceeded to ingratiate himself with Isabella, and his colleagues listened with raised eyebrows – he had never expressed a liking for the ‘queen of sciences’ before – Abbot Multone bustled in, all flapping habit and bushy white hair.

‘My apologies,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We are always busy in the mornings, because of obits – masses we are obliged to say for the souls of the dead.’

‘We know what obits are,’ said Michael, resenting the implication that he was some provincial bumpkin who did not know the ways of the Church. ‘Michaelhouse performs dozens of them each year, for the souls of our founder, our benefactors and their families.’

‘Well, we have thousands,’ countered Multone rather competitively. ‘Which means every priest in York must recite at least two a day.’

‘We charge for ours,’ interjected Oustwyk smugly. ‘People give us a house or a bit of land, and the rent pays for our devotions. And as we get to keep anything left over, we do not mind spending a few moments on our knees each day. It is very lucrative.’

Michael started to make a tart observation about avarice, but Multone’s eyebrows had drawn together in a frown when he saw Alice and Isabella, and he cut across him rather abruptly.

‘What are you two doing here?’ he demanded ungraciously. ‘I was hoping to speak to my visitors in private.’

‘I told them to wait outside until you were ready,’ said Oustwyk, when his Abbot turned to glare accusingly at him. ‘But Prioress Alice refused, on the grounds that it is raining.’

‘Well, it is raining,’ averred Alice. ‘And you said you wanted to question Isabella about what she announced in the meat-market yesterday. You asked her to select a play to be performed there,’ she added, when Multone regarded her blankly.

‘Oh, yes.’ Multone brought a steely gaze to bear on the novice. ‘I thought the exercise would keep your mind off theology, which is better left to men. But the title of the drama you have picked has the entire city in an uproar of anticipation. What were you thinking, to choose such a piece?’

‘The Conversion of the Harlot,’ said Isabella, while Langelee sniggered like a schoolboy and Radeford’s jaw dropped. ‘I do not see the problem, Father Abbot. Many people have told me that they are looking forward to it.’

‘I am sure they are,’ said Multone, his expression pained. ‘But we Benedictines cannot be seen staging ribald plays! We shall be a laughing stock!’

‘It is not ribald!’ objected Isabella, shocked. ‘It is by Hrotsvit of Ganderheim, a saintly nun.’

‘She is right,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a performance he had once seen in Paris. ‘It begins with a long and rather tedious discussion between clerics about harmony in the created world, and the rest is a debate between the harlot – who has since converted to Christianity – and her confessor. There is nothing remotely bawdy about it.’

‘That is even worse!’ groaned Multone. ‘There will be a riot, because the title suggests something rather more … entertaining. You must abandon it, and find another.’

‘But we cannot!’ cried Isabella, dismayed. It was unusual for a novice to defy an abbot, but she was the niece of an archbishop, which granted her a certain licence unavailable to others. ‘We have already hired players and started rehearsals. Or are you suggesting we cancel it altogether?’

‘No!’ gulped Multone. ‘The people of York are fond of their dramas, and depriving them of one is more than my life is worth. I suppose it will have to go ahead, although I think I shall change its title. How about The Confessions of an ex-Whore?’

‘I think you might find that has similar problems, Father,’ said Michael, maintaining a perfectly straight face, although Bartholomew, Radeford and Langelee were hard pressed not to laugh.

‘It is a fine play,’ said Isabella earnestly. ‘It is all about a greedy, debauched, sinful person, who repents her sins and is saved. And as so many people in York are greedy, debauched and sinful, it will touch their hearts and make them eager to atone for their vices.’

‘Do not hold your breath,’ muttered Multone. He turned to the scholars. ‘Forgive me. I did not intend our first conversation to comprise a discussion about lewd dramas. May I assume that you are here about Huntington? Sir William told me he had written to tell you what has happened.’

Langelee nodded. ‘It was kind of him to warn us, because otherwise we might have been too late. The vicars-choral have no right to claim what Zouche intended for Michaelhouse.’

Multone inclined his head, but was too politic to take sides, so confined himself to saying, ‘They are tenacious and determined, so you will have to produce plenty of documentation to defeat them.’

‘I can provide some,’ whispered Oustwyk in Bartholomew’s ear, tugging his sleeve to gain his attention. ‘I know some excellent forgers, who will do it cheap. Just let me know.’

‘I hope you win,’ said Isabella. ‘My uncle did intend Michaelhouse to have that church, because I heard him say so myself. And so did Cousin Helen. Besides, the vicars only want it so they can buy themselves more new shoes. Please tell me if I can do anything to help. I read well, and will help you trawl through as many muniments as you like.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Radeford eagerly, before anyone could refuse. ‘Thank you.’

‘And when you have finished pawing through dusty old deeds, you must come to my convent for a lute lesson,’ said Alice to Langelee. ‘It has been far too long since we made music together.’

Not long after, there was another knock on the door. Oustwyk went to answer it, while Multone began to hold forth about a letter he had just received from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which the sin of pride was blamed for the plague that had swept across the country some ten years earlier. Isabella listened attentively to the pious reflections, but the others were bored, and Bartholomew hated being dragged back to the hellish time when his medicines had been useless and much-loved patients had died in his arms. He was startled from his gloomy reverie when two more Benedictines were shown in. Multone grimaced his annoyance.

‘How many more times must I tell you that visitors are to be kept downstairs until I send for them?’ he hissed in his steward’s ear. ‘It is getting ridiculously crowded in here!’

‘Langelee!’ exclaimed one of the newcomers. He was a pleasant-faced man with short brown hair, who carried himself with the careless grace of the aristocrat. He spoke French so flawlessly that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘I heard you might come to challenge the vicars, and I wanted to invite you to stay in Holy Trinity, but…’

‘But I thought it inadvisable,’ finished Multone. He introduced the Frenchman as Prior Jean de Chozaico, and the other monk as Anketil Malore. Then he returned to the subject of Holy Trinity. ‘It was attacked only last week, and guests should not be subjected to that sort of thing. Besides, we have a nice hospitium here.’

‘Spies?’ asked Langelee of Chozaico sympathetically, speaking the vernacular, because his French was almost as poor as his Latin. ‘People still think you harbour them?’

Chozaico winced. ‘Yes, because of our status as an alien house. It is galling, because we have tried our best to win the city’s affection – giving alms, making donations to worthy causes…’

‘The Carmelites are far more likely suspects than us,’ added Anketil, who was taller than his Prior, and slimmer, with hair so fair as to make him appear bald. ‘They sue anyone who owes them money, presumably so they can send it to their foreign masters.’

‘No,’ said Chozaico, regarding his companion sharply. ‘They are not guilty either, and–’

‘You were one of Zouche’s executors, Anketil,’ interrupted Langelee rudely, turning the subject to one that interested him more. ‘Surely his last testament contained a sentence about Huntington? The codicil has been misplaced, but what about the will itself?’

‘It confined itself solely to his chantry chapel,’ replied Anketil. He looked pleased to have been spared a rebuke from his Prior. ‘And although I heard him say he wanted Michaelhouse to have Huntington, I am not aware that he wrote anything down. However, the man to ask is John Dalfeld.’

Langelee groaned. ‘I was hoping to avoid that. I cannot abide lawyers, and Dalfeld is worse than most.’ He either did not notice or did not care about Radeford’s hurt expression. ‘I do not suppose there has been any improvement in him since I left?’

‘He has grown in importance,’ replied Chozaico carefully. ‘Thoresby uses him a great deal.’

‘He does not even live in the Franciscan Priory now,’ added Anketil. ‘He has his own house.’

‘On the Ouse Bridge,’ elaborated Multone. ‘I asked Warden Stayndrop why he allowed one of his friars such liberty, and he said it was expedient.’

‘In other words,’ translated Alice, ‘Stayndrop was glad to be rid of him. Dalfeld was arrogant, nosy and sly when you knew him, Ralph, but now he is worse than ever. In fact, he is a beast.’

‘He is not very religious, either,’ added Isabella, in a way that suggested that she considered this the ultimate damnation. ‘He does not even bother wearing his habit these days.’

Chozaico cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with such blunt talking. ‘If Dalfeld cannot help you, try looking in the minster library. When Thoresby became Archbishop, he sent all Zouche’s correspondence there, so if a codicil does exist, that is where it will be.’

‘Thank you,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘But I suppose we had better start with Dalfeld. We shall visit him today.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Multone. ‘Because I asked him to come here this morning for that express purpose. I thought you might prefer to deal with him in my presence, because he is…’

‘Ruthless, devious and greedy,’ supplied Alice, when the Abbot faltered, searching for a tactful phrase. ‘The kind of man who should only be addressed in the presence of reliable witnesses, lest he later twists your words or forges your signatures.’

Multone winced, although he made no effort to contradict her. ‘I expect him at any moment.’

‘Then perhaps we could discuss my business before he arrives, Father Abbot,’ suggested Chozaico uneasily. ‘Because … well, you understand.’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Multone quickly. ‘The founding of an obit for Stiendby is none of his affair.’

‘Stiendby is dead?’ asked Langelee, shocked. ‘He was another of Zouche’s executors. Why did no one inform me?’

‘Because hiring messengers to ride all the way to Cambridge is expensive,’ replied Anketil. ‘Besides, Sir William wrote when Myton died, and you never replied. Naturally, we all assumed you were engrossed in your new life, and the old one no longer held any interest for you.’

Langelee glared at him. ‘I was so stricken with sorrow that responding must have slipped my mind. But never mind this – what happened to Stiendby?’

‘He died last year, of spotted liver.’ Abbot Multone shuddered. ‘God deliver us all from such a vile affliction! It took Neville, too – another executor – although that was five years ago now.’

‘What is spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, while Langelee’s jaw dropped with the realisation that events in York had moved on without him during the time he had been absent.

‘A terrible disease,’ replied Multone bleakly. ‘Best not ask.’

The Abbot turned his attention to the document Chozaico produced and began to scan through it, although he shoved it rather furtively up his sleeve when Oustwyk appeared with yet another guest. There was immediate disquiet among those already there, and it was obvious that none of them appreciated being thrust into the company of the latest arrival.

Dalfeld was a tall man with a mop of black curly hair and restless eyes. There was nothing to identify him as a member of the Franciscan Order, because he wore a green belted tunic called a gipon, and fine calfskin boots. However, although both were of excellent quality, they were sadly stained with mud and one sleeve had been ripped. He was also wet, and wore no hat or cloak.

‘I have just been robbed,’ he raged, stamping into the room and making directly for the fire. He jostled Alice as he went, and only a timely lunge by Chozaico prevented her from falling. ‘Me, a poor friar!’

‘Robbed?’ asked Abbot Multone in astonishment. ‘By whom?’

‘If I knew that, the villain would be kicking on a gibbet by now,’ fumed Dalfeld viciously. ‘He knocked me into the filth of the street, and then stole my purse, my new hat and my favourite cloak. And although there were a dozen witnesses, not one admitted to seeing anything.’

‘Fleeced of your belongings,’ said Alice flatly. ‘Now you know how your victims feel.’

‘I do not fleece people,’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘I merely apply the law.’

‘It invariably amounts to the same thing with you,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘And a little conscience would not go amiss. What you do is rarely just, and your religious vows–’

‘How dare you lecture me!’ snarled Dalfeld. ‘You are a damned French spy.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Multone, shocked, while the colour drained from Chozaico’s face.

‘I know why you asked me here,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘But the answer is no: I wrote no document giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. Ergo, the vicars will win this case. But that was a foregone conclusion when they went out and hired the best lawyer available to represent them: me.’

‘You are not the only notary-public in York,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘Zouche may have asked someone else to produce the codicil.’

‘He may,’ acknowledged Dalfeld. ‘But if you do discover one, you will have to prove it is not a forgery – especially as I imagine Oustwyk has already offered to introduce you to men skilled at producing fraudulent writs. However, I am not easily deceived, so you may as well save your money and go home now. You stand as much chance of besting me as you do of flying to Venus.’

Before the scholars could react to Dalfeld’s remarks, Oustwyk appeared with yet another visitor. Exasperated, the Abbot hauled his steward into a corner, whispering fierce admonitions, but although Oustwyk nodded understanding, he did not seem contrite.

The newcomer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the number of people the Abbot was entertaining, but he squeezed himself into the solar gamely. He aimed for Langelee, and gripped the Master’s arm in comradely affection. His sword and short cloak said he was a knight, and he carried himself with confidence and dignity. He was in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and a weather-beaten face that might have been austere, were it not for his ready smile.

‘Scholarship suits you, Langelee,’ he said warmly. ‘You look younger than you ever did here.’

‘This is Sir William Longton,’ said Langelee to his colleagues. He grinned at the knight. ‘It is hard to believe that twelve years have passed since Zouche took us to put an end to the Scots’ unrest at Neville’s Cross. It feels like yesterday.’

Sir William sighed. ‘It does. Thoresby is an excellent archbishop, who has given up all his royal appointments to concentrate on running his diocese, but I liked Zouche.’

‘I liked him, too,’ said Alice. ‘He did not appreciate music, but he was a fine figure of a man.’

‘He did nothing untoward, Mother,’ said Isabella, aware of the conclusions that Bartholomew, Michael and Radeford were drawing from this particular remark. ‘He was not that sort of person.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He was decent and practical – not irritatingly devout, like many clerics, but a man for the people. I shall visit his chantry chapel later, and pray for his soul.’

‘I only wish you could,’ said Sir William sadly. ‘But unfortunately, it is not finished.’

Langelee frowned. ‘Not finished? But that is impossible! It was started long before he died, and by the time I left, it was half done. He left ample money–’

‘It ran out,’ interposed Dalfeld, all smug malice. ‘He should have provided more.’

‘Ran out?’ exploded Langelee. ‘But he left a fortune – enough to pay for a shrine twice over. He told me so himself.’

‘As he told you he left Huntington to Michaelhouse?’ asked Dalfeld snidely.

Langelee rounded on Anketil. ‘You are his executor – appointed to see his last wishes carried out. Why is his chapel not ready after nearly six years?’

Anketil raised his hands placatingly. ‘Masons are costly, and so is stone. We all thought what he left would be more than sufficient, but we were wrong.’

‘Then why does the minster not pay?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Because it is about to begin remodelling the choir, and there are no funds to spare,’ explained Multone. He brightened. ‘Have you seen the plans? They are pleasingly ambitious, and–’

‘He was good to you, Anketil,’ shouted Langelee angrily. ‘He defended Holy Trinity against those spying accusations, and he helped you secure lucrative benefactions.’ He whirled around to include Dalfeld in his tirade. ‘And he was generous to you, too. He introduced you to wealthy clients and he left you property. Is this how you repay him? By failing to complete his chantry?’

‘It is not my concern,’ stated Dalfeld indignantly. ‘I was not one of his executors.’

‘But you were his lawyer!’ yelled Langelee, unappeased. ‘He trusted you – both of you.’

Anketil flinched. ‘I know, and I would have done what he asked, had it been in my power. But the money is gone. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise, but…’

‘I agree with Master Langelee,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘My poor uncle’s bones still lie in the minster’s nave, whereas he expected to be in his tomb by now, one with an altar, so that prayers can be said to speed his soul out of Purgatory.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Langelee in a strained voice. ‘It was important to him.’

‘When I make money from my theological treatises, I shall donate every penny to his chapel,’ vowed Isabella. She smiled wanly at Langelee. ‘His real friends will see his wishes granted.’

Dalfeld, making no effort to disguise the fact that he was bored with the discussion, turned to Multone. ‘Give me your blessing, Father, and then I shall be about my own affairs.’

The Abbot started to raise his hand before realising that he could not bless anyone with a roll of parchment stuffed up his sleeve. He faltered, and a sly grin stole across Dalfeld’s face when he saw that his ploy to force Multone to reveal it was going to work. Seeing the Abbot’s predicament, Chozaico stepped forward, and performed the service instead.

‘I do not want your benediction,’ the lawyer snapped, showing his anger at being thwarted by knocking Chozaico’s hand away. ‘I do not treat with French traitors!’

Bartholomew held his breath, anticipating an unedifying row, but Chozaico only bowed politely to Multone and took his leave, indicating with a nod that Anketil was to go with him. Alice and Isabella also took the opportunity to depart, and when Dalfeld followed, Radeford hurried after him, asking how he could be so certain that no codicil existed. Langelee and Michael were hot on his heels, apparently distrusting their mild-mannered colleague to extract the truth from so devious and unpleasant a man.

Bartholomew followed more sedately, and only after he had thanked the Abbot again for his hospitality, feeling that to tear away as abruptly as the others would be unmannerly. Sir William trailed him down the stairs, remarking wryly that his own business with Multone could wait until the Abbot had had a chance to regain his composure after his trying morning.

‘It has stopped raining, but the wind has picked up,’ the knight said conversationally, as he and Bartholomew walked towards the monastery’s main gate together. ‘Do you have no hat? It is not a good idea to walk around York without one.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, loath to admit to a knight – a man with elite equestrian skills – that he had lost it falling off a horse.

‘Because we have narrow streets,’ explained William. ‘And our residents are in the habit of hurling night-soil out of their windows. You will not want that in your hair, because it is difficult to rinse out. But you can buy one here – York is full of fine hats.’

Bartholomew was sure it was, and was equally sure they would be well beyond his meagre means. He had his College stipend and the money he was paid by his wealthier patients, but most of his customers were poor, and could not afford the medicines he prescribed. As there was no point in tending them if they did not have access to the remedies that would make them better, he bought them himself, a practice that made him popular among Cambridge’s paupers, but which meant that items like new hats were a luxury he would have to do without.

However, he soon saw Sir William’s point about the inadvisability of venturing out sans adequate protection, because it was not long before something brown and sticky slapped into his shoulder. He could not be certain, but he thought he glimpsed a hulking figure with a fur-edged hood and pattens ducking out of sight. Vicars did not hurl muck at people in Cambridge, and he wondered whether Cave was completely in control of his wits.

‘Take off your cloak,’ advised Sir William, after attempts to remove the mess had made it worse. ‘And carry it under your arm. We shall keep to the middle of the road from now on, so it will not happen again. Thank God it did not land on your head – the stuff reeks!’

Fortunately, Bartholomew’s wealthy sister had insisted on buying him a new tunic before he had left Cambridge, afraid he would catch his death of cold if he ventured north in the threadbare clothes he usually wore. Its quality was such that, as long as the rain held off, he would not miss the cloak. It was travel stained, but warmer than anything else he had owned in a very long time.

Sir William chatted amiably as they set off again, explaining that the street along which they walked was named Petergate, which continued through the city until it became Fossgate and then Walmgate. He led the way into the minster precinct, where Bartholomew saw his colleagues some distance ahead, talking to a few of the vicars-choral. The discussion appeared to be amiable, and he wondered whether they were trying to make amends for their sub-chanter’s earlier hostility.

But bad-mannered vicars flew from his mind when he turned his attention to the minster, which was even more magnificent close up than it had been from afar. Delicately arched windows soared skywards, interspersed with buttresses and arcades that were simultaneously imposing and elegant. Above him, the lofty towers seemed to graze the dark clouds that scudded overhead, their stone a deep honey-gold in the sullen grey light.

‘It is grand,’ said William, smiling as the physician gazed in open-mouthed admiration. ‘We are very proud of it.’

Bartholomew was about to tell him he had good cause, when there was a hiss followed by a thump. He had seen enough of war to recognise the sound of an arrow hitting flesh when he heard it, and he whipped around to see Sir William crumple, both hands clasped around the quarrel that protruded from his side.