Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 4

The next day showed no improvement in the weather. It had rained most of the night, and through the hospitium window Bartholomew could see that the Ouse was a swollen, brown torrent. He wondered if it would burst its banks and flood the city.

‘It might,’ replied Langelee. ‘It has certainly happened before. But it rains a lot in this part of the world, so the river often looks like that. The chances are that it will subside without problems.’

He broke off, because breakfast had arrived and Michael was speeding towards it. Langelee had a healthy appetite himself, and was loath to go short, but he need not have worried, because the abbey was absurdly generous. There was bread, soft cheese, pickled herrings and a vat of pottage. Bartholomew and Radeford each ate two bowls of the pottage, but the basin in which it came was so huge that their incursions made no visible impact.

‘I am sorry Sub-Chanter Ellis wields such power over the vicars-choral,’ said Radeford, shoving his silver spoon in the pouch on his belt without giving it even the most cursory of wipes. ‘His brethren are reasonable men, and I am sure our dispute could be settled amiably if one of the others was in charge. Particularly Jafford.’

‘Ellis has always been aggressive,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been sub-chanter for years, because he bullies his fellows into re-electing him. There is an occasional break, when they are brave enough to vote for someone else, but I suspect Cave’s rise to power will put an end to that – he will intimidate anyone wanting a change of regime.’

‘Abbot Multone wants to see you,’ said Oustwyk, appearing so suddenly at the door that Bartholomew wondered if he had been eavesdropping.

Langelee sighed irritably. ‘What, again? We have a great deal to do now that Thoresby has charged us to find who shot Sir William, and we have no time for idle chatter.’

‘It is not idle chatter,’ objected Oustwyk, offended. ‘He wants to enquire after your progress with Huntington, and to solicit your opinions about the possibility of a French invasion.’

‘A French invasion?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘How are we expected to know about that?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew was at the Battle of Poitiers; Master Langelee knows a lot about dangerous foreigners from when he tried to hunt down those spies; and you are in regular contact with the Bishop of Ely, who is currently in Avignon,’ replied the steward tartly. ‘Of course you can provide him with information about the French.’

Bartholomew marvelled that Oustwyk had found out so much about them; he had certainly not mentioned his experiences two years before, when unfortunate timing had put him with the English army when it had met a much larger French force. Cynric had thoroughly enjoyed the battle and the victory that followed, but Bartholomew had never been inclined to glorify what had been a distressingly bloody experience. Meanwhile, Michael rarely discussed his relationship with the powerful but devious prelate who had Cambridge in his See, and Langelee had been uncharacteristically reticent about his work for Zouche since arriving in York.

‘You three go; I will make a start in the library.’ Radeford grimaced. ‘Given that I have been allocated the formidable task of winning Huntington alone, while the rest of you chase murderous archers and chantry funds, I am the one who can least afford to squander time.’

‘True,’ agreed Langelee, unrepentant. ‘When we have finished with Multone, I shall explore the lost money, while Michael and Bartholomew discover who shot William.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael, before Bartholomew could say that he would far rather visit St Leonard’s Hospital again. ‘We shall start by questioning the victim himself. I understand he lives near the Carmelite Priory.’

‘Opposite,’ nodded Oustwyk. ‘On the street called Fossgate. But be careful when you are there, because the White Friars love to sue people. Last year, they challenged this abbey over a house on Petergate and won, even though everyone said it should have been ours.’

‘I shall listen to gossip in the taverns,’ offered Cynric, making them all jump – he had been so quiet that they had forgotten he was there. ‘Oustwyk has told me which ones will be the most promising. I shall ask questions about Sir William, the chantry money and the vicars’ greedy interest in Huntington.’

When Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee reached the Abbot’s House, they saw a dozen men outside, divided into two distinct packs – one in a livery of red and gold, and the other in plain brown homespun. All were large, loutish individuals who looked as though they enjoyed fighting, and were eyeing each other speculatively, as if keen to hone their skills there and then.

‘Henchmen,’ whispered Oustwyk in explanation. ‘The ones in uniform belong to Longton, while the others work for Gisbyrn and Frost. Now Sir William is shot, we shall be seeing more of them – the stakes have been raised, see, and the leaders will be wanting protection.’

He ushered the scholars into Multone’s solar, where they discovered that the Abbot was not the only one interested in hearing their opinions. Four guests were there, too. The first was Dalfeld, resplendent in another new tunic; the second was Mayor Longton; the third was Frost; and the last was a sober, neat fellow in black with tired eyes.

‘Roger Zouche!’ exclaimed Langelee when he saw him. ‘I am shocked to find your brother’s chantry unfinished. He appointed you as one of his executors because he trusted you.’

Roger winced, and his friendly grin of greeting faded. ‘I am sorry, too. When the money ran out I raised some to pay for it myself, but Mayor Longton imposed a new set of taxes…’

‘The city’s safety is far more important than memorials for the dead,’ said Longton in a pompous voice that was calculated to aggravate. Roger scowled at him.

‘Safety?’ growled Langelee. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘These French spies,’ elaborated Longton. He sighed, releasing a wine-perfumed gust of breath. ‘They send information to our enemies, and I am expecting an invasion at any day. But preparations for our defence cost money, so of course I impose levies on those who can pay.’

‘When I realised you might be able to provide us with a new perspective, I invited Longton and Gisbyrn to hear it,’ said Multone. ‘We all share a common enemy, and–’

‘But Gisbyrn could not be bothered to attend,’ interrupted Longton, indicating that the Abbot’s efforts to broker peace had misfired. ‘He sent his lackeys instead – Roger and Frost.’

The ‘lackeys’ exchanged a weary glance, but made no reply to the insult and only took their seats at the table, waiting patiently for the scholars to tell them what they knew.

‘And you?’ demanded Michael of Dalfeld, declining to oblige. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I represent Archbishop Thoresby,’ replied Dalfeld loftily. ‘He often uses me as his envoy, and he asked me to provide him with a concise and accurate analysis of what you say here today.’

‘It is true,’ said Multone, when Langelee gave a scornful snort. ‘Dalfeld has risen in standing and importance since you lived here.’

‘Zouche would never have appointed a scoundrel to represent him,’ muttered Langelee, eyeing the lawyer with dislike. Dalfeld opened his mouth to reciprocate in kind, but the Master pointedly turned his back on him and addressed the others. ‘What did you want to ask us, gentlemen?’

‘As I said, a French invasion is imminent,’ replied Longton. ‘And I need information that will allow me to repel it.’ He sneered at the merchants. ‘And I do not care how much the resulting preparations will cost in taxes.’

‘Whose fault is it that the French know so much about us?’ demanded Frost, finally nettled into a retort. ‘If you had done your job and caught the spies that have plagued us all these years, we would not need to worry.’

‘Frost speaks the truth,’ said Roger quietly. ‘We intercepted a report only a week ago that gave exact details of when our ships would sail and the cargoes they would carry. Your ineptitude in this matter is a serious risk to commerce.’

‘Commerce!’ jeered Longton in rank disdain. ‘Who cares about commerce?’

‘It is what makes us all rich, Longton,’ interjected Dalfeld silkily. ‘Even you would suffer if the French seized all York’s ships, for then who would pay your taxes?’

Repeating the word ‘taxes’ was enough to ignite Frost’s temper, as Dalfeld had no doubt anticipated. ‘Taxes! It is just another word for theft – stealing money from honest men.’

‘There are no honest merchants in York,’ countered Longton. ‘Besides, if you did not cheat the city of its due with your sly interpretations of our laws, we would not need to make them so high.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Multone, distressed. ‘We are here to discuss the French, not to quarrel. So ask these scholars what you would like to know, and then let us be about our business.’

Roger and Frost posed intelligent questions about the possible ways in which the spies might be communicating with their masters, and listened keenly to what Langelee and Michael had to say in reply. Then Longton demanded a résumé of French battle tactics, which Bartholomew supplied, although the physician seriously doubted it would ever be put to use – pirates might raid York, but he was sure there would never be a formal fight between armies, as there had been at Poitiers.

‘Will you visit my brother today, Bartholomew?’ asked Longton, when the meeting was at an end and everyone was moving towards the door. He glared at Roger and Frost. ‘He is improving, although those who tried to murder him will be disappointed by the news.’

‘We did not harm him,’ said Roger coolly. ‘However, Sir William is a skilled warrior, so perhaps these French spies shot him to ensure he cannot fight them when their army arrives.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Dalfeld, a sly expression on his face. ‘The culprit is probably from Michaelhouse, as part of a convoluted plot to deprive the vicars-choral of their lawful inheritance.’

Longton, Roger and Frost frowned, bemused at this remark, and Multone made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat before bundling Dalfeld unceremoniously through the door and closing it after him. Then he wiped his hands on his habit, as if he considered them soiled.

‘I cannot abide that fellow,’ he said, grimacing in distaste. ‘I wish Thoresby had chosen someone else to represent him, because being in his company is like entertaining the Devil – you cannot take your eyes off him for an instant lest he eats all the pastries.’

It was a strange analogy, but Longton nodded understanding. ‘You put it well, Father Abbot. Dalfeld is not conducive company, although he is certainly the best lawyer in York.’

Roger and Frost voiced their agreement, and as they had not concurred with anything else Longton had said that day, Bartholomew could only suppose he was right.

Outside, the henchmen fell in at their masters’ heels, and both parties moved towards the gate, where some unedifying jostling took place until they were all through. Langelee walked with Roger, his angry gestures revealing that he was berating him again for failing to finish his brother’s chantry.

‘He is wasting his time,’ said Michael, watching. ‘I have seen other incidences where funds are provided for a specific purpose, but lack of supervision results in them trickling away – supplies are bought that fail to arrive, or that sit around for so long they are used for something else; craftsmen are paid in advance for work they forget to do; long delays mean work needs to be started again…’

Bartholomew experienced a twinge of guilt. He had been appointed as executor for one of Michaelhouse’s masters, and charged to oversee the building of a grand monument in the church. Unfortunately, he had dallied to the point where the money had devalued, and all that could be managed was a plain black slab. He knew how easy it was to let other matters interfere with such responsibilities, and was sympathetic to the men Langelee intended to persecute.

He and Michael crossed the yard, and emerged on Petergate, where it began to rain so hard that Bartholomew’s cloak was quickly saturated. Above, the clouds were a solid iron grey, of the kind that showed the bad weather was likely to be with them for some time. The streets were slick with mud, and Michael yelped when a wagon bearing pots clattered past, spraying him with a shower of filth. Bartholomew had managed to duck behind a water butt, so escaped the worst of it.

‘We should keep to the smaller streets,’ he said, remembering what Radeford had done the previous day. ‘Carts do not fit down those.’

‘Nor do Benedictines with heavy bones,’ remarked Michael, when the alley Bartholomew had chosen constricted so much that he was obliged to walk sideways. ‘Oustwyk gave us clear directions to Sir William’s house, and we should have followed them. I thought you would have learned your lesson about shortcuts after becoming so hopelessly lost with Radeford yesterday.’

But Bartholomew did not mind. Their wanderings had led them into a pretty district of winding alleys and picturesque courtyards, and he was thoroughly enjoying the diversion. He discovered unexpectedly fine churches, exquisitely crafted guildhalls, and an enormous number of extremely handsome mansions.

‘You are leading us in circles,’ declared Michael after a while, uninterested in the jewels of architecture that so amazed the physician. ‘Just as you accused Radeford of doing to you yesterday.’

‘At least you are dry,’ said Bartholomew, but at that moment, the wind caught a splattering deluge from a gutter and landed it squarely on the monk’s head. Michael squawked his outrage, and although Bartholomew tried not to laugh, he could not help himself.

‘Enough!’ snapped Michael. He glanced upwards. ‘I cannot even see enough sky to take a bearing from the sun, so I have no idea how to reach either William’s house or the Franciscan Friary.’

‘The clouds are too thick to help you navigate, anyway,’ said Bartholomew defensively, although he knew they should be doing something more profitable than sightseeing.

‘I hope you are not dawdling because you resent being put to work hunting the archer,’ said Michael waspishly. ‘I know you would rather be with Fournays, learning new grisly techniques to inflict on your hapless patients when we get home, but if Cynric and Radeford are right, and you were the intended victim, it is in your own interests to see the matter resolved.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘I know. And we are lost by accident, I assure you – dallying will do me no good, when all it does is cut into any free time I might snatch. Besides, I would never leave you to investigate this matter alone, Brother. It may not be safe.’

‘Is that why you are wearing a sword?’ asked Michael, eyeing it uncomfortably. ‘I am unused to seeing you armed, except on the open road, when even I have a stave to hand. But never in towns, and I do not like it.’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Langelee insisted. I objected, because physicians are not supposed to wander around looking as though they itch to run someone through, but he said–’

He stopped in surprise when the alley along which they were squeezing suddenly widened out into a large, open rectangle. An impossible number of stalls had been crushed into it, and the reek of dung, rotting straw and wet livestock was breathtaking.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, gazing at the spectacle in alarm. ‘I hope you are not intending to pass through this and emerge on the other side. I am not sure it is physically possible – the shops have been placed so that only skeletons will be able to sidle between them. Moreover, there are a lot of filthy animals roaming around, and this is a new habit.’

Bartholomew saw his point when a bullock was driven past, and although he pressed himself flat against the wall, the beast still managed to deposit a thick layer of muck on his cloak. It was followed by a gaggle of geese, one of which shook itself next to him, providing several white feathers to adhere to the mess.

The noise was astounding, too. Bartholomew was used to Cambridge, where reluctant livestock were driven to market and iron-shod cartwheels constantly rattled across cobbles, but it was nothing compared to York. Vendors screamed the prices and quality of their wares, and agitated animals honked, brayed, bleated, lowed and squealed back. People haggled in a dialect he could not understand, and the bells of several churches were clanging. When he turned to speak to Michael, he could not hear his own voice above the cacophony.

Reluctant to go back the way they had come, because he was sure it was the wrong direction, he cut across the top of the square, aware of a medley of grumbles as Michael followed. Another gust caused water to splatter over both of them, and when they reached a church he shot inside it with relief, grateful for the opportunity to pause and take stock of their situation.

The building was ancient, with thick stone walls that muted the racket from outside. It smelled pleasantly of incense, fresh plaster and beeswax. There was no glass in its windows, and the shutters were closed, rending the place peaceful but dark.

‘Welcome to St Sampson’s,’ came a disembodied voice from the gloom. ‘We have his toe.’

‘Whose toe?’ asked Michael, disconcerted.

‘St Sampson’s. I assume that is why you are here? To inspect it? It attracts many visitors.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew hastily, when Michael seemed about to tell the voice what it could do with its digits. He groped his way to where he thought the speaker was, stumbling over uneven flagstones as he went. Then there was a flare of light, and a lamp was lit.

‘Fuel is costly,’ came the explanation. ‘So I only ever use it when people come for the toe. The rest of the time, I sit in the dark. My eyesight is not very good anyway so it makes little difference.’

‘Are you the priest?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am Marmaduke Constable.’ When the lamp was finally alight the scholars found themselves facing a squat man who seemed abnormally wide for his height. ‘A tall name for such a short fellow, you might say, but we cannot help what our parents do. And I was a priest, but I am one no longer.’

Bartholomew frowned in confusion. ‘You renounced your vows?’

‘No – I was asked to leave the Church,’ replied Marmaduke shortly. ‘But that is all in the past, and you will not be interested in my travails. You want to see the toe.’

‘Hurry up, Matt,’ hissed Michael. ‘Time is passing, and we cannot return to the abbey tonight and confess that we spent our day admiring the body parts of saints I have never heard of.’

‘Sampson was a Welsh bishop.’ Marmaduke’s hearing was evidently better than his eyesight. ‘And a great missionary. Do not denigrate him in his own church.’

‘My apologies,’ murmured Michael.

Marmaduke led the way to the chancel, which boasted an especially fine altar with a reliquary built into it. He opened the box, to reveal a wizened, blackened object lying on a carefully folded piece of cloth. Bartholomew and Michael leaned forward to peer at it.

‘It is a toe,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what more could be added.

‘Sampson’s toe,’ corrected Marmaduke. ‘Well? Are you just going to stare at it, or will you petition it for a favour?’

Obligingly, Michael knelt, but Bartholomew found he could not do it. There was something vaguely profane about the shrivelled object in the reliquary, and he did not want to prostrate himself before the thing. He backed away.

‘Here!’ said Marmaduke, aggrieved. ‘What are you doing? Pray, or Sampson will be offended.’

‘He will do it later,’ said Michael, pressing a coin into Marmaduke’s hand to appease him.

‘When?’ demanded Marmaduke, taking the money but declining to be mollified.

‘Tonight, in the minster,’ replied Michael. ‘Do not worry, I shall see he does it.’

‘Then be sure you do,’ sniffed Marmaduke, regarding Bartholomew stonily. ‘Because it is not nice to be repelled by the sight of holy relics.’

‘He is not repelled, believe me,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has admired more rotting human parts than you can possibly imagine. But as we are here, perhaps you will help us. We need to visit Sir William Longton and then the Franciscan Friary, but we are lost. Will you give us directions?’

Marmaduke closed the box with a businesslike snap. ‘You need a guide? I have nothing pressing to do, and I am sure Sampson can manage without me for a while. I understand your predicament – it is very easy to become disoriented when the Thursday Market is going.’

Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘But today is Wednesday.’

Marmaduke grinned. ‘Quite. So just imagine what it will be like tomorrow!’

Marmaduke closed the door behind him, then set off at what could best be described as a scuttle, moving so fast that Bartholomew and Michael were obliged to run to keep up. It was a peculiar gait for so wide a man, and put Bartholomew in mind of a crab. The ex-priest scurried along the front of St Sampson’s, and disappeared down a lane opposite, leaving the two scholars to follow as best they could through the crowds that surged around them.

The alley was more tunnel than street, with the upper storeys of its houses leaning together to blot out even the merest ribbon of sky. Then they emerged on another square, where even Bartholomew, inured to noxious smells, gagged at the stench of blood, entrails and dung. It was the meat-market, complete with pens full of frightened captives, and with an incongruously elegant hall in the middle, belonging to the Guild of Butchers. Once through it, Marmaduke scampered off again, finally reaching a wide road at the end of which stood a castle. It was impressive, boasting not only a tower on a motte but a heavily defended enclosure bristling with turrets.

‘Mayor Longton is worried about the French,’ explained Marmaduke. ‘So he imposes taxes to ensure that both York’s fortresses are kept in good working order – there is a second castle over the river, although it is mostly just earthworks now. It is nonsense, of course.’

‘What is nonsense?’ asked Bartholomew, when the ex-priest slowed enough for conversation to be possible. ‘The notion that the French will invade?’

Marmaduke spat. ‘Longton thinks they will steal his manors, like the Normans did when the Conqueror came. But if the French do appear, they will be more interested in what the merchants have – their chests of money, nice clothes and fancy jewellery.’

‘Why were you defrocked?’ asked Michael, somewhat out of the blue.

Marmaduke shot him a reproachful glance. ‘That is personal.’

‘Then tell me how you earn your living,’ pressed Michael. ‘I mean no disrespect to Sampson’s feet, but I cannot imagine that pilgrims flock there.’

‘You would be surprised. Many cannot afford the entrance fees at the minster, and Sampson is free. But to answer your question, I do not need to work, because I have a benefactor. I was a favourite of Archbishop Zouche, you see – one of his executors, no less – and this has earned me respect in certain quarters.’

‘Zouche chose a defrocked priest to represent him?’ said Michael, stopping to stare.

‘I was not defrocked when he died,’ replied Marmaduke stiffly. ‘And we were friends. Do not judge me by how I appear now, because I was an influential member of the minster hierarchy once.’

‘We are from Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, trying without success to imagine Marmaduke in a position of authority – and as someone an archbishop might befriend. ‘Here to contest the vicars’ claim on Huntington. Do you know anything about it?’

Marmaduke gaped at them, but then smiled. ‘I heard scholars had come to challenge Ellis, but I did not realise it was you. What can I do to help? I recall Zouche saying quite clearly that he wanted your College to have Huntington, and I would like to see his wishes fulfilled.’

‘Tell us what you know about the matter, then,’ instructed Michael. ‘Was there a codicil?’

‘There must have been – Zouche was too efficient not to have committed such an important matter to parchment. I never saw it, but I imagine it will be in the library with all his other cartularies, land grants, rents and privileges. All you have to do is find it.’

‘Unfortunately, that is easier said than done,’ said Bartholomew ruefully.

Marmaduke’s expression was angry. ‘Everyone knows Zouche left Huntington to Michaelhouse, and the vicars-choral have no right to contest it. What is wrong with them?’

‘Perhaps they follow the example set by the executors,’ remarked Michael, disappointment making him acerbic. ‘The ones who flouted his wishes by failing to finish his chapel.’

Unexpectedly, Marmaduke’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I did my best to prod the others into action, but obviously I did not try hard enough. And then the fund ran dry. I shall never forgive myself. Zouche trusted me, and I let him down.’

‘Langelee plans to investigate,’ said Michael, gruffly kind when he saw he had upset the man. ‘Perhaps he will be able to reclaim some of the money, and the project may yet resume.’

Hope filled Marmaduke’s face. ‘If he does, I shall pray for him every day for the rest of my life! But here is the Franciscan Friary, where we part company.’

‘The friary?’ asked Michael. ‘But we wanted to visit Sir William first.’

Marmaduke shrugged. ‘The friary was closer.’ He wagged a finger at Bartholomew. ‘And do not forget your prayers to Sampson’s toe tonight. I shall be vexed if you forget, and so will he.’

The Franciscans had arrived in York some one hundred and thirty years before, eventually settling near the confluence of the city’s two rivers: the deep and fast-flowing Ouse, and the smaller, more sluggish Foss. Although not as large as the Benedictine abbey, the priory was still impressive, comprising chapel, dormitory, refectory and a range of attractive outbuildings. The arms of the King’s great-grandfather carved above its gate indicated it had that once enjoyed royal patronage.

‘Cotyngham remains unwell, Brother,’ said the lay-brother who answered their knock. ‘I am afraid you still cannot see him.’

‘Wait!’ ordered Michael as the gate started to close. ‘I have brought a physician with me today, one skilled in curing unusual diseases. You cannot refuse him access.’

Bartholomew groaned, and Michael elbowed him hard, warning him to keep his silence.

The lay-brother brightened. ‘Really? In that case, I shall conduct you to Warden Stayndrop, because he told me not an hour ago that he is worried about the length of time Cotyngham is taking to recover. He will be grateful for a second opinion.’

He ushered them in. High walls muted the clamour from the streets, so the only sound was the delicate chime of a bell as it called the friars to terce. The scholars were escorted to a simple but pretty house, where the Warden was just emerging to join his brethren at their devotions. He was flanked by another Franciscan and a Dominican, who were arguing furiously.

‘Of course the Blessed Virgin was immaculately conceived,’ the Franciscan was declaring. ‘How can you even consider otherwise?’

‘Because she only became free of sin when Our Saviour was planted within her,’ argued the Dominican with equal passion.

The pair passed Bartholomew and Michael without sparing them so much as a glance, which made the physician vaguely homesick: it was the kind of academic dispute – and eccentric behaviour – common among his University’s scholar-priests, and he found he missed it.

‘They are going to debate in public soon,’ explained Warden Stayndrop, a kindly faced man with yellow hair. ‘So they are practising. Personally, I do not see how the question can be resolved without asking her, but I doubt she will be willing to confide. It is a personal matter, after all.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, not sure whether he was making a joke.

‘Yesterday, I was told Cotyngham was ill,’ said Michael, wisely electing to ignore the Warden’s enigmatic remarks. ‘So today I brought a physician. Matt is good with–’

‘What is wrong with Cotyngham?’ asked Bartholomew, before the monk could make promises about cures that would almost certainly be impossible to realise.

‘He has lost his wits,’ replied Stayndrop sadly. ‘We have kept it secret, so as to spare him embarrassment when he recovers, but I think it is time we were open about it.’

‘Is that why you refused to let Archbishop Thoresby see him?’ asked Michael.

Stayndrop nodded. ‘And because Surgeon Fournays recommended that we repel all visitors, lest they distress him. We have kept him isolated for a month now – since he arrived, in fact. But the treatment is not working, so I would not mind trying something different. Besides, it grieves me to think of him locked in the infirmary all day, alone.’

‘He has been ailing for a month?’ asked Michael, shocked. His green eyes hardened. ‘I did not know it had been that long. That must be about the time he left Huntington.’

‘Yes, Brother, although I am not sure whether he left because he was mad, or whether he left and it drove him mad. Suffice to say he was brought here in a daze. Perhaps the shock of losing his congregation at St Mary ad Valvas during the plague is responsible, although we all thought he had recovered from that.’

Stayndrop took them to the infirmary himself. It was an elegant building overlooking the Ouse, although the outlook was bleak that day. Sheets of rain drifted across the water, swathing the buildings on the opposite bank in misty-white wetness. The river itself seemed higher than it had been earlier, a muddy torrent that carried with it bushes and small trees.

‘Is that Holy Trinity Priory?’ asked Michael, pointing across the water to a substantial foundation perched atop a low hill, dominating the houses below it. ‘My Order’s alien house?’

‘Yes. And in case you are wondering why their walls are so sturdy, it is because they are always being accused of sheltering French spies. Prior Chozaico does his best to assure folk that they do nothing of the kind, but his words fall on deaf ears.’

‘The city authorities should protect them,’ said Michael, indignant on his fellow monks’ behalf.

‘Mayor Longton tries, but it is difficult to combat bigotry and prejudice. They own Bestiary Hall, too, just north of the bridge, but alms are dispensed from that, so it tends to be left alone.’

‘Bestiary Hall?’ echoed Bartholomew, thinking it a strange name.

‘Last century, the Holy Trinity monks produced a beautiful book full of strange and wonderful animals – a bestiary,’ explained Stayndrop. ‘And one wealthy merchant was so impressed with it that he bequeathed them a house. Because of that, it is known as Bestiary Hall.’

‘Why dispense alms from it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not from the priory?’

‘Because troublemakers kept insinuating themselves into the beggars’ queue, then forcing their way inside the priory, where they caused damage and attacked the almoner.’

‘Then Chozaico would be within his rights to withdraw his charity,’ said Michael harshly. ‘He is not obliged to help the city’s poor if it results in harm to his people and property.’

‘We all thought he might, but he said he did not see why the needy should suffer just because of a few misguided louts. He pays a parish priest to distribute food and ale now. Bestiary Hall is by the river, so supplies can be unloaded there and the priory need not be involved at all.’

‘He sounds like a good man,’ said Bartholomew, impressed by Chozaico’s generosity of spirit.

‘He is an exceptional man. I am not sure I would remain generous and kindly in the face of such abuse. But here we are at Cotyngham’s room.’ Stayndrop turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure it is a good idea to see him? I do not want him made worse.’

Bartholomew had no idea, but when he hesitated, Michael assured the Warden that he was doing the right thing and indicated that he was to open the door. Stayndrop obliged, and led the way into a small but pleasantly appointed chamber overlooking the river. Cotyngham lay in bed. He had a mane of unkempt grey hair, a straggly beard and a sallow face. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was blank, and a ribbon of drool slid from the corner of his mouth.

‘He is a shadow of his former self,’ whispered Stayndrop. ‘I did not know him well, but he always seemed neat and vigorous. Now he is scarcely recognisable, poor soul.’

‘Has he grown worse since he arrived?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Fournays’s treatment had done more harm than good.

‘There has been no change either way.’

Bartholomew knelt by the bed and lifted Cotyngham’s hand. It hung limply. He peered into the man’s eyes, and then began to examine the rest of him, noting that his condition had not affected his appetite, because there was no evidence of poor nutrition.

‘You see?’ said Stayndrop. ‘He does not even know we are here.’

‘Actually, I think he does,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘His heart is beating very rapidly – he is certainly aware of our presence.’

‘Then make him talk to us,’ ordered Michael. ‘It is important.’

Bartholomew tried, speaking in a quiet, patient voice, but the only reaction was that Cotyngham’s heart pounded faster than ever. Seeing his attempts to help were causing distress, he backed away. He left the infirmary, and only spoke to Michael and Stayndrop when he was sure they were well out of the patient’s hearing.

‘I assume something happened to turn him like this. Do you know what?’

‘No – he was found wandering on Petergate by Zouche’s niece Isabella,’ replied Stayndrop. ‘He was confused and frightened. She wanted to take him to her nunnery, to tend him herself as an act of Christian charity, but I told her he belonged here, with his own Order.’

‘So he has not resigned from Huntington, then?’ asked Michael.

‘Well, no, not officially. But even if he recovers, we cannot allow him to return there, lest this happens again. We shall have to find him a place closer to home, where he can be sympathetically monitored.’

Michael frowned. ‘Do you think the vicars-choral did something to him? Because they are eager to claim Huntington for themselves and grew tired of waiting for him to relinquish it?’

‘I sincerely doubt it!’ replied Stayndrop, shocked. ‘They like property, but they are not monsters. Besides, they are more likely to have persuaded him to resign properly. As it stands, I imagine the legal situation is disturbingly ambiguous.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘It seems a visit to Huntington is in order, because we need to know exactly what happened to Cotyngham. Perhaps his parishioners will be able to tell us.’

They left the friary, holding their hats against a wind that threatened to tear them from their heads. It was still raining, and the clouds were so low that they shrouded the tops of the minster’s towers. Because Michael was concerned about getting lost again, Stayndrop had provided a guide in the form of one John Mardisley, the friar who had been debating with the Dominican. Unfortunately, the Dominican – William Jorden – had accompanied him. Still arguing and paying no attention at all to the men they were supposed to be helping, the two of them stopped by the meat-market.

‘Our Lady would never have agreed to that,’ Mardisley was saying heatedly. ‘Not with the Archangel Gabriel.’

‘Which way?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Or do we stand here all morning?’

Jordan eyed the monk with sudden interest. ‘Warden Stayndrop said you are a theologian from Cambridge, so perhaps you can settle this point. We are debating the question of the Blessed Virgin’s immaculate conception, and what we want to know is–’

‘Another time,’ said Michael curtly. ‘When I am not struggling to prevent my College from being feloniously cheated by York’s vicars, and trying to discover who shot Sir William Longton.’

‘When?’ pressed Jorden eagerly. ‘Because Mardisley and I have reached something of an impasse, and we would appreciate contributions from a superior mind.’

The flattery had an immediate effect, and then there were three of them arguing. Bartholomew had nothing to contribute, so contented himself with tapping their shoulders each time they stopped to pontificate, to remind them to keep walking.

‘Poor Cotyngham,’ said Mardisley, when Michael had confounded both friars by quoting a source neither was able to refute – it was also one Bartholomew suspected was invented – and the discourse came to an abrupt end. ‘He has been lying there, staring at the ceiling, for a month now, and I think he might die. It is a pity, because he was a good and generous man.’

‘He was,’ agreed Jorden. ‘He had an excellent mind, too, and I enjoyed discussing theology with him. Do you think he lost his wits because living in Huntington was so dull, Mardisley?’

‘It is possible,’ nodded the Franciscan. ‘Are you sure you want it, Brother? It is not very nice.’

‘So we have been told,’ sighed Michael. ‘But a gift is a gift, and we cannot afford to refuse it. Look – here come Alice and Isabella. Perhaps they can help you with your debate.’

‘Women?’ asked Jorden in rank disdain. ‘I do not think so!’

The nuns had arrived before Bartholomew could inform the Dominican that he had met a number of ladies who were more than capable of holding their own in a theological discourse, and that Isabella might well prove to be one of them. She had a different book that day: Augustine’s De Sancta Virginate.

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Michael, snatching it from her and thumbing through it rather roughly. ‘See here – it says Our Lady was “conceived as virgin, gave birth as virgin and stayed virgin for ever”.’

‘I could have told you that,’ said Isabella, smiling. ‘I know this particular volume by heart. For example, did you know that Augustine believed the soul has no spatial dimensions?’

‘Of course,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘But he did not say so in this particular body of work.’

‘You will find he did,’ countered Isabella, taking the book back from him. ‘It is in the–’

‘Enough, Isabella,’ snapped Alice, snatching the tome away. ‘It is not polite to contradict University-educated theologians in the street, especially in front of members of rival Orders. Now be a good girl, and collect that necklace I ordered from the goldsmith.’

Isabella shot Michael an apologetic glance and hurried away, although she grabbed the book before she went, apparently afraid her Prioress might contrive to lose it. Alice rolled her eyes.

‘The sooner she is married, the sooner this theology nonsense will stop. She takes it far too seriously. Zouche did not know what an enormous favour he was asking when he delivered her into my care and ordered me to ensure that she took no premature vows.’

‘Isabella knows just enough of scholarship to be a menace,’ said Mardisley, when the Prioress had gone, too. ‘But not enough to be useful.’

‘And Alice has grown indiscreetly debauched since Zouche died,’ added Jorden. ‘He would never have entrusted his niece to her care had he known her true colours. But here we are on Fossgate. However, as Sir William lives near the Carmelites, we shall leave you here.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with them?’

‘They prosecuted my Prior in the courts for some money he owed them,’ explained Jorden. ‘They sued Mardisley, too.’

‘Perhaps some of my ideas did originate with them,’ said Mardisley resentfully. ‘And I should have acknowledged their contributions. But I forgot, and I disliked being forced to defend myself in front of a lot of people who did not understand what I was talking about.’

‘Lord!’ hissed Jorden. ‘Here they come now – Prior Penterel and his two favourite henchmen. I am off!’

He and Mardisley sped away, and Bartholomew turned towards the three men who were walking towards him. The Prior had a pleasant face with eyes that seemed full of goodness, while his ‘henchmen’ were unremarkable except for the fact that one had a long scar on his cheek. He was introduced as Wy, while his bulkier companion was Harold.

‘You must be the scholars from Oxford,’ said Prior Penterel amiably.

‘Cambridge,’ corrected Michael sharply. ‘We do not mention the Other Place in polite company.’

‘My apologies,’ said Penterel with a half-smile, as if uncertain whether the monk was joking; Bartholomew knew he was not. ‘But we intercepted you because we have information to impart. It is about Huntington, which we understand the vicars are trying to steal from you.’

‘They are.’ Michael nodded, pleased with this interpretation of events.

‘Zouche told me he had burned the writ leaving them Huntington,’ said Penterel. ‘He disliked their greed, and wanted your College to have it instead. Unfortunately, I cannot prove I had this discussion, because there were no witnesses, but I thought you should know anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael gratefully. ‘Your testimony might prove helpful, especially if Dalfeld produces such a document. I would not put forgery past him.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ agreed Penterel. ‘Perhaps you should ask Zouche’s surviving executors if they saw him destroy the old codicil. There were nine of them originally, but only three are still alive – Roger, Marmaduke and Anketil.’

‘Six is a lot to die in as many years,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Were they all old men?’

Penterel shook his head. ‘One belonged to our Order. His name was Gilbert Welton, and he was in his prime. He died three years ago.’

‘We were all surprised when he fell victim to a debility, because we thought he was too lazy to catch one,’ said Wy. A shocked gasp from his Prior made him add, ‘But his indolence was far outweighed by his piety, of course.’

‘Did he–’ began Michael, then ducked as a clod of mud sailed over his head.

‘It is that potter again,’ said Harold, stepping protectively between his Prior and the man who had lobbed the missile. ‘Still vexed because we made him return the money he took.’

‘The money he stole,’ corrected Wy angrily. ‘He is piqued because he was caught.’

A second clod followed the first, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen friars move so fast, as all three scampered towards their convent without another word. The sound of their door slamming was like a crack of thunder. Gleeful laughter followed, and the potter strutted away.

‘All Orders take legal action against thieves,’ said Michael, watching. ‘But, according to the gossiping Oustwyk, the Carmelites have challenged some especially vociferous offenders – ones who still bray their innocence, even though they were convicted years ago. I asked why, but he was unable to provide me with a sensible answer.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It only takes one person to declare a verdict unsound for others to clamour likewise. Doubtless they are hoping to be awarded some kind of compensation.’

As there was no one to ask where Sir William lived, they went to stand on the bridge that crossed the Foss, waiting for someone to happen along. The river had been dammed farther downstream, and the water to the north had broadened into an attractively marshy mere known as the King’s Fishpool. Fringed by reeds and dappled with islets, it was home to an impressive number of wildfowl, and provided an arresting sight, even in the rain.

The first person to pass was Fournays. Michael started to ask for directions, but the surgeon was full of eager chatter about a complex amputation he had just performed. Bartholomew was keenly interested and started to ask questions, but Michael interrupted by pointing suddenly.

‘Is that a body floating over there?’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Fournays, shocked. ‘It is! We had better raise the alarm.’

A crowd gathered to watch Fournays and Bartholomew board a boat and row out to retrieve the corpse. The water was so shallow that Bartholomew thought it might be quicker to wade, but Fournays informed him that if he tried, he was likely to become trapped by the boggy silt that formed a thick layer on the bottom.

‘I suspect that is what happened to our victim,’ he predicted grimly. ‘People often drown when they attempt to make off with the royal carp. Especially when they are in their cups.’

‘I am not in my cups,’ said Bartholomew.

Fournays smiled. ‘So I see, which is unusual for a physician. In my experience, they are partial to a tipple, although I find it impairs my ability to stitch. As a consequence, I never touch strong wine.’

Bartholomew’s consumption had also decreased in the last few months, because patients summoned him at all hours of the day and night, which meant he was obliged to remain permanently sober. He tried to recall the last time he had been even remotely tipsy, but could not do it. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself again that Langelee had probably been right to force him to relax by dragging him away from his duties.

‘Why did you recommend that Cotyngham was to have no visitors?’ he asked, as he rowed. ‘I usually urge friends and family to spend as much time as possible with patients in cases like his.’

Fournays shrugged. ‘I thought he would benefit more from solitude, and I was told about a similar case in which isolation resulted in a cure.’

‘You were only told? You did not witness it yourself?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed, thinking he would never have imposed such a draconian regime on a client based on hearsay.

‘By Marmaduke, whose uncle had displayed exactly the same symptoms as Cotyngham, but who was cured after several weeks of rest and peace.’

‘Perhaps so, but I am not sure it is the best course of treatment here,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘When I examined Cotyngham, there were odd symptoms that–’

‘Stayndrop let you in?’ Fournays was angry. ‘After I expressly ordered that no one should be admitted except myself and the infirmarian?’

‘He was concerned that your regimen was not working.’

‘It is working,’ said Fournays irritably. ‘Cotyngham is much calmer now than when I first examined him. I hope you have not undone all the progress he has made. Besides, I calculated a horoscope for him two weeks ago, and his stars say that my remedy is the right one.’

‘A horoscope?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. He placed scant faith in what the heavens portended, despite the fact that astrology was generally considered to be one of the most powerful weapons in a physician’s arsenal. He was unusual in that he rarely used it, only obliging when one of his wealthier patients insisted and he needed the money.

Fournays shot him a lopsided grin. ‘We are a fine pair, you and me. You dabble in surgery, which is my domain, while I impinge on yours by consulting the celestial bodies.’

‘Did you know Cotyngham well?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling back and glad Fournays was disinclined to argue.

‘I did not know him at all,’ replied Fournays. ‘Although everyone says he was generous, honest, compassionate and intelligent.’ He sighed. ‘It seems not even innate decency is a defence against an injurious softening of the brain. Still, I suppose God knows what He is doing.’

As such ailments were generally a mystery to Bartholomew – and he was sure a surgeon would not be much better informed – he decided it would be prudent to let the matter drop. He concentrated on navigating the boat through a series of islets. Then they reached the corpse, and the attention of both men was taken up with pulling it into the little craft without causing it to capsize.

While Bartholomew was gone, Michael took the opportunity to move among the spectators, asking questions about Cotyngham, Huntington and the attempted murder of Sir William. There were plenty of onlookers to choose from, including Benedictines and officials from the minster, but although most held opinions, none had much in the way of solid evidence.

‘I wish I could help, Brother,’ said Prior Chozaico apologetically. ‘But I have no idea who might want to harm Sir William or why Cotyngham became ill. He was well enough when I last saw him, which was perhaps six weeks ago. I happened to pass his cottage when I was out inspecting one of our farms, and he invited me in for warmed wine.’

‘And he seemed normal to you?’ pressed Michael. ‘No signs of poor health?’

‘None at all. He was as hale and hearty as you are.’

‘And as regards Sir William, I assumed the arrow was meant for one of you scholars,’ added Anketil. ‘I imagine a death in your party would encourage the rest of you to run for home.’

‘That suggests you believe a vicar is responsible,’ pounced Michael.

Anketil shrugged. ‘They stand to lose a church if you win your claim.’

‘We have been told to ask whether you saw Zouche destroy the old codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars,’ said Michael. ‘Zouche told Prior Penterel that he had done it, but there were no witnesses to the discussion.’

‘Zouche told me he had burned it, too,’ replied Anketil. ‘And that he planned to make another favouring Michaelhouse within the week. Unfortunately, no one was witness to my conversation, either. I wish I could help, Brother, I really do. Zouche was a dear friend, and there is nothing I would like more than for Huntington to go where he intended.’

Michael grimaced. Wishes would not help, no matter how fervent and well meaning.

‘However, I shall hunt out all the documents I kept pertaining to Zouche’s will,’ Anketil went on. ‘Do not be too hopeful, though, because I doubt they will be of much use to you. But it may be worth a try.’

It might, and Michael was grateful. He was about to say so, but the crowd began to press around them with distinct menace, and the word ‘spies’ could be heard. Chozaico bowed briefly, and muttered that he was required to be elsewhere, but Anketil lingered, attempting to render himself incognito by raising his hood. He went to stand with Marmaduke, who was also watching the proceedings; people seemed less inclined to hound him with the squat ex-priest scowling at his side.

Next, Michael walked towards a group of vicars-choral. They were watching from the bridge, unwilling to spoil their fine footwear in the mud of the pond’s shore.

‘Of course we are aware of Cotyngham’s indisposition,’ said Ellis, while his colleagues nodded agreement. ‘Although we do not know precisely what ails him. However, we suspect it is an affliction of the mind, because otherwise Stayndrop would have provided more detail.’

‘We had nothing to do with it, though,’ stated Cave, his small eyes cold and hard. ‘And anyone who says we did is a liar.’

‘It had not occurred to me to think it might,’ lied Michael. ‘Although your raising of the subject is certainly enlightening.’

‘God’s nails!’ swore Ellis suddenly, before Cave could respond. ‘The Carmelites are coming this way, and I have not forgiven them yet for taking us to court for stealing their topsoil.’

‘Did you steal their topsoil?’ asked Michael.

‘No,’ snapped Ellis, backing away hastily, Cave hot on his heels. Jafford lingered to elaborate, his expression sheepish and his fair curls sodden around his angelic face.

‘Well, it went from their garden to ours, but “steal” is too strong a word. We offered to pay.’

When Jafford had hurried after his fellows, Michael tried to speak to the Carmelites, intending to resume the discussion that had been interrupted earlier, but the mud-lobbing potter reappeared, and they made themselves scarce when several white habits were spoiled by his missiles.

‘Personally, I suspect they shot Sir William.’ Michael jumped: he had not known Oustwyk was behind him. ‘And I am sure they are in league with the French spies. Them and Chozaico.’

‘You cannot believe that,’ said Michael coolly. He did not like the steward’s spiteful tongue. ‘Chozaico is a fellow Benedictine.’

‘So what?’ demanded Oustwyk. ‘Not everyone who wears a black habit is decent. Of course, I suspect Dalfeld of sly dealings, too. He always appears when there is evil afoot. Look – there he is now, rubbing his hands over the prospect of a corpse, like a ghoul.’

Michael supposed Dalfeld’s interest in the body was distastefully salacious, but before he could approach the lawyer and challenge him about it, Lady Helen appeared, riding over the bridge with a party of horsemen. She reined in to see what was happening, and Frost, who was behind her, dismounted to take her bridle. Michael grabbed it first, and the pony snickered its appreciation when he rubbed its nose: the monk had a way with horses. Helen smiled at this unanticipated talent, while Frost scowled jealously. She ignored him, and asked Michael what was going on.

‘A body,’ he explained. ‘Matt and Surgeon Fournays have gone to retrieve it.’

‘Who is it?’ she cried in dismay.

‘He cannot know that yet, Helen – the boat has not yet touched the shore,’ replied the tall, handsome man who rode at her side. He inclined his head in a bow when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I am John Gisbyrn. I am sorry I missed you expounding on the French earlier, but Helen had already engaged me for something else.’

‘I asked him to go with me to the suburb we call Walmgate,’ explained Helen. ‘I lost a pig a few weeks ago, and as it is one I am fond of, we went to see whether we could find it.’

It occurred to Michael that the animal might have wandered into St Mary ad Valvas, where it was responsible for a good deal of the reek. However, he did not want a woman he admired to see him as the bearer of bad news, so he restricted himself to a sympathetic smile.

‘I would have accompanied you, Helen,’ said Frost, shooting Gisbyrn a look that was full of jealous resentment. ‘Indeed, I came to help as soon as I had finished in the abbey.’

‘Yes,’ said Helen impatiently. Then she seemed to realise this was rude, and forced a smile. Frost flushed almost as deep a red as his hair, and Michael did not think he had ever seen a man more obviously smitten.

‘How is Sir William?’ asked Gisbyrn, whose eyes were fixed on the boat and its grim cargo. ‘He might be kin to the reprehensible Longton, but I admire him even so. He is a good man, and I hope whoever shot him is brought to justice.’

‘There are those who say it was you,’ said Michael. He glanced at Frost. ‘Or your associates.’

‘I know,’ sighed Gisbyrn. ‘But I can assure you that we had nothing to do with it.’

It was not the most vigorous denial Michael had ever heard, but Gisbyrn made no effort to add more. He kicked his horse into a trot, and directed it to where Bartholomew was beginning to manoeuvre the boat through the reeds at the side of the pond. Helen lingered to ask about progress with Huntington, Frost a looming and unwelcome presence at her side.

‘Cotyngham is still witless?’ she breathed in horror, when the monk had provided her with an account of the hapless priest’s condition. ‘Isabella told me he was so when she found him wandering on Petergate, but that was a month ago, and I did not know the condition had persisted. No wonder the Franciscans never let anyone see him! I tried, because I admire his generosity of spirit. He is a lovely–’

‘The boat has arrived,’ interrupted Frost, seething with jealousy at the informal way in which she had engaged the monk in conversation. ‘Now we shall know the victim’s identity.’

Michael turned to see Bartholomew and Fournays lift the body, and lay it on the shore. Its head was plastered in mud, which Fournays began to rinse with water. Gradually, a face emerged.

‘It is Roger!’ cried Gisbyrn, looking down from his horse in horror. ‘My fellow merchant!’

‘Zouche’s brother and another of his executors,’ murmured Michael to himself. ‘And the seventh of them to die.’