Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 2

For a moment, Bartholomew was too stunned to do more than stare at Sir William’s prostrate form, but a scream from a passing woman jolted him back to his senses. He dropped to his knees and fought to stem the bleeding with a piece of clean linen from the bag he always carried over his shoulder. He was dimly aware of a crowd gathering, but his mind was on medicine as he pressed on the wound with one hand, and groped for forceps with the other.

As a physician, he should not have been considering a procedure that was the domain of barber-surgeons, but Cambridge had no competent sawbones of its own, and as he was of the opinion that patients should have access to any treatment that might save their lives, he was more skilled at such techniques than he should have been. Working quickly, he inserted the forceps into the wound, careful to place them around the barb, so it could be neutralised before removal.

‘I told you,’ murmured a familiar voice, and Bartholomew glanced up to see Cynric crouching beside him. ‘I said something terrible would happen. This arrow was intended for you.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘At me? Why? I have no enemies here.’

‘No, but Michaelhouse has,’ whispered Cynric. ‘A distant College, which has laid claim to a local church. There will be more than vicars-choral who resent us for it.’

Bartholomew thought it a ludicrous assertion and dismissed it from his mind. He started to ease the arrow out, but William began to writhe, and the book-bearer was unequal to keeping him still. He was on the verge of commandeering help from the spectators, when someone knelt next to him and expertly pinioned the knight’s arms. It was still not enough, but within moments more help arrived in the form of the woman who had shrieked. She was extremely attractive, with olive skin, dark eyes and silky black hair. She was past the first flush of youth, and her figure was mature but shapely. Bartholomew was slightly ashamed when Cynric was obliged to elbow him in order to bring his attention back to medicine.

‘It is all right, William,’ the lady was whispering encouragingly. ‘I am here, and so is Fournays. We will look after you.’

Once the patient was immobile, removing the arrow was easy. The wound bled copiously, but Bartholomew hoped this would serve to wash out any dirt. Unfortunately, it also meant the patient would bleed to death if he was carried home before it was sutured, so Bartholomew decided to complete the task in the street. He enlarged the hole slightly so that he could see what he was doing, found needle and thread, and began the laborious process of repairing damaged blood vessels and layers of muscle. William fainted, leaving Bartholomew’s assistants free to talk.

‘Did anyone see what happened?’ asked Fournays. He glanced at the woman. ‘Lady Helen?’

‘Yes, but I cannot credit it,’ replied Helen, in a voice that was unsteady with shock. ‘William and this surgeon were admiring the minster, when an arrow just thudded into him.’

‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’ asked one of the crowd, before Bartholomew could inform her that he was nothing of the kind. The speaker was Prior Chozaico. Anketil was at his side, and both had evidently hurried back when they had heard the commotion, because they were breathing hard. ‘I thought everyone liked Sir William.’

‘Even if we knew, we would not tell you,’ came an unpleasant response. Bartholomew glanced up to see that the speaker was Ellis, surrounded by vicars-choral, none of whom displayed any surprise or embarrassment at the remark. ‘You are French spies!’

When virtually every onlooker growled agreement, the two monks made themselves scarce. Bartholomew did not blame them: crowds turned quickly into mobs when there was a scapegoat to hand, and he could tell by the response Ellis’s words had provoked that the reports describing the city’s hostility towards a foundation thought to be working for the enemy had not been exaggerated.

He finished suturing a vein, and clipped off the ends of the twine with tiny but very sharp scissors. He started to reach for more thread, only to find Fournays ready with it. At this point, the spectators craned forward so eagerly that they blocked his light. Fournays ordered them back, and while he waited for them to oblige, Bartholomew noticed that the lawyer Dalfeld and the two nuns from the Abbot’s solar were among them, along with his Michaelhouse colleagues.

Michael’s face was a mask of dismay; clearly he was anticipating the trouble that would ensue when it became known that a physician, not a surgeon, was publicly conducting grisly procedures on the minster’s advocatus ecclesiae. Radeford was more interested in gazing at Isabella, while Langelee was pale, shocked by the assault on his old friend. He bent to whisper in Bartholomew’s ear.

‘Will he survive?’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I hope so, but it is too soon to say for certain.’

Langelee gripped his shoulder hard. ‘Do your best for him. He is a good man.’

As Sir William was still insensible and did not need to be held, Lady Helen stood on wobbly legs. A number of men immediately rushed to steady her, but she declined their hands and aimed for Isabella instead, who received her with a comforting hug. Bartholomew recalled that Langelee had mentioned a cousin of Isabella’s named Helen.

‘Helen’s distress is understandable,’ Fournays whispered to the physician. ‘She and Sir William were close until recently. We all thought they would marry, which would have been good for the city – they belong to opposing factions, you see, so it would have brought a measure of peace – but they changed their minds. They remain fond of each other, though.’

Bartholomew wondered how the knight could have let such a woman slip through his fingers, quite forgetting that he had done much the same with Matilde. He said nothing as he continued to stitch, listening with half an ear to the discussion taking place above his head.

‘The apprentices practise in the butts on a Monday,’ one of the vicars was saying. ‘So there are weapons everywhere. It would be easy for anyone to lay hold of one.’

‘Is there anything special about the arrow?’ Dalfeld shrugged when everyone regarded him in bemusement. ‘They are often distinctive, and may allow us to identify the man who shot it.’

Cynric handed it to him. Haughtily, the lawyer took it between thumb and forefinger, and made a show of examining it. The crowd waited in tense expectation for his verdict, although Bartholomew noticed several nudging each other and smirking at the sorry state of his clothes.

‘The barb is unique,’ Dalfeld announced eventually. ‘See how the tips are flattened?’

‘They were crushed when the arrow was removed from Sir William,’ said Cynric dismissively. ‘By the forceps. Obviously, they were not that shape when they struck.’

‘You mean you destroyed evidence that may allow us to catch a murderer?’ demanded Dalfeld. It was a remark made purely to repay Cynric for making him look foolish, but a murmur of suspicion rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew felt decidedly uneasy.

‘Of course not,’ said Fournays firmly, cutting it off. ‘Obviously, it was better to damage the arrow than to further damage the patient.’

Meanwhile, Langelee was scanning the area with the eye of a professional. ‘The bowman could have loosed the weapon from anywhere, but the most likely place is there.’

He pointed to a church that sat curiously close to the eastern end of the minster. It had probably once been handsome, but was now derelict: its window shutters were rotting, ivy grew over its roof, and pigeons roosted in the cracks that yawned in its crumbling tower.

‘St Mary ad Valvas?’ asked Lady Helen in surprise. ‘I sincerely doubt it! That place is cursed, and no one goes in it for any reason.’

‘It does have a reputation,’ agreed Isabella. She glanced at Langelee. ‘It is odd that you should single it out, because it has a slight connection to Michaelhouse. As you know, John Cotyngham is the current vicar of Huntington, but before that, he was priest at St Mary ad Valvas.’

‘A strange dedication,’ mused Michael. ‘Do I understand from the Latin that it has a sliding door? Perhaps a similar contrivance to the rollable stone that sealed Jesus’s tomb?’

‘Yes, it did,’ replied Isabella. ‘But it fell into disrepair years ago.’

‘Regardless, it is the perfect place for an ambush,’ said Langelee, still staring at it. ‘An archer could stand in there and no one would see him.’

‘But who would want to kill Sir William Longton?’ asked Fournays. ‘He is one of the most popular men in York.’

‘Yes, but his brother is not,’ said Dalfeld slyly. ‘John Longton has enemies galore.’

When the last stitch was in place, Fournays helped Bartholomew dress the wound, and they finished just as William opened pain-filled eyes. Helen crouched next to him, muttering reassurances; the knight smiled gratefully and squeezed her fingers.

Knowing the patient was going to be in for an uncomfortable time as he was carried home, no matter how careful the bearers, Bartholomew helped him sip a powerful soporific. It was not long before the knight’s eyes closed a second time, although he struggled to open them when someone began shoving through the crowd in a manner that was rudely aggressive.

‘Is it true?’ the newcomer demanded. ‘Someone has attacked my brother?’

There was a resemblance between him and the casualty, but the older man’s brusque manner could not have been more different from William’s amiable dignity. Moreover, his face was florid from high living, and he was unsteady on his feet, despite the fact that it was not yet noon. He was accompanied by companions who were also far from sober, all of whom wore clothes that said they were wealthy.

‘Sir William has been shot, Mayor Longton,’ supplied Dalfeld, when no one else spoke. ‘I imagine the wound will prove fatal. They usually are, where innards are concerned.’

‘Not necessarily,’ countered Fournays sharply, while Bartholomew gaped at the lawyer in dismay: the patient was listening, and hearing such a grim prognosis would do nothing to aid his recovery. ‘Sir William is strong.’

‘Yes, and I am not ready to die just yet,’ whispered William with a wan smile. He tried to fight the effects of the medicine, but could not do it, and his head lolled to one side.

‘Sleeping,’ explained Bartholomew hastily, when there was a shocked intake of breath from the onlookers. ‘Do you have a stretcher? He must be taken home.’

‘It was Gisbyrn!’ howled Longton, and the slumbering William was the only one who did not jump at the sudden shrillness of his voice. ‘Damn him to Hell!’

‘Please!’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘A minster precinct is no place for cursing.’

‘Then where is?’ screeched Longton. ‘Gisbyrn has attempted to murder my brother, and if that is not cause for cursing, then I do not know what is! How dare he!’

‘He did it to weaken us,’ added one of his cronies, a portly man in a blue gipon with wine-stains down the front. He scowled at Helen. ‘Or because she was vexed when William refused to marry her, so she urged Gisbyrn to make an end of him. They are friends, after all.’

‘He is right,’ yelled the Mayor, also glaring. ‘This is Lady Helen’s fault!’

‘No!’ Helen’s lovely face was pale. ‘First, it was I who decided to end our courtship – William still mourns the wife he lost last winter, and needs more time to grieve. And second, John Gisbyrn may be my friend, but he is hardly at my beck and call. He–’

‘He has looked after your interests ever since you were widowed four years ago,’ snapped Longton. ‘Of course he is at your beck and call.’

‘He was my husband’s business partner, and they were close,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘So yes, he helps me. However, he would never harm William – on my orders or anyone else’s.’

‘Lies!’ bawled Longton. ‘But I shall see my brother avenged. Just you wait.’

His cronies roared their agreement, and Bartholomew watched in distaste: Longton was more interested in hurling accusations than in his brother’s well-being. More people arrived, led by a man with red hair so thick and curly that it was like fur. He was clad in plain but expensive clothes, and his eyes immediately lit on Helen, where they filled with undisguised admiration.

‘Now we shall have trouble,’ murmured Fournays. ‘His name is Frost, and he was delighted when Helen broke her betrothal to Sir William, because he thinks himself in with a chance. He has been besotted with her for years, and will not like Longton railing at her. Moreover, he is Gisbyrn’s favourite henchman.’

Sure enough, Longton and Frost began to snipe at each other, and the crowd shifted in such a way as to form two distinct factions, supplying hisses or cheers as their chosen protagonists scored a point over the other.

As Fournays ordered two youths, obviously apprentices, to fetch a stretcher, it occurred to Bartholomew that there was probably a very good reason why the man had known exactly how to assist him: Fournays was a surgeon himself. Bartholomew sighed inwardly, knowing the fellow’s good humour would evaporate when he learned he had been usurped by someone who had no business dabbling in his trade.

He was about to confess when Helen knelt next to him, and took his hand in hers. Her touch made his skin tingle in a way it had rarely done since Matilde had left, and he regarded her in astonishment. At the same time, a strangled noise from Frost said he had witnessed both the gesture and the physician’s reaction to it. Bartholomew was relieved when the two nuns came to hover behind Helen, inadvertently blocking the henchman’s view.

‘Thank you for helping William,’ said Helen softly. ‘Although I thought Master Langelee said you were a physician, not a surgeon. I must have misheard.’

‘No,’ said Langelee, and Bartholomew braced himself for the inevitable recriminations. ‘You did not. He is my Doctor of Medicine, but loves to shock everyone by chopping and slicing.’

‘A physician?’ breathed Fournays in astonishment. ‘But you are too competent to belong to that band of leeches!’

Uncomfortably, Bartholomew wondered whether he should defend his fellow medici in the name of comradely solidarity, but was acutely aware that not all physicians were competent practitioners, and he did not know York’s. Fortunately, Helen spoke again, sparing him the need to decide. She made a moue of distaste at the quarrel that still raged nearby.

‘Listen to them,’ she said in disgust. ‘Longton and his cronies are drunk, even though it is not yet noon. And they wonder why John Gisbyrn despises them!’

‘John Gisbyrn is a very comely man,’ sighed Alice wistfully. ‘Especially in his ceremonial red leggings. It is a pity that Longton’s meddling means we shall not see him in them very often.’

‘He was elected as our bailiff last year,’ explained Helen, seeing Bartholomew’s bemusement at the remark. ‘But Longton refuses to let him take the post. They have been at war ever since.’

‘Can Longton do that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Gisbyrn was legally elected…’ He trailed off, realising he actually had no idea how such matters worked.

‘He said John had stolen money from the city,’ she replied. ‘It was nonsense, of course. Longton just wants one of his own cronies in the post – one of his debauched landowners, who inherited their wealth and have never done a day’s labour in their lives. By contrast, John works hard for his money, and so do his fellow merchants.’

‘Their quarrel means the rest of us have a choice,’ said Isabella with weary resignation. ‘To support dour merchants who are overly interested in gold, or licentious rakehells who exist only to drink themselves senseless.’

‘Not an easy decision,’ said Langelee sympathetically. ‘And not one I was obliged to make when I lived here, thank God. Their squabbles were more private then.’

‘Did you come to York to assess the quality of the medical services we provide?’ asked Fournays of Bartholomew. ‘If so, I shall show you our hospitals. We have several.’

‘No, he came because of Huntington,’ explained Alice. Bartholomew wished she had kept quiet, because he would have liked to accept Fournays’s offer. ‘As you know, the vicars have claimed it.’

‘So they did,’ acknowledged Fournays. ‘The very same day that Cotyngham left the place and arrived in York.’

‘But it is not what our uncle intended,’ said Isabella. ‘He wanted Michaelhouse to inherit.’

‘Will you serve as a witness to strengthen our case?’ asked Langelee. ‘You said in Abbot Multone’s solar that you heard him express a desire to favour our College. I did, too, but Dalfeld will not accept my testimony – he considers it tainted.’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ replied Isabella with a smile. ‘Helen heard him, too – not on his deathbed, like you, but before, when he was still fit enough to manage his affairs. There will be a codicil. It is just a case of locating it.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping she was right.

‘Because our uncle was an efficient administrator, who would not have overlooked such an important detail,’ replied Isabella with quiet conviction. ‘Dalfeld was probably lying when he said one had not been drafted. He is not an honest man, and rarely tells the truth.’

‘Isabella is right,’ said Helen. ‘Our uncle would not have neglected to produce a codicil, and I would like to see Huntington go where he intended. You must let us know if there is anything we can do to help. Besides, the vicars-choral are already wealthy: they do not need another church.’

The crowd was still squabbling when the stretcher arrived. Longton shouldered Bartholomew and Fournays away, and in a belated attempt at concern, insisted on carrying his brother himself. The moment he had gone, voices became calmer and people began to drift away, sensing the excitement was over. Frost and his companions also left, although the red-headed henchman lingered long enough to secure a private word with Lady Helen. When she gave him a distracted nod, he blushed and grinned inanely.

‘I had better accompany Sir William, too,’ said Fournays. ‘He is my patient, after all.’

‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Lord! I am sorry. I hope you do not–’

‘You saved his life,’ interrupted Fournays, smiling. ‘There is nothing to be sorry about. I shall send your share of the fee to the abbey – his family will be generous once they understand what we did for him today.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Helen, before Bartholomew could say that payment had been the last thing on his mind. ‘For all his faults, Longton is not miserly. Perhaps you will use it to buy a hat, because it is unwise to wander about York without one.’

When they had gone, Bartholomew went to rinse his hands in a water butt, scrubbing until the gore that stained them had gone; he did not want to walk around a strange city looking like a ghoul.

‘This place is almost as bad as Cambridge for disputes,’ remarked Michael, coming to stand next to him. Langelee, Radeford and Cynric were at his heels. ‘It is torn between supporters of Mayor Longton and supporters of Gisbyrn, and some very unpleasant remarks were traded. The minster’s officials tried to quell the bickering, but they were wasting their time.’

‘And there is York’s dislike of Holy Trinity,’ added Langelee. ‘There are French spies here, and have been for years, but there is no evidence that the alien Benedictines are responsible. Only the dim-witted and bigoted believe it, but unfortunately, those seem to form a majority.’

‘I do not feel comfortable here,’ said Radeford, looking around uneasily. ‘Not with a murdering archer on the loose.’

‘Not a murdering archer – Sir William is not dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out, a little curtly.

‘He is going to live,’ said Langelee with utmost conviction, although the physician was unhappy with this assertion, too – he knew how quickly such wounds could turn poisonous. ‘Here is the arrow, by the way. I slipped it up my sleeve after Dalfeld threw it away.’

‘Did you?’ Bartholomew regarded him in distaste. ‘Why?’

‘Because he was right: arrows are distinctive,’ explained Langelee. ‘Look for yourself.’

Bartholomew took it, but could see nothing unusual or notable. It had brown feathers for fletching, a shaft of pale wood, and a metal head with barbs that ensured it would embed itself in its prey. He shrugged to express his ignorance of such matters, but Cynric nodded.

‘I do not know about its barbs,’ said the book-bearer, ‘but the fletching is peculiar.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee, pleased the Welshman had noticed. ‘Most fletchers use goose feathers, but these are smaller and softer. From a chicken, perhaps.’

‘That would be an odd choice,’ mused Cynric.

Langelee grinned. ‘Precisely! Ergo, this arrow represents a vital clue in solving the crime.’

‘Speaking of clues, we should inspect that church,’ said Michael, turning to look at it.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘The attack is none of our concern, and York will have its own people to investigate. There might be trouble if we meddle.’

‘There might,’ nodded Michael. ‘But the vicars-choral were suspiciously close when Sir William was shot, and it would not surprise me to learn that they had a hand in it.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How? They were talking to you at the time. I saw them.’

‘Not all of them,’ countered Michael. ‘Ellis, Cave and Jafford had disappeared a few moments earlier, to fetch some documents.’

‘Then why would they harm Sir William?’ Michael had no reply, so Bartholomew continued. ‘If the quarrel we just witnessed is anything to go by, Gisbyrn is the most likely suspect, to strike at the brother of his mortal enemy. Lady Helen denies it, but–’

‘Lady Helen,’ said Langelee, speaking the name with naked desire. ‘She has certainly improved with the passing of time.’

‘She is pleasing to the eye,’ agreed Michael, his gaze rather distant.

Bartholomew was not surprised that Helen’s loveliness had caught his colleagues’ eyes, but he was astonished that they should acknowledge the attraction openly – they usually kept such thoughts to themselves, in deference to the fact that they should at least try to remain chaste.

‘Of course, she would defend Gisbyrn,’ Langelee went on, reluctantly pulling his thoughts back to the matter in hand. ‘He manages her dead husband’s business in a very profitable manner, and has ensured that she remains wealthy. However, I imagine he keeps more than a little for himself. He always was greedy and ruthless, which is why he is such a successful merchant.’

‘So are you saying he is the culprit?’ asked Radeford. ‘Matt is right?’

‘It is a possibility, although he is more likely to have ordered his henchman Frost to do it. He would not soil his own hands, and Frost was once a professional warrior.’

‘Frost did not strike me as a man who had just shot someone,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘He ogled Helen shamelessly, and I imagine a man who had just attempted murder would have had other matters on his mind. Personally, I still suspect those vicars.’

‘Or Dalfeld,’ added Cynric. ‘The abbey servants told me about him when you were in Abbot Multone’s solar. He is reputed to be the most devious and treacherous man alive.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Michael, smiling at the description. ‘But unfortunately, he left the abbey when we did – he has not had the opportunity to shoot anyone.’

‘I disagree,’ countered Langelee. ‘He raced away from us at a tremendous speed, and I would say he had plenty of time to sneak into the church and loose an arrow.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Radeford. ‘However, all these speculations are irrelevant, because Sir William was not the intended target. Bartholomew was.’

‘See, boy?’ muttered Cynric, nudging the physician in satisfaction. ‘I told you so.’

‘Because you are from Michaelhouse,’ Radeford went on. ‘And the vicars – along with Dalfeld their lawyer – want us frightened off. I happened to glance back towards you just before William was cut down, and the angle would have made it very easy to miss one and hit the other.’

‘It is possible, Matt,’ nodded Michael. ‘I am one Benedictine out of dozens who live here, while Langelee, Radeford and Cynric are wearing hooded cloaks that render them anonymous. But you are distinctive by being bare-headed. You are certainly the easiest target.’

Cynric promptly shoved his own cap in the physician’s hand. It was festooned with pilgrim badges from sites the book-bearer had never visited, interspersed with pagan charms to ward off various kinds of evil. Bartholomew regarded it without enthusiasm, suspecting the Abbot might have something to say if he saw such an item sported within his precincts.

‘So if there are murderous designs on us – by the vicars or anyone else – we have a right to investigate,’ concluded Michael.

There was a gleam in his eye that Bartholomew did not like, and he saw the monk was keen to put his formidable wits to solving the case. Michael had been bored on the journey north, and the prospect of an intellectual challenge was obviously an attractive one.

‘Hide the arrow in your bag, Bartholomew,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I shall show it to a few fletchers later. Meanwhile, we shall all go to see what St Mary ad Valvas has in the way of clues.’

‘Must we, Master?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Lady Helen said it was cursed.’

‘It was not cursed when I lived here,’ said Langelee dismissively, beginning to stride towards it. ‘At least, not that I remember.’

The troubled expression on Cynric’s face said he did not find this assurance very comforting.

Although the minster precinct was busy, no one seemed to take any notice as they walked to the derelict church. Bartholomew felt exposed and uncomfortable, though, sensing hidden eyes, and when one of St Mary’s broken window shutters slammed with a sharp report, he jumped violently.

‘How good are you with arrow wounds, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford nervously. ‘Will you be able to remove a second missile, should one come our way?’

‘It depends on where it lands,’ replied Bartholomew.

Radeford swallowed hard. ‘I am beginning to wish I had declined this invitation to travel north. First, it seems Huntington is not worth having anyway, and second, I have a feeling it will not be easy to locate the missing codicil.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But we must do our best. Besides, that particular invitation was not one you were at liberty to decline. I needed you here, so you had no choice but to accompany me.’

They reached the church to find it locked, and Bartholomew was a little shocked by the speed with which the Master managed to circumvent the mechanism. Langelee pushed open the door, which creaked on rusting hinges, and indicated that his colleagues were to follow him inside.

It was a poor, sad place that had been left to decay. Pigeons roosted on the rafters and in crevices in the stone walls, and the floor was thick with their droppings. The rood screen had toppled over, and lay in a splintered mass in the nave, revealing the chancel beyond to be crammed full of fallen masonry. Bartholomew stood in the doorway and stared up at the rotten ceiling, wondering how long it would be before the whole thing came crashing down. It had started to rain again, and he was sure the water that splattered mournfully on to the stone floor was doing nothing to help. He was reluctant to step farther inside, not liking the odour of rot, the fact that the whole place seemed to be on the verge of losing its battle with gravity, or the notion that a killer might still be lurking.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Langelee irritably, grabbing his arm and hauling him forward. ‘There is no need to draw attention to what we are about to do by hovering there.’

Once Bartholomew was over the threshold, the Master closed the door, although he did not lock it, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He did not like the thought of being trapped there.

‘Have you been in here before?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Langelee. ‘It was always a bit shabby for my taste, and Cotyngham never had much of a congregation, not even before the plague. Then the Death took every last one of them, and Zouche sent him to Huntington – to stop him from coming here and spending all day in tears.’

‘An act of compassion?’ asked Radeford.

Langelee nodded. ‘Zouche was a considerate man. And it worked, because Cotyngham threw off his misery once he was away from York, and was happy in his new parish. But his departure was the death knell for this church. I imagine it will be demolished once Thoresby starts rebuilding the minster choir, because it will be in the way.’

They all jumped when a bird exploded from a pile of discarded wood and flapped away in a flurry of snapping wings.

‘Can anyone remember those recipes for pigeon pie?’ muttered Michael, fixing it with a venomous glare. ‘Lord, it stinks in here! I have never liked pigeons. Nasty, dirty things.’

As they ventured farther inside the smell grew worse, and Michael reeled away with a cry of revulsion when he discovered a dead pig, crawling with maggots. There were three dead cats, too, apparently tossed through the windows by people too lazy to dispose of them properly.

‘The bowman stood here,’ announced Langelee eventually, stopping at one of the windows. He peered out, and took aim with an imaginary weapon. ‘It cannot have been anywhere else, because this is the only place that has been cleared of rubbish – and I cannot imagine he balanced on a decomposing animal while he waited for his quarry to appear.’

‘I agree,’ said Cynric, examining it carefully. ‘You can see where the weeds growing between the flagstones have been trampled, and there are marks in the dust where he rested his weapon.’

‘He was here for some time,’ added Bartholomew. When the others regarded him quizzically, he pointed to the remains of a makeshift meal – bread and cheese – that had been tossed towards the rubble of the collapsed rood.

‘How do you know they were not here before?’ asked Radeford sceptically.

‘With all these pigeons?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘I doubt the food will be here tomorrow. So what can we conclude from it? That we can eliminate Dalfeld, because he would not have had time to eat anything before shooting at Matt? Remember that he left the abbey at the same time as us.’

‘Yes, but we walked slowly and he hurried,’ countered Langelee. ‘I think he would have had ample time to come in, grab a pre-hidden bow and satisfy his hunger. After all, he appeared very quickly to watch Bartholomew prodding about in poor William’s guts.’

‘So did the vicars,’ said Michael. ‘And I imagine a large man like Cave will not like going long without feeding. He may have fortified himself before loosing a quarrel at a Michaelhouse man.’

‘But the vicars have a valid reason for being in the minster precinct,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They work here. Ergo, I do not think we can draw any inferences from their speedy arrival at the scene of the crime.’

Langelee frowned. ‘Then perhaps we should assess who did not come to gawp – I never loitered after I had shot someone.’

His colleagues regarded him uneasily, and it occurred to Bartholomew that not everyone might be pleased to see Langelee back. Perhaps the arrow had been intended for one of his Fellows, as a punishment for his violent past, and had nothing to do with Michaelhouse and Huntington.

‘I would not linger here, if I were you,’ came a voice from the door that made even Langelee start. ‘There are those who say it is cursed.’

Bartholomew did not need to look at his book-bearer to know that amulets were being grasped and prayers muttered. Cynric took curses seriously. Meanwhile, Radeford had leapt so violently that he had stumbled, and Michael’s hand shook as he steadied him. Langelee was the first to regain his composure.

‘Sub-Chanter Ellis,’ he said, as the wet-lipped vicar waddled towards them. ‘What are you doing here? You gave us a fright.’

‘I came to advise you to leave,’ replied Ellis. ‘St Mary ad Valvas is an unsafe place to venture into on three counts: it is haunted, it contains hastily buried corpses, and its roof is on the verge of collapse. It would be a pity to lose you before we have had the satisfaction of defeating you over Huntington.’

‘What “hastily buried corpses”?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Michael’s eyes harden and Langelee gird himself up for a tart reply. ‘Do you mean these animals?’

Ellis’s lips were almost purple in the dim light. ‘No, I refer to the congregation who died of the plague. Archbishop Zouche refused to inter them in the cemetery, because he said it was too near the minster well. So they were laid in the chancel, and covered in rubble instead.’

Bartholomew peered to where he pointed, and saw that the mound he assumed had been caused by a collapse was more regularly shaped than it would have been from a random fall. It was also larger than he had appreciated: higher than he was tall, it stretched almost the entire width of the building.

‘How many?’ he asked disapprovingly. The masonry appeared to have been carefully packed, but rats would have found a way in to feast, and so would flies.

‘Fifteen or twenty.’ Ellis wrinkled his nose. ‘This place has always reeked, but it has been much worse recently. It must be the rain, along with the fact that some folk have been using it as a convenient repository for unwanted livestock.’

‘The plague victims should have been put somewhere more appropriate,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to let the matter drop. ‘It was not healthy to leave them here.’

Ellis smiled patronisingly. ‘Do not worry about them standing up to wander about at night. Most of the slabs are extremely heavy, and the dead will never break free.’

‘That is not my concern,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric’s hand moving to grip another of his amulets. ‘But what would have happened if contagious fluids had seeped out of them?’

‘Matt is our University’s Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael, apparently feeling an explanation was required to account for the physician’s remarks. ‘He knows a lot about unnatural death.’

‘Your University’s what?’ asked Ellis warily, and Bartholomew winced. It was hardly a title to endear him to anyone, and while Cambridge was used to it, York was not, and it made him sound sinister.

‘It means he is skilled at working out who murdered whom,’ said Michael, wholly untruthfully. ‘So if there are clues here to tell us who attacked Sir William, he is sure to find them.’

Alarm filled Ellis’s face. ‘Well do not look to us vicars. We were with you when it happened.’

‘Actually, you were not. You, Cave and Jafford had gone to fetch some documents.’

Ellis waved the parchments he held, slyness taking the place of concern. ‘And here they are. I cannot have fetched them and shot William, so do not think to accuse me of the crime.’

Bartholomew had no idea whether he was telling the truth, and judging by the guarded expressions on his colleagues’ faces, neither did they.

‘Thank you for agreeing to let us see them, Master Ellis,’ said Radeford, ever tactful. ‘But perhaps we could do it outside? It is too dark in here for reading.’

He led the way to the door. Ellis, Michael and Cynric followed, leaving Bartholomew and Langelee behind. The Master began to look for more clues, while Bartholomew inspected the plague grave. His fears were borne out when he glimpsed the gleam of yellow-white near the bottom of the pile. It was a bone, pitted with marks which showed that rats had found it. Slowly, he walked around the mound’s base, pressing his sleeve against his nose to lessen the stench emanating from the pig. Right at the back was a bow, apparently tossed there in the confident expectation that no one was likely to venture into such an unpleasant place.

‘It is a town weapon,’ said Langelee, taking it from him. ‘One of those provided at the butts for apprentices. Clearly, someone took it from the sheds where they are stored, and it provides no kind of clue whatsoever, because anyone can take one to practise with on Mondays.’

‘But you say the arrow is distinctive?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Yes, it is.’

When Langelee and Bartholomew emerged from the church, both grateful to be away from the foul smell and depressing gloom, they found Michael and Radeford talking in low voices, while Cynric hovered nearby. There was no sign of Ellis.

‘He has a letter Zouche wrote to a former sub-chanter, mentioning Huntington in a way that suggests he did originally intend the vicars to have it,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Although it pre-dates the plague. And he has a note from Cotyngham, acknowledging the vicars’ assurance that no move would be made on Huntington until he either died or resigned.’

‘The inference being that Cotyngham thought Huntington was going to them, too,’ added Radeford. Then he smiled. ‘But neither of these missives is the codicil, and although they are a setback to our cause, it is not one that is insurmountable, legally speaking.’

‘Perhaps we should accept Oustwyk’s offer of a counterfeiter,’ suggested Langelee, quite seriously. ‘It may be the only way to win.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Radeford firmly. ‘I will not be party to anything dishonest, so please do not propose it again, Master. We shall acquire Huntington fairly, or not at all.’

‘But–’ began Langelee.

‘No,’ said Radeford, holding up a hand to stop him. ‘I have never won a case by cheating, and I am not about to start now. We shall conduct ourselves in an ethical manner, or I am going home.’

Bartholomew nodded approval at Radeford’s stance, although Langelee and Michael exchanged a pained glance. Rather stiffly, the Master growled something about questioning fletchers about the arrow, and Cynric offered to go with him. Equally cool, Michael said that he, Radeford and Bartholomew should visit the minster library before any more of the day was lost.

‘All of us must look for the codicil,’ said Michael warningly, seeing Bartholomew brighten at the prospect of a few hours among medical texts. ‘We cannot afford time for pleasure until we have it. Once we do, you may read your ghoulish books to your heart’s content. But not before.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to point out that he was supposed to be resting, but the monk was already striding away. Bartholomew trailed after him resentfully, then stopped when he saw Fournays by the precinct gate. The surgeon had finished settling Sir William, and was on his way to St Leonard’s Hospital, where a resident had an unusual kind of flux. He invited Bartholomew to accompany him.

‘Oh, you must go,’ said Michael acidly, not breaking step. ‘Radeford and I do not mind labouring while you enjoy yourself.’

He was startled when Bartholomew took him at his word, and abandoned his duties without a backward glance. The physician experienced a momentary twinge of guilt, but reminded himself that he had been dragged the length of the country with promises of great libraries and hospitals, so he was within his rights to take advantage of opportunities to inspect them.

However, any remorse he might have harboured was forgotten when he stepped into St Leonard’s. The first thing he noticed was its spotless floors, and the second the scent of herbs known for their cleansing properties. The laundry far exceeded his expectations, and bedding, clothes and bandages were washed regularly and thoroughly. One of the resident physicians even confided that he frequently rinsed his hands, something unheard of in Cambridge, where Bartholomew’s insistence on it was regarded as an irrational but largely harmless eccentricity that came from his studying medicine under an Arab tutor.

For several hours Bartholomew was shown every corner of the foundation, after which Fournays was summoned to the scene of an accident. Bartholomew went with him, and the resulting surgery took some time, so it was dark by the time he returned to the abbey, wet and cold, but delighted to have learned a new technique for treating head wounds. York, he decided, was going to be far more interesting than Langelee had promised – and the Master had painted an absurdly rosy picture of the place.

Bartholomew arrived at the hospitium to find that Langelee had forgiven Radeford for refusing to be corrupted, although his red, sweaty face said it had been done with copious quantities of wine. Michael’s rosy cheeks indicated that the Master was not the only one who had been drinking. Radeford was writing at a table, squinting in the unsteady light of a guttering candle, and Cynric was still out.

‘The minster library was locked, and no one knew where the Dean had put the key,’ said Michael. ‘So Radeford and I spent the afternoon talking to the canons instead. They all agree that Zouche did intend Michaelhouse to have Huntington, and he talked about it often in the weeks before his death. They are sure a codicil to his will exists.’

‘Our situation is looking more promising,’ nodded Radeford. ‘Afterwards, we met Lady Helen, and she invited us for wine and cakes. Isabella was with her.’ His expression was oddly dreamy.

‘I think I might make a play for her,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Helen, I mean. Isabella is too skinny, and I like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. What do you think?’

‘Isabella is not skinny,’ objected Radeford. ‘She has a perfect figure.’

‘I imagine Lady Helen has better taste than to fall for you, Master,’ said Michael rather coolly. ‘You are not much of a catch.’

‘And you are?’ asked Langelee archly, snapping his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate that he wanted some claret. The physician obliged only because pouring it himself meant he could water it down. He did the same for Michael, feeling both had had enough.

‘She could do worse,’ Michael flashed back. He viewed himself as a svelte Adonis, and thought women did, too. Oddly, many fell prey to the illusion, and Bartholomew could only suppose they saw something invisible to him, because as far as he was concerned, Michael was a long way from being the answer to any lady’s dreams.

‘You cannot court Helen,’ argued Langelee. ‘Not in a city full of Benedictines. Your fellow monastics would notice, and we might be asked to leave this nice hospitium.’

‘Perhaps you should both leave her alone,’ said Bartholomew, going to kneel by the fire. ‘Her protector Gisbyrn is accused of shooting Sir William – maybe he reacts violently to any would-be suitors.’

‘You are only saying that because you want to ravish her,’ said Langelee accusingly.

Bartholomew shook his head, declining to admit that he would not refuse an opportunity to spend time in the company of a woman like Helen. ‘I have no intention of ravishing anyone.’

‘Why not?’ pressed Langelee. ‘And do not say it is because you still hanker after Matilde – she is long gone, and you will never see her again. I thought you understood that, which is why you have started to pay the occasional visit to–’

‘I will never forget Matilde,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before the Master could reveal something he had believed was private.

‘Visits to whom?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘No one,’ said Bartholomew, glancing warningly at Langelee to tell him that he was not the only one with secrets. Langelee, who had been about to supply an answer, shut his mouth abruptly.

‘Helen is nothing special,’ said Radeford, in the silence that followed. ‘But Isabella is a fine lady. Intelligent, too, with her opinions about theology. I was impressed with her analysis of the nominalism–realism debate.’

‘I was not,’ said Michael. ‘And neither would you have been, had you been listening and not gazing at her chest. She showed a feeble grasp of the main issues.’

Radeford’s dismissive gesture showed he thought Michael was wrong. ‘I shall take a wife soon,’ he announced, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I like Michaelhouse, but I do not intend to be there for ever. I want to be married.’

‘Well, do not set your sights on Isabella,’ warned Langelee, holding out his cup for more wine ‘She is a novice, and there are rules against that sort of thing. Besides, she is rather religious, and I doubt you will win in a contest with God.’

He was about to add something else when the door opened and Cynric strolled in. The book-bearer went to kneel next to Bartholomew, stretching chilled hands towards the flames.

‘One of the vicars-choral is dead,’ he said casually. ‘Murdered. I just heard it from Oustwyk.’

‘How does Oustwyk know it was murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because the victim – his name was Ferriby – claimed he was poisoned,’ replied Cynric. ‘Apparently, he was struck down when he was saying an obit for a man called Myton.’

‘Ferriby?’ asked Langelee, and the urgency in his voice made the others regard him in alarm. ‘He was one of Zouche’s executors. Lord! I hope no one thinks we had anything to do with it!’