Mystery in the Minster (13 page)

‘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.

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.’