Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 3

The next day began with rain hammering on the roof, loudly enough to startle even Bartholomew awake, and he was a notoriously heavy sleeper. Instinctively, he scanned the ceiling for leaks, because it was something that had to be done at Michaelhouse. There was no sign of seepage at the hospitium, however – it was far too well built. For the first time in years, he lay back and enjoyed the sense of being comfortably warm and dry while the weather raged outside.

‘We have a lot to do today,’ announced Michael, emerging from behind the screen with cloak and hat in place. With a start, Bartholomew saw the others were ready, too, and he was the only one still in bed. Hastily, he crawled out and began to shave, astonished when he discovered that the water was hot, an unheard of luxury at home. ‘First and most important is to locate the codicil.’

‘We should examine the original will, too,’ added Radeford. ‘We have been told it contains nothing about Huntington, but it would be remiss not to check it for ourselves. Apparently, Dalfeld has it at his home on the Ouse Bridge.’

‘We shall do both without delay,’ determined Langelee. He was pale that morning, indicating he felt unwell after his excesses of the previous night. ‘And then I shall visit Lady Helen again.’

‘You do not have time for philandering,’ said Michael shortly. ‘The abbey will not allow us to stay here free of charge indefinitely, and the most we can hope to inveigle out of them is a week. After that, we shall be asked for a contribution, and we do not have enough to return home as it is.’

‘You do,’ said Langelee accusingly. ‘You have a personal supply. I have seen it.’

‘So do you,’ countered Michael. ‘But mine is for the bribes that might be required to secure Huntington. And perhaps the occasional meal.’

‘I have some,’ said Bartholomew, showing them the coins Fournays had given him for his part in tending Sir William. It was a generous sum, far more than he would have earned in Cambridge.

‘Good,’ said Langelee, taking most of it and putting it in the purse that held the meagre funds Michaelhouse had allocated. ‘You can use the rest to buy yourself a hat, because you look deranged in Cynric’s. But then again, it might put Helen off you, so perhaps you should keep it.’

‘Here is breakfast,’ said Michael, ignoring him as Oustwyk ushered in lay-brothers bearing trays. ‘I was beginning to think we were not going to be provided with any, and I am hungry.’

‘The pottage is good,’ said Radeford, tasting it with his grubby silver spoon. ‘But it would be more appetising served in a smaller bowl. I am unused to eating from pails.’

‘So are we all,’ said Langelee, quite untruthfully, as he vied with Michael for the largest portions of cold meat. He glanced at the lawyer. ‘Did I see you helping Isabella with her play about the whore last night? Or did I imagine it?’

‘It is about a saint,’ objected Radeford. ‘And Isabella told me that it contains some especially interesting theological observations about the Creation.’

‘Not theological observations,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘More an examination of harmony–’

‘If so, then Abbot Multone is right to say the citizens of York will be disappointed,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Because I can tell you now that they would rather hear about the whore. You should persuade her to abandon it. I can suggest some suitable alternatives.’

Bartholomew was sure he could, and was equally sure they would not be plays with which Isabella would want to be associated. He said nothing, hurrying to finish dressing and eat at the same time, so as not to delay their departure. Cynric had sponged the revolting mess from his cloak, so it was fit to be worn again, although it occurred to him that it was preferable to be pelted with slime than with arrows.

When they went outside, it was to find Oustwyk waiting with a message: Archbishop Thoresby wanted them to visit him at the minster at their earliest convenience.

‘He means now,’ translated Langelee. ‘And we had better not annoy him by dallying, because he might be able to influence our case.’

The rain had eased, but it had left the streets thick with mud, and Bartholomew’s feet were soon sodden. They stopped at a shop on Petergate, where he gazed in awe at the number and variety of hats for sale. Oustwyk had not been exaggerating when he had said anything could be purchased in York, and the physician had never seen such plenty; there was certainly nothing like it in Cambridge. His eye lit on a handsome green item, which he knew Matilde would have liked.

‘No,’ said Langelee, taking it from him and selecting a drab brown one instead. ‘If Cynric and Radeford are right, and you were the intended target of that murderous attack yesterday, we do not want to encourage the villain to try again by wearing brazenly distinctive clothing.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, but resented the fact that buying a hat he did not like took every penny remaining of the fee he had earned from Sir William, leaving him as impecunious as he had been when he had arrived.

They had just entered the minster precinct, all alert for hissing arrows, when they met the vicars-choral, who were processing to their prayers. As the priests’ wooden pattens clattered on the cobbles, Bartholomew was reminded of a herd of performing ponies he had once seen in Spain. Careful to keep the priests between him and St Mary ad Valvas, Michael waylaid them.

‘We were sorry to hear about Ferriby,’ he said gently. ‘It is never easy to lose a friend.’

Bartholomew and Radeford added their condolences, and most of the vicars seemed pleased to accept them. Ellis remained cold and aloof, though, and his henchman Cave’s expression was one of smouldering dislike.

‘Thank you,’ said Jafford soberly. He looked especially angelic that morning, because the coolness of the day had given him rosy cheeks. ‘As you can imagine, it was a terrible shock.’

‘Yes, it was,’ agreed Ellis. ‘We shall go shopping for shoes later, to soothe ourselves.’

‘Actually, we would rather pray for his soul,’ said Jafford, although startled looks from some of his brethren indicated that he did not speak for them all. ‘I shall remain at my altar in the minster.’

‘The one dedicated to Mary Magdalene?’ asked Langelee, and Bartholomew shot him an agonised glance, knowing he was going to add Oustwyk’s observation: that it was popular with whores. Fortunately, so did Radeford, who interceded smoothly with a question.

‘Did we meet Ferriby yesterday?’ he asked politely. ‘I cannot recall. What did he look like?’

‘He had grey hair,’ replied Jafford pleasantly, although as few of the vicars were in the first flush of youth, this was hardly helpful. ‘And teeth.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Radeford, while Bartholomew thought they must have been a very impressive set of fangs for the lawyer to have recognised Ferriby from that description. ‘He was not with you when our paths crossed by the abbey gate – we only met him later, in the minster precinct.’

‘He rarely left it,’ replied Ellis. ‘On the grounds that he believed someone was trying to poison him. No one was, of course. Why would they? And Fournays said he died of natural causes.’

‘His mind had gone,’ elaborated Cave. ‘So he was often given to reckless imaginings.’

Bartholomew exchanged a brief glance with Michael, and could see the monk was thinking the same thing: that the vicars seemed curiously eager to discredit their dead colleague’s claim.

‘He was one of Zouche’s executors, I understand,’ said Radeford.

‘Yes,’ replied Ellis curtly. ‘But that business was finished with years ago – he had done nothing for Zouche’s estate in a very long time. And before you ask, he did not recall a codicil giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. Ergo, it does not exist.’

Langelee glared at him. ‘Of course it does, and you should be ashamed of yourselves for trying to circumvent Zouche’s wishes. So should Ferriby, because I imagine he did know what Zouche planned, no matter what he might have claimed later. And it is the second time he broke faith with the man who trusted him.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Cave, a little dangerously.

‘Zouche’s chantry chapel,’ snarled Langelee, menacing in his turn. ‘His executors promised to see it finished, but did not bother. I said at the time that he should have chosen better men.’

‘The money ran out,’ snapped Ellis. ‘Perhaps Ferriby and the others should have paid closer attention to the fund, but it was hardly their fault Zouche underestimated the amount that would be needed. But we cannot stand here wasting time. We have obits to perform.’

He stalked away, flicking his fingers to indicate that his vicars were to follow. Jafford was not the only one to shoot the scholars an apologetic smile as they left, and Bartholomew suspected they were decent men on the whole; they just had the misfortune to be burdened with a surly leader.

‘Do you think Ferriby was poisoned, to ensure his silence?’ asked Radeford once the priests had gone. ‘Because if he did know what Zouche wanted done with Huntington, he might have threatened to tell the truth.’

‘The same thought occurred to me,’ said Michael. ‘Moreover, it is suspicious that an executor should die now, just when we might be asking him questions.’

‘Especially as he claimed he was poisoned,’ added Langelee. ‘I would not put it past any of those villainous vicars to slip him a toxic substance. But there is nothing we can do about it now, and we had better visit Thoresby before he takes umbrage.’

John Thoresby, Archbishop of York, was in the process of conducting an obit when they arrived, and a friendly priest by the name of Canon Gisbyrn offered to show them around the minster while they waited for him to finish.

‘Gisbyrn?’ asked Radeford. ‘You are not a merchant in your spare time, are you?’

The canon laughed. ‘That is John Gisbyrn, my brother. And before you ask, there are plenty more of us. One is deputy to the Sheriff, another is the Archbishop’s chaplain, and our sisters are married to the reeve and the coroner.’

‘A newly wealthy family,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear, ‘clawing their way up the greasy pole of success, with fingers in every sphere of influence. It is happening all over the country, as merchant money speaks louder than the jaded powers of the landed gentry.’

Bartholomew was more interested in admiring the minster, which was as glorious inside as it was out. Its stained-glass windows were among the finest he had ever seen, while the nave was an awe-inspiring forest of carved piers rising to a gracefully arched ceiling.

It was also busier than any church he had ever visited, with the possible exception of Santiago de Compostela. Stalls had been set up in the aisles to sell badges, candles and other paraphernalia to pilgrims, and its shrines and chapels were a chaos of noise as people and priests said their prayers. Some masses were elaborate and involved choirs, and the competing music provided a discordant jangle that vied with a frantically barking dog and the constant rattle of feet on flagstones.

Pointing out features of interest as he went, Canon Gisbyrn led them towards the chancel, although they had not gone far before Langelee stopped, gazing at a spot where the southern wall met the east transept. A door had been inserted and a screen raised, blocking off a small room, but the chamber was a muddle of uncut stone, dusty cloths and abandoned equipment.

‘Zouche’s chantry?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing the sadness that suffused the Master’s face.

Langelee nodded. ‘He started to build it himself, and asked to be buried here. Until then, he lies in the nave.’

‘I can think of worse places,’ said Michael consolingly.

‘But he wanted a chapel,’ snapped Langelee. ‘It was important to him.’

‘Why?’ asked Cynric guilelessly. ‘Was he so sinful that he thought he needed one?’

Langelee scowled. ‘He was a decent man, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. I knew his executors would fail him! He trusted them, but I thought he could have made better choices. Me, for example. And Myton.’

‘I am sure he wished he could have included you,’ said Canon Gisbyrn kindly. ‘It was common knowledge that you were one of his favourites. Unfortunately, he was constrained by tradition – the executors of an archbishop must be noblemen or clerics. But the nine he chose were all good fellows, Langelee, and they loved him just as much as you did.’

‘So they said,’ muttered Langelee between clenched teeth. ‘But if it were true, his chantry would be finished.’

No one spoke as he ran his hand over a carving by the door that, judging by the mitre and staff, was of Zouche himself. Bartholomew studied it, thinking that if the artist had been accurate, then the Archbishop had possessed a kindly face, but one wearied by the burdens imposed by his office. They all turned at a sudden clamour of noise and laughter, and Canon Gisbyrn frowned.

‘It is those actors,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘The ones who will perform the drama about the six prostitutes in the brothel – the one Sister Isabella and Lady Helen are organising. Unfortunately, their players are an unruly rabble.’

He hurried away to quell their boisterousness, while Bartholomew thought that York was going to be disappointed indeed if that sort of description was circulating about Hrotsvit of Gandersheim’s rather pompous moralistic ramblings.

‘There is a shrine in this minster,’ said Cynric, who always seemed to know about such matters. ‘To William of York, who was a past archbishop and did saintly things. Shall we visit it?’

‘I have never heard of William of York,’ said Radeford. ‘What “saintly things” did he do?’

Cynric shrugged carelessly. ‘This and that. And he was said to have been very nice.’

‘He was very nice,’ averred Langelee, pulling his attention away from the carving. ‘And when he died, there were miracles.’

‘What sort of miracles?’ asked Radeford.

‘Does it matter?’ demanded Langelee, his defensive belligerence telling his Fellows that he did not know. ‘Suffice to say that he is York’s most famous saint. Well, its only saint, actually.’

Rather cannily, the Dean and Chapter had arranged matters so that William had two shrines, not one, and pilgrims were invited to secure his favour by donating pennies at both. The first was a chipped sarcophagus in the nave, which looked as though it would have been ancient when William had been buried in it some one hundred and thirty years before. He was no longer there, having been translated to a purpose-built tomb behind the high altar, which formed the second shrine.

‘The minster is doing well out of him,’ remarked Radeford, when he saw the number of pilgrims who thronged the two sites. ‘Shall we ask for his help with Huntington?’

Although the shrine was large, it could not accommodate all the penitents who wanted access to it, so a queue had formed, kept in order by vicars-choral. Bartholomew braced himself for trouble when they eventually reached the front and found Cave there.

‘You have to pay to go in,’ the vicar said, raising a hand to prevent the scholars from passing.

‘Pay?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘But we want to say some prayers.’

‘Yes,’ replied Cave, regarding the monk as if he were short of wits. ‘What else would you do in there? But there is an entry fee: threepence each.’

‘Threepence?’ exploded Michael. ‘That is a fortune!’

‘If you do not like it, visit his sarcophagus instead.’ Cave smirked. ‘That only costs a penny.’

‘But what if someone cannot pay?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The poor, or beggars? Do you refuse to let them in?’

‘Of course. It would not be fair otherwise. We ask the same amount from everyone.’

‘But that means the shrine is available only to the wealthy,’ protested Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding vigorously at his side; the book-bearer had strong views about social justice.

‘What of it?’ shrugged Cave. ‘It keeps the riff-raff out.’

Jafford arrived at that point, to find out why the queue had ground to a standstill. He smiled when he saw the scholars, immediately assuming that the hiatus was because they had been asking questions about the shrine’s history.

‘William was very holy,’ he beamed. ‘He was Archbishop here, and when he arrived to take up his post, so many people came to cheer that the Ouse Bridge collapsed, hurling hundreds of them into the river. But he appealed to God, and everyone was fished out alive.’

‘Three weeks later, he was murdered,’ added Cave darkly. ‘Poisoned during mass.’

‘He was placed in the sarcophagus,’ Jafford went on. He seemed unaware of the menace with which Cave had spoken, but the scholars had not missed the threat implicit in the words. ‘And a few weeks later, holy oil began to seep out, which we all know is a sign of great sanctity.’

‘Actually, I have noticed body fat leaking out of coffins on a fairly regular basis,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘I believe it is part of the natural process of decomposition.’

Jafford and Cave were not the only ones who gaped at this particular piece of information; so did his colleagues.

‘Ellis said you were a Corpse Examiner,’ said Jafford, crossing himself quickly. ‘We wondered what it meant, and now we know. It does not sound a pleasant occupation.’

‘It is not an occupation,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘It is–’

But Michael jabbed him in the back, and produced the requisite number of coins before anything else could be added. While he found the physician’s ability to prise secrets from the dead useful, he was acutely aware that observations about putrefaction were not something that should be shared with strangers, and especially not when discussing a saint.

‘We had better go and pay our respects,’ he said, shoving Bartholomew through the door.

‘Do not even think of asking the saint to give you Huntington,’ Cave called softly after them. ‘Because I have already petitioned him, and you will be wasting your time.’

The shrine was splendid, with an altar cloth that would have taken years to embroider, and a huge silver-gilt cross studded with precious stones. The place was full of statues, too, some of which had been painted with such skill that they were uncannily lifelike. Most were apostles, but there were also two green men and a jester with a leering smile. The chapel was lit with a staggering array of candles, which rendered it bright enough to hurt the eyes.

Unfortunately, it was also crowded and no place to linger, with people jostling to lay hands on the tomb, and the scent of strong incense vying for dominance with unwashed bodies and flowers past their best. The scholars did not stay long.

‘We had better see whether Thoresby is ready,’ said Radeford, once they were outside again. ‘And then we shall begin the hunt for Zouche’s will and its codicils.’

When the Archbishop saw them, he gestured that he would not be long, and his Latin took off at a tremendous rate, so fast that Bartholomew struggled to catch the words. It was over in less than half the time it would have taken him to recite them, leaving him with the feeling that whoever had paid for the ceremony had been short-changed.

‘Hugh de Myton,’ supplied Oustwyk, who happened to be passing and heard Bartholomew say so. ‘That was his obit.’

Michael frowned. ‘Myton. His name crops up with intriguing regularity. He was Langelee’s friend, and heard Zouche say on his deathbed that Michaelhouse was to have Huntington. The vicar who expired last night – Ferriby – was saying prayers for Myton when he was struck down. And there are rumours that Myton was murdered.’

Oustwyk nodded. ‘But there was no truth in them. Still, the Archbishop thought Myton’s soul might not like a priest keeling over in the middle of its mass, so he elected to say another one himself, to compensate.’

‘You claim to be a mine of information,’ said Michael, regarding the steward thoughtfully. ‘So tell me this: was Ferriby poisoned, as he claimed?’

Oustwyk considered the question carefully, but then shook his head, although it was clear he would rather have nodded. ‘He often complained that someone was trying to dispatch him, and it became something of a joke. Fournays inspected the body, and he said Ferriby died of a debility.’

‘A debility?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard of such a thing.

Oustwyk regarded him askance. ‘Call yourself a physician? It means he had a seizure. All perfectly natural, and Ferriby was elderly, anyway. He was well past his allotted years.’

He bustled away, eyes everywhere, and slowing when he passed knots of people in order to eavesdrop. No wonder he was so well informed, thought Bartholomew, watching in distaste. But Thoresby had completed his duties, and was coming to greet them, forcing the physician to pull his attention away from Oustwyk’s antics.

John Thoresby was in his fifties, with a cap of immaculately groomed silver hair and the lean face of an ascetic. His bearing was haughty, as befitted one of England’s most influential churchmen, and there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes. He shrugged out of his ceremonial vestments to reveal a simple priest’s habit, albeit one made of exceptionally expensive cloth. It made him a striking figure, and Bartholomew immediately sensed the power of his presence.

‘Langelee,’ Thoresby said, coming towards the Master and extending a hand so his episcopal ring could be kissed. ‘I am delighted to see you looking so well.’

‘Zouche’s chantry,’ said Langelee, performing the most perfunctory of bows over the proffered fingers and coming straight to the matter he wanted to raise. ‘It should have been finished by now.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Thoresby sadly. ‘I did my best to spur his executors into action, but they are a frustratingly inert group of men.’

‘Especially given that several are dead,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘You cannot get more inert than that.’

‘And then the money ran out,’ Thoresby went on. ‘I was surprised, because I had been under the impression that Zouche had left them plenty, but the Dean showed me the rosewood chest from the treasury, where the coins had been stored, and it was empty.’

‘The Queen gave him that box,’ said Langelee softly. Then his expression hardened. ‘Perhaps some of the coins were stolen, because there were enough. Zouche told me so himself.’

‘Unfortunately, each executor assumed the others were overseeing the chapel, and by the time they realised that was not the case, the funds had just dribbled away,’ explained Thoresby. ‘I was vexed, of course, but there was nothing to be done.’

‘So the money was stolen?’ Langelee was outraged.

Thoresby shook his head. ‘It disappeared through incompetence and negligence, not dishonesty. I would finish the thing myself, but we are preparing to rebuild the choir and have no funds to spare. Do you?’

‘No,’ said Langelee sullenly.

With an elegant nod, Thoresby indicated that the Master was to introduce his companions. Bartholomew and Radeford received no more than nods, but Michael was favoured with a smile.

‘I have heard much about Cambridge’s Senior Proctor,’ the prelate said. ‘From my brother bishops at Ely and Lincoln. Both speak very highly of you.’

‘I flatter myself that I have been of use to them,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘Perhaps I may be of similar service to you. Especially if you were to help us in the matter of Huntington.’

Bartholomew shot him an alarmed glance, not liking to think what this urbane, shrewdly clever cleric might ask in return for such a favour. Thoresby regarded the monk appraisingly.

‘I am sure we can come to an arrangement.’ His gaze flicked suddenly to Bartholomew. ‘Are you the surgeon who helped Sir William? I heard he was saved by a stranger.’

‘He is a physician.’ Langelee raised his hand when the prelate started to speak. ‘He knows he is not supposed to commit surgery, but it is a habit we cannot break in him. However, he is rather good at it, and if anyone can heal William, it is him.’

‘Good,’ said Thoresby. ‘Because William is my advocatus ecclesiae, and I want whoever shot him caught. Find me the culprit, and I shall try to help Michaelhouse win Huntington.’

‘But that would mean you working against priests from your own minster,’ Bartholomew pointed out doubtfully. ‘You would do that?’

There was a flash of something dangerous in Thoresby’s eyes, and Langelee elbowed the physician hard enough to make him stagger. It had been an insolent question, but Bartholomew felt it was one that needed to be answered before they agreed to anything. There was a possibility that one attempt had been made on his life, and it would be reckless to embark on an investigation without a full understanding of the politics into which they were being invited to plunge.

‘I have spoken to enough of Zouche’s friends and family to know that he did want Huntington to go to Cambridge,’ replied the Archbishop at last. ‘I have seen no written evidence, but his intentions were clear. I should like to see his wishes fulfilled – as I hope my successor will do for me when the time comes. That is my reason for helping you.’

‘But you will have to live with the vicars-choral after we leave,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘They may bear you a grudge.’

‘They almost certainly will,’ said Thoresby with the ghost of a smile. ‘Which is why they must never find out. So my assistance to you will be in the form of information that may help you to prove your case, but that cannot be traced back to me.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Michael and Bartholomew are good at solving mysteries, so they will look into what happened to William. Meanwhile, Radeford will concentrate on Huntington, and I shall investigate Zouche’s chantry fund.’

His Fellows gaped at him. Bartholomew did not want to hunt would-be killers in a strange city; Radeford objected to being left to win Huntington alone; and Michael thought they could have secured a better bargain, so was irked that the Master had capitulated so quickly.

‘You aim to claw some of the fund back?’ asked Thoresby of Langelee. ‘Then I wish you luck. Zouche should have a chapel, given how much he longed for one. He was deeply anxious about Purgatory, and how long he might have to spend there. I suppose he regretted his actions at Neville’s Cross. And perhaps he was right to be worried – a war is no place for a prelate.’

Having been told some of what Langelee had done for Zouche, Bartholomew suspected the Archbishop had had a lot more than a battle on his conscience, and was not surprised the man had been concerned for his immortal soul. He stared at his feet, uncomfortable with the whole affair.

Seeing they were stuck with the arrangement, Michael sighed and went to business. ‘What information do you have for us, My Lord Archbishop?’

‘Huntington’s priest was named John Cotyngham. Zouche had stipulated that he was to keep the appointment until he either died or resigned.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘We know. Cotyngham left, which is why we are here.’

Thoresby nodded impatiently. ‘When I heard what Cotyngham had done, I was astonished, because he always claimed he was happy in Huntington. He came to York, and is currently residing with the Franciscans.’

‘Oh, yes,’ mused Langelee. ‘I had forgotten he was one of those.’

‘I went to visit him there, to assure myself that all was well,’ Thoresby went on, ‘but was told he could not see me. I think you will agree that this was odd. So my advice to you is to insist on an interview, and demand to know why he left Huntington. If he was coerced, and the vicars-choral were responsible, it might strengthen your case against them.’

‘Yes.’ Michael’s eyes gleamed. ‘It might.’

They left the minster, and Michael declared his intention to visit Cotyngham immediately. Langelee decided to accompany him – for all his feisty words, he was not sure how to begin exploring what had happened to Zouche’s chantry money, and needed time to ponder.

‘Will you come with me to read Zouche’s will, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford. ‘Dalfeld has it, and I did not take to him yesterday. He seemed sly, and with such men it is always best to have witnesses to any encounters. Abbot Multone was right to stage our first meeting in his company.’

Bartholomew hesitated. Surgeon Fournays had invited him to meet more of York’s medical men that day, and because he had been impressed with what he had seen so far, he was eager to accept. He started to point out that he had been brought to York to rest, but his conscience pricked him before the words were out: Radeford was right to be wary of the slippery lawyer, and the encounter would certainly be safer with two of them.

He nodded reluctant agreement, and Radeford set off at a purposeful trot. However, it was not long before Bartholomew realised that the brisk pace was not because Radeford knew where he was going, but because it was raining again, and he was choosing those streets he thought offered more protection from the elements.

‘We have been here before,’ he said, sure they were heading north when they should have been going south. ‘I recognise that church.’ He stopped to examine it. ‘It is beautiful! Look at the quality of the carvings around the door. Shall we go inside?’

‘It would not be fair to shirk while our colleagues labour,’ said Radeford, smiling indulgently at his enthusiasm. ‘But unfortunately, we are hopelessly lost, so we had better hire someone to take us to the bridge – we do not want to lose the entire day to aimless wandering.’

He removed a coin from his purse, and before Bartholomew could stop him, had approached a rough, unshaven character – the kind of man who looked as though he would escort them down a deserted lane and rob them. The physician grew increasingly alarmed as they were conducted along some of the darkest, narrowest alleys he had ever seen, and he was on the verge of dismissing the fellow when they emerged into an open space that bordered the river. It reeked of fish, powerfully enough to make him recoil.

‘This is the fish-market,’ said their guide, rather unnecessarily. ‘And the Ouse Bridge is at the far end. You can’t get lost from here.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, because the market was huge, and comprised a vast number of close-packed stalls. Radeford began to pick his way through them, although Bartholomew took the lead when the lawyer promptly selected a route that involved two left-hand turns. The place was chaotically busy, and he kept a firm hold of Radeford’s sleeve, suspecting they might never find each other again if they became separated.

‘I would not like to live here,’ said Radeford, speaking loudly enough to make himself heard over the hubbub of commerce, but also loudly enough to attract offended gazes. ‘When I wed, I shall build a house in the country. Will you ever leave Michaelhouse and marry?’

It was hardly a conversation to hold in a crowded market, and Bartholomew had fallen out of the habit of discussing Matilde anyway, mostly because everyone except Michael seemed convinced that she was dead – killed by the outlaws that plagued the highways – and that was a possibility he refused to contemplate.

‘I have never seen so many different kinds of fish,’ he said in a transparently clumsy attempt to change the subject. ‘Not even in London. York is truly an impressive city.’

‘If you like seafood.’ Radeford shot Bartholomew a side-long glance. ‘Or hospitals.’

‘St Leonard’s is remarkable,’ said Bartholomew, eagerly seizing the opportunity to share what he had learned. ‘I wish we had its equal in Cambridge. It separates the old and infirm from those with contagious diseases, and–’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Radeford hastily. Like all Michaelhouse’s Fellows, he was wary of allowing the physician to hold forth about matters medical, lest he was told something he would rather not hear. ‘But I shall marry in due course. I like Michaelhouse, but I want a wife more. And speaking of spouses, Isabella is a fine lady. I spoke to Prioress Alice yesterday, and she thinks Isabella would be wasted in a convent.’

Bartholomew hoped Radeford was not about to have his heart broken. ‘I suspect Isabella does not see taking holy vows as a waste,’ he said gently. ‘She said herself that her passion is theology.’

‘You do not need to be a monastic to study theology,’ said Radeford dismissively. ‘Indeed, I imagine it is better not to be, because a nun’s daily offices take up a lot of time, and it would be frustrating to reach an interesting section, only to be hauled away to sing some psalms.’

‘She is a devout woman,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So that argument is unlikely to win her over. She is more likely to accuse you of blasphemy.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Radeford unhappily. ‘Try to think of another, will you? My own thoughts become oddly muddled when they dwell on her. And I would like her to be my wife.’

Bartholomew regarded him in mystification. ‘You barely know her, yet you are ready to embark on a liaison that will bind you to her for the rest of your life?’

Radeford shrugged and blushed. ‘There is something about her … A courtship just feels right to me, and I know in my heart that she is the one. Do you think I stand a chance?’

Bartholomew had no idea, but Radeford’s face was so desperately intense that he could not bring himself to say so. And what did he know of women, anyway, having failed so dismally to keep Matilde? He smiled encouragingly. ‘You will not know unless you try.’

Radeford smiled back. ‘I am hoping she will fall for me as I help her with her play. Besides, I firmly believe that if two people are meant to be together, all obstacles will melt away. Do you?’

The subject was far too uncomfortable for Bartholomew, who suspected that obstacles had melted away with Matilde, and that she had worked rather hard to ensure they had done so, but he had failed to take advantage of it. And by the time he had, it had been too late.

‘Here is the bridge,’ he said, pointing at the structure that loomed in front of them, and relieved to end the discussion. ‘I hope Dalfeld is at home after all this.’

The Ouse Bridge spanned a river that was both wide and fast, and comprised several arches built of stone. It was lined with houses and shops, which projected over the water in a manner Bartholomew thought unsafe, although they were certainly attractive. There was a chapel at its far end, a pretty, elegant building dedicated to William of York.

It did not take them long to find Dalfeld’s home. It was next to the chapel, a handsome affair with yellow-gold walls and a red-tiled roof. The door was thick and expensive, and all the window shutters were new.

‘Hardly what one would expect of a Franciscan sworn to poverty,’ remarked Radeford wryly. ‘Isabella must be right when she said Dalfeld is not much given to religion.’

Bartholomew knocked on the door, and a servant conducted him and Radeford to a small but well-appointed parlour on the first floor. Two large windows overlooked the river, a busy brown torrent over which rose the impressive façades of the minster and the abbey.

They were kept waiting far longer than was polite, but neither minded, transfixed as they were by the magnificent views. At last, the door opened and Dalfeld bustled in. The lawyer had dispensed with the gipon that had been so sadly stained the day before, and was clad in a long blue robe that, while plain, was still a long way from being a Franciscan habit. It crossed Bartholomew’s mind that the robber might have shoved Dalfeld in the mud because he knew how important sartorial elegance was to his victim.

‘What do you want?’ Dalfeld demanded curtly. ‘I have already told you that I have been retained by the vicars-choral, and is unethical to consort with the opposition.’

‘We understand,’ said Radeford pleasantly. ‘But you hold the original copy of Zouche’s will, so we have no choice but to approach you. We need to see it.’

Dalfeld sighed irritably. ‘Very well. Fortunately, it is short, so it will not take you a moment to read. Then you can leave me in peace.’

‘Thank you,’ said Radeford politely, although Bartholomew bristled at the man’s manner.

Dalfeld went to a chest near the hearth, which he unlocked with a key that hung at his waist. He rummaged for a moment, and emerged with a small, neat bundle. He sorted through it, then handed Radeford a page that had been penned on vellum and carried a seal of thick red wax.

‘What are those other documents?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Do they pertain to Zouche, too?’

Dalfeld shoved them at him. ‘Yes, and you should read them, because I do not want you accusing me of withholding information. You must see for yourselves that they are irrelevant.’

It did not take Bartholomew long to see that he was right. There were three writs, all containing instructions for the chantry – the tomb was to be carved from white marble; it was to depict Zouche as a simple priest, not an archbishop; and his altar was to have a green cloth for everyday use and a red one for special occasions. He passed them to Radeford, and was handed the will in return.

Although Bartholomew had not read the last testaments of many prelates, he was astonished by Zouche’s brevity. The first quarter comprised a robust declaration that the Archbishop was in sound mind and body – the reason was clear from the date: it had been written at the height of the plague. The next section said that his soul was to be given to God and the saints, while his body was to go in his chapel. The next part outlined which prayers were to be said and when, and the final portion instructed his nine executors – all named – to discharge his debts and see to his servants.

‘There must be a codicil,’ said Bartholomew, as he finished. ‘Probably lots of them. He will have owned all manner of properties, but none is mentioned here.’

‘If so, then I have not seen them,’ stated Dalfeld, although his expression was shifty, and Bartholomew was sure he was lying. ‘However, you can see that his will makes no mention of Huntington or Michaelhouse, so you would be wise to relinquish your claim now.’

‘It makes no mention of the vicars, either,’ countered Radeford. ‘Our petition is just as valid as theirs. More so, in that witnesses heard Zouche say he wanted Michaelhouse to–’

‘Witnesses who think they remember what a dying man mumbled six years ago,’ said Dalfeld, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘But it was always understood that Huntington would go to the vicars, and I shall ensure justice is done. Your College shall not have this church.’

Bartholomew expected Radeford to argue, but his colleague merely inclined his head, thanked Dalfeld for his help, and took his leave.

‘Is he right?’ asked Bartholomew, once they were outside. ‘Because if so, it is better to leave now than waste days on a lost cause.’

‘It is not a lost cause,’ said Radeford with a grin. ‘Dalfeld only said all that to unsettle us. But his ploy misfired, for it has revealed that he is worried, and that gives me great hope. The next step is to locate the codicil, because you were correct in what you said to him – there will be one.’

‘Very well.’ Bartholomew looked around rather helplessly. ‘Which way is the minster?’

‘Fortune smiles on us today, because there are Langelee and Michael. They will conduct us there.’

Unfortunately, fortune had not smiled on their colleagues; neither of them looked happy.

‘Cotyngham is ill,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘And not receiving visitors. Well, all I can say is that he has a day to recover, because I shall certainly interview him tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee. ‘You had the foresight to bring a physician to York with you, after all. Bartholomew will offer him a free consultation, and you will gain access that way.’

‘No,’ objected Bartholomew, shocked. ‘That would be an unethical use of–’

‘That is an excellent idea, Master,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I shall act on it at first light.’

The minster library was a large, cold chamber off one of the aisles, cursed with windows that provided inadequate light. The scholars waited a moment for their eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, and then Michael and Radeford gasped, Langelee swore and Bartholomew simply stared.

They were confronted by a room that was so densely packed with parchments, scrolls and books that it was impossible to walk into it without standing sideways. Some were stored on purpose-built racks, but most were heaped on the floor or sat in teetering mounds on the carrels that had originally been intended to accommodate readers. Many more had been stacked in front of the shelves, and formed piles that were higher than a man was tall.

Bartholomew turned to Langelee accusingly. ‘You said York’s library was the finest in the country, with more medical texts than can be counted.’

‘That is partly true,’ said the Dean. His name was Talerand, a short, smiling man with red cheeks. ‘Our medical texts cannot be counted, because we do not know where most of them are.’

He chortled merrily at the jest, but Bartholomew did not find it at all amusing. He felt cheated: he had been looking forward to spending time among tomes he might otherwise never see.

‘Christ God!’ breathed Langelee, ignoring them both as he gazed around him. ‘I do not recall such chaos in Zouche’s day.’

Talerand shrugged. ‘It is Thoresby’s fault. He cleaned out all the palaces and houses he inherited, and dumped everything here. Unfortunately, it all arrived at once, so I have not yet had a chance to sort through it. But I will get to it one day.’

‘How will you begin?’ whispered Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face. He kept the University’s muniments in good order, and was appalled by the Dean’s anarchy. ‘With a shovel?’

Talerand laughed. ‘I shall hire some clerks. Perhaps you could lend me a few from your University? I understand you train your people well.’

‘We do,’ nodded Radeford. ‘But we only produce a couple of hundred a year, and I anticipate you will require rather more than that.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Talerand good-naturedly. ‘It is not as bad as it looks.’

But the scholars knew otherwise, and when Bartholomew picked up a roll – a series of documents sewn together to facilitate easy storage – the pile on which it had been resting collapsed, sending parchments skidding in all directions. He unfurled the roll, and was dismayed to see that it had been cobbled together with no regard to chronology, subject or author.

‘We will never find the codicil or anything else in here,’ he said, overwhelmed. ‘It will take years to sift through this…’ He waved a hand, not sure how to describe it.

‘Then we had better make a start,’ said Langelee grimly, rolling up his sleeves and stepping towards the nearest shelf. He seized a handful of cartularies, and then jerked away when the movement caused others to cascade down from the shelves above his head. Chuckling genially, Talerand gathered them up and rammed them behind the nearest bookcase.

‘I shall leave you to it, then,’ he said, backing out. ‘And if you happen to find the charter for the Archbishop’s mint, perhaps you would set it aside. It is rather important, but I cannot seem to lay my hands on the thing.’

‘I wonder why?’ muttered Radeford, gazing around helplessly. ‘I have never seen anything like this in my life.’

They each chose a shelf, and began to sort through what they found, speaking occasionally, but mostly concentrating on the task in hand. Langelee worked frenziedly, flinging records in every direction as he found them to be irrelevant, and growing increasingly exasperated as time passed. Michael and Radeford were more methodical, while Bartholomew was of little help, as he found a scroll about the geometrical elements of nature, and became engrossed in its contents.

By the time he realised the words were difficult to make out because dusk had fallen, he had sifted through half a shelf, Michael and Radeford had managed three apiece, and Langelee had been through seven by himself.

‘I am filthy!’ complained Michael. ‘Look at my habit! It was clean on this morning, and now I look as though I have been scrambling about in chimneys.’

Bartholomew laughed at that notion; chimneys were narrow.

‘There is order in the muddle,’ said Radeford. The others regarded him doubtfully, and he shrugged. ‘It is probably not obvious to a non-legal mind, but a system does exist. Of course, you would need an intimate knowledge of Corpus juris civilis to appreciate it.’

‘Corpus what?’ asked Langelee, showing a rank and inexcusable ignorance of what the law students in his College were obliged to learn. Radeford started to explain, but the Master waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, I am too tired for intellectual pursuits. All I want is a goblet of wine. I am going to a tavern. Who will join me?’

They were all in need of a drink, but finding a hostelry that suited their requirements was easier said than done, because Michael rejected the taverns Langelee recommended, on the grounds that he did not like the kind of clientele they seemed to have attracted. It started to rain, and tempers were beginning to wear thin as they passed an attractive house on Petergate. Lady Helen was just stepping outside, to supervise a servant who was disposing of a bucket of slops.

‘They dump it right outside my door unless I watch them,’ she explained to the scholars, after they had exchanged greetings. ‘And then I skid on it when I attend mass in the morning.’

‘I am glad she shared that with us,’ murmured Radeford in Bartholomew’s ear. Normally, the physician would have laughed, but his attention was taken by the way the lamplight shone through the thin fabric of Helen’s kirtle. So was Langelee’s, although the physician hoped his own admiration had been more discreet. Then a slight movement in the shadows opposite caught his eye. It was Gisbyrn’s henchman-warrior Frost, also transfixed by the sight.

‘We are looking for a tavern that is respectable enough for a Benedictine to enjoy,’ said Michael waspishly. ‘Can you recommend any?’

Helen nodded. ‘Plenty, but it is raining, and no night to be wandering about in the dark. You must dine with me instead. Come in. My other guests will not mind, under the circumstances.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, shoving past her before Bartholomew could remind the monk that they were all too tired, irritable and dirty to be congenial company. Langelee was hot on Michael’s heels, so Bartholomew exchanged a resigned shrug with Radeford and followed.

He was unsettled to find that all Helen’s other guests were women, every one of them well-dressed and obviously rich. Nodding haughty greetings as he went, Michael stalked past them, aiming for the assortment of pies and pastries that had been set on a table near the hearth, where he began to graze. Anyone watching would be forgiven for assuming that he had not seen food in a week.

A delighted grin lit Radeford’s face when he saw Isabella among the throng. He went to join her, and began regaling her with ideas about how to improve The Conversion of the Harlot. She had been sitting apart from the other women, a book on her lap, giving the impression that she would rather have been in her nunnery. However, she smiled a very warm welcome to Radeford, and Bartholomew wondered whether his colleague might yet succeed in winning her heart.

‘I think we are interrupting what Matilde used to call “ladies’ night”,’ Bartholomew whispered to Langelee, recalling uncomfortably the occasion when he had inadvertently stumbled into one and had been the butt of jokes he had not begun to understand. ‘We should leave.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared Langelee, and went to sit next to Helen. Michael, holding a platter loaded with a selfish serving of delicacies, plumped himself down on her other side.

Bartholomew was not alone for long, because Prioress Alice came to bring him a cup of wine. The rings on her fingers rattled against the vessel as she passed it to him, and she had doused herself with so much perfume that he found himself wanting to open a window. She had re-dyed her hair that day, and the strands that escaped from under her wimple had gone from orange to something approaching scarlet. He wondered why the Archbishop allowed her to do it. Then he saw the predatory gleam in her eye, and did not blame Thoresby for electing to keep his distance.

‘York is a beautiful city,’ he said, when he saw he was expected to open a conversation. ‘It seems prosperous, too.’

‘It is, although it is a pity that Longton and Gisbyrn will insist on squabbling – their spat costs the city money and obliges the rest of us to choose a side. And I like them both.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what there was to like about the drunken Longton.

Alice sighed. ‘All right. I suppose it might be more accurate to say that I did like them both. Longton was once a fine fellow, but wine has turned him sour, while Gisbyrn has grown rather ruthless with the passing years. Of course, there are those who would say that he has always had it in him to be cruel – look what he did to poor Myton five years ago.’

‘He is not the one who murdered him, is he?’ asked Bartholomew, when she paused.

She regarded him askance. ‘No one murdered Myton – those sort of rumours always circulate when a man dies in his prime, but there was no truth in them. I refer to the fact that Gisbyrn competed so aggressively that Myton lost every penny of his fortune. Myton was an old-fashioned merchant, you see, who operated on a code based on honour and trust.’

Bartholomew’s eyes strayed to Helen, who was looking from side to side as Langelee and Michael vied for her attention. ‘Yet Gisbyrn was kind to Lady Helen when her husband died.’

Alice gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Naturally! The arrangement gave him access to her money, and he used it to benefit himself as well as her. Of course, he was far from pleased when she chose Sir William as a beau – the brother of his arch-enemy.’

‘That particular betrothal seems to have ended.’

Alice nodded. ‘But we all live in hope that she will agree to resume their courtship when she feels William has had sufficient time to grieve for his first wife. She is right, of course: no one wants to compete with a ghost.’

Bartholomew continued to stare at Helen, thinking her a lovely woman, although it was not her looks and figure that made him think so, as much as her character. She was intelligent, quick to smile and the stances she took on the various issues raised by Michael and Langelee told him that she was principled, too. He moved closer, so he could listen to her.

‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I learned my uncle’s chantry money had run out,’ she was telling Langelee. She gestured to her female guests. ‘We have started to raise funds for it ourselves, but such structures are costly, and it will take us years to amass what we need.’

‘But we will succeed,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘He was kind, honest and thoughtful, and deserves our best efforts. He encouraged me to learn about theology, and how many men would do that?’

‘Not many,’ agreed Helen. ‘He ministered to the sick during the Death, too, even though he was unwell himself, and he was never too busy to hear their confessions.’

‘No,’ nodded Langelee, although Bartholomew noticed the Master was more interested in her cleavage than her opinions. ‘I accompanied him during those dark times, of course.’

‘You did?’ asked Helen, startled. ‘I do not recall you being there.’

‘Because I am discreet,’ averred Langelee. ‘Of course you did not notice me.’

Bartholomew doubted he had done anything of the kind, but Helen smiled and took his hand in a silent gesture of appreciation. Unwilling to be outshone, Michael began to regale her with an entirely fictitious account of his plague-time activities, and Bartholomew was surprised to find himself resentful. He really had worked untiringly and without regard for his own safety during those bleak months, but he could never have brought himself to brag about it.

‘Speaking of the pestilence, I hear you ventured into St Mary ad Valvas yesterday,’ said Alice after a while, during which time the assembly might have been forgiven for thinking that the disease would still be with them had it not been for the Herculean efforts of Michael and Langelee.

‘We did,’ said Michael. ‘It is a nasty place, full of dead animals.’

‘Full of dead people, too,’ said Helen. ‘Its entire congregation was buried in the chancel when the cemetery proved unsuitable, and it is said that their souls moan there on certain moonlit nights.’

Bartholomew was glad Cynric had not accompanied them, sure he would have believed it. ‘Are there plans to dig them up and rebury them properly?’ he asked, before realising that this was hardly a subject that would encourage Helen to think well of him.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘And wise people stay away from the place. Not only is it cursed, but the roof is unstable and set to collapse. Dean Talerand should erect barriers around it, to keep people out.’

‘He is too busy ensuring that his rivals do not try to oust him from office again,’ said Alice. She smirked as she explained to the scholars. ‘There were two other men who thought they should be Dean, and keeping them at bay has left Talerand with scant time for St Mary ad Valvas.’

‘No time for his library, either,’ said Michael acidly. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’

‘Nor have I,’ said Bartholomew, unable to prevent himself from shooting Langelee an accusing glance. The deception still rankled.

‘I remember the dispute for the deanery,’ said Langelee, ignoring them both. ‘Three different men claimed they had been appointed to the title – one by Zouche, one by the Pope and the other by the minster’s canons.’

‘Such situations are not unusual,’ said Michael. ‘Especially for a post that will confer on its holder great wealth and power. I would not mind having it myself.’

It was not the first time Michael had expressed a desire to hold high office, although Bartholomew had been under the impression that he would accept nothing less than an abbacy or a bishopric. The physician wondered whether it was the prospect of spending more time with Lady Helen that had encouraged him to revise his ambitions downwards.

‘Please do not issue a challenge,’ said Helen, laughing. ‘Poor Talerand must be weary of fighting. And apart from St Mary ad Valvas and the library, he manages the office well.’

‘But I would make a very good dean,’ insisted Michael. He smiled at her. ‘And I confess myself to be most charmed by York.’

‘It is a splendid city,’ declared Alice with pride. ‘We are famous for all manner of things – the quality of our manufactured goods, the beauty of our buildings, our unique and varied culture. And speaking of culture, how goes The Conversion of the Harlot?’

Isabella smiled. ‘Master Radeford has just agreed to come to another rehearsal later this evening. Incidentally, I am thinking of expanding the first section, for it skimps on the theological analysis of the Creation. I feel it needs to be longer.’

‘You may find your audience restless if you do,’ warned Bartholomew, recalling that the opening scene was already tediously lengthy.

‘Restless? But it is about theology!’ cried Isabella, her wide eyes revealing that her bemusement was genuine. ‘They will be captivated.’

‘This is the best soup I have ever had,’ declared Radeford, when Bartholomew was not sure how to reply and everyone else began to smirk. The lawyer had an elegant bowl in one hand and his silver spoon in the other. ‘Does it contain mint?’

Isabella smiled shyly. ‘I took the recipe from one of the books in Abbot Multone’s solar.’

‘If Master Radeford could win her heart, I should be very grateful,’ whispered Alice to Bartholomew, as the discussion ranged off on an appreciation of the monastery’s remarkable collection of culinary texts. ‘Isabella should not be allowed to wither in a convent when she would make an excellent wife for a lawyer.’

‘I am sure he will be delighted to hear that you think so,’ said Bartholomew.