Mystery in the Minster (23 page)

‘Look!’ interrupted Michael, stabbing a chubby finger towards where black smoke rose in a thick pall to the west. ‘And I can hear shouting.’

‘Holy Trinity!’ Langelee’s expression was grim and urgent. ‘On fire again. Brother, inform Mayor Longton. Bartholomew, come with me.’

Obediently, Bartholomew followed him at breakneck pace down narrow lanes and through yards that did not look as if they had exits. Finally, they emerged on a main road, where they joined a stream of people all running in the same direction. Many carried makeshift weapons – spades, kitchen knives and cudgels.

They reached the Ouse Bridge, where water raced through the arches in a constant roar, and Bartholomew wondered how much pounding the structure could take before it collapsed. Then they were across, and Langelee tore up the hill opposite, before skidding to a halt next to
some of the highest, thickest walls Bartholomew had ever seen. Outside it, the road thronged with a howling mob.

‘Go home!’ bawled Langelee, the sheer volume of his yell immediately stilling much of the clamour. ‘There is nothing for you here. Go home!’

‘You cannot make us, Langelee,’ yelled a man whose stained leather apron said he was a butcher. ‘You do not carry an archbishop’s authority any more. You are just a man.’

‘A man with a sword,’ countered Langelee, drawing his weapon, although the momentary flash of uncertainty in his eyes showed that his right to intervene had not crossed his mind.

The butcher brandished a massive cleaver, and began to advance. Bartholomew reached for his own blade, although he was aware as he raised it that neither it nor he were as imposing as Langelee. Still, he stood his ground as the horde converged chanting cries of ‘spy lovers’.

‘Enough!’ came another stentorian voice. It was Marmaduke, and he was holding a bow. ‘I will shoot anyone who takes another step.’

The butcher stopped abruptly, but the blood of those behind him was up, and they shoved forward, so he was forced to advance whether he wanted to or not. He screeched in alarm, and Marmaduke’s bow quivered.

Then there was a clatter of hoofs, and Mayor Longton arrived with soldiers. At the sight of such heavily armed men, the rabble melted away with prudent speed. When they had gone, the priory gate opened and Chozaico stepped out. Behind him were Anketil and a dozen monks. Some clutched staves, and from their familiar handling it was evidently not the first time they had been obliged to defend themselves. Chozaico smiled wanly at his rescuers.

‘Thank you,’ he said weakly. He addressed Langelee,
Bartholomew and Marmaduke. ‘Especially you three. Defending us was a courageous thing to have done, because you would have been ripped to pieces had Mayor Longton not arrived when he did.’

‘It was nothing,’ said Langelee, although Marmaduke’s horrified gulp was audible.

‘What is burning?’ asked Longton. He was unsteady in his saddle, and his face was flushed as red as the claret he had imbibed. ‘It was the sight of smoke that attracted folk to your doors. They thought you were on fire, and hoped to take advantage by looting you.’

‘Someone climbed in and set a wagon of straw alight,’ explained Chozaico, his voice still unsteady. ‘But the least we can do to thank you is offer some refreshment. Come inside.’

Holy Trinity was an impressive foundation. Its church was substantial, and there was an inordinate number of buildings considering there were only a dozen monks and no servants – hiring locals was clearly inadvisable. Bartholomew glanced into the church as they passed, and saw a beautifully painted chancel and an embroidered altar cloth depicting a flock of golden doves.

Chozaico led them to the refectory, where he served French wine that tasted expensive and plates of small pastries. He and Anketil were the only monks to join the visitors, the others having smiled their thanks and hurried away to douse the still smouldering straw.

‘I wish people would leave us alone,’ sighed Anketil un happily. ‘Chozaico and I are the only ones who dare go out these days, and only because we speak English, so have warning of impending attacks.’

‘It has always been so,’ said Chozaico stoically. ‘But fortunately, friends are often nearby, to protect us. Long may it continue.’

‘Perhaps you will do something for us in return,’ said Langelee to Anketil. ‘You know Zouche wanted us to have Huntington, and as you let him down over his chantry, maybe you should ensure that his wishes are fulfilled in this.’

Anketil flinched; it was a low blow. ‘I only wish I could! I looked out those documents, as I promised, but there is nothing in them to help you. I will try to think of something else, but …’

‘Where are they?’ asked Langelee coolly. ‘May we see them now?’

‘They are in Bestiary Hall, the house we own by the river,’ replied Chozaico. ‘We keep all our muniments there, lest the priory ever fall to rioters and is burned down.’

‘They leave Bestiary Hall alone, because it is only used to dispense alms,’ explained Anketil. He gave a wan smile. ‘Although I am sure that would change if it became known that we keep our records there. I hope we can trust you to be discreet?’

‘Of course,’ said Langelee, offended. ‘What do you take us for?’

Bartholomew and Langelee followed Anketil down the hill to a road that ran parallel to the river, where he turned left. There, opposite a church dedicated to All Saints, was Bestiary Hall, stone-built and ancient, with round-headed windows and thick walls. There was a yard to one side, and it was here that the door was located. Anketil opened it to reveal a room full of sacks and barrels.

‘The food and ale we give out,’ he explained. ‘We unload them from the river and donate them to the poor every Wednesday. Or rather, the All Saints’ priest does – we would not dare.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Langelee, shaking his
head. ‘People should be grateful for your generosity, not force you to find ways to administer it without being assaulted.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Anketil bitterly. ‘And if I were Prior, I would withdraw our charity on the grounds that it is not really appreciated. But Chozaico will not hear of it.’

‘It is a waste of a fine house, too,’ Langelee went on, looking around. ‘You could rent this out for a tidy profit, but instead you have reduced it to little more than a warehouse.’

‘It is a fine house,’ agreed Anketil with a smile. He pointed to a door in the corner. ‘There is a large basement below this room, but it is rather damp, so we store most of our supplies in here. And the muniments are on the top floor. Come.’

He led the way up a spiral staircase to a beautifully airy chamber with an elegant wooden ceiling and two-light windows in all four walls. While Anketil bent to unlock a large chest, Bartholomew went to look out of them, and was rewarded by spectacular views of the city.

Dominating all was the minster, rising majestically through the mist caused by the rain. To the south was the Franciscans’ priory and the castle, while the eastern prospect was taken up by the Carmelites’ foundation and an attractive maze of tiled roofs that underlined the city’s enormous size. Holy Trinity lay to the west, dark, squat and imposing on its hill.

‘York is a fine place,’ Bartholomew said, recalling with a pang that the last time he had admired such a prospect it had been in Dalfeld’s home and Radeford had been at his side.

‘It is,’ nodded Anketil, rummaging in the chest and emerging with a bundle of documents. He took them to a table, and indicated that Langelee and Bartholomew should
sit. ‘I spent hours last night hunting for anything pertaining to Zouche’s will, but all I could find relates to his chantry.’

It did not take the two scholars long to see he was right: not one document mentioned Huntington or Michaelhouse. Eventually, they were obliged to concede defeat and leave.

Although Bartholomew knew he should spend at least some time in the library that day, he was glad when Langelee declared it too late. He went to St Olave’s instead, and knelt next to Radeford’s shrouded form, more sorry than he could say that such a promising life should have been cut so unfairly short. He stayed until the small hours of the morning, when Cynric appeared soundlessly at his side and offered to keep vigil for the rest of the night. He went back to the hospitium to find Langelee and Michael still out. They returned much later, having honoured Radeford’s memory with copious quantities of wine. Their attempts to be quiet were pitiful, and once awake, Bartholomew could not go back to sleep.

In revenge, he roused them at dawn, informing them that they should use every moment of daylight hunting for the codicil. They grumbled and growled, but did as he suggested, and they arrived at the library just as Talerand was finishing prime.

‘I was sorry to hear about Radeford,’ the Dean said quietly. ‘He was a nice young man.’

‘Thank you,’ said Langelee. Then he sagged as Talerand unlocked the door, revealing again the disorder within. ‘God’s blood! We will never find anything in here! Do you have
any
idea where Radeford was working? It would help if we had a starting point.’

‘None at all, I am afraid,’ said Talerand with inappropriate cheer. ‘However, he was a lawyer, and they have a sense for how these things work.’

‘Are there any lawyers in York we might hire?’ asked Langelee, rather helplessly.

‘The best one is Dalfeld,’ replied Talerand. ‘But he represents the vicars-choral, so you had better not approach him. He was in here last night, anyway, with Ellis and Cave.’

‘And you let them?’ cried Langelee, dismayed.

‘Our priests have just as much right to rummage as you,’ said Talerand reproachfully. ‘More, in fact: it is their minster.’

He left them to it. Bartholomew explored the room carefully, looking for smudges in the dust or evidence that one scroll rather than another had been examined. But if there had been anything to see, Michael, Dalfeld and the vicars would have obliterated it, and it was not long before he was forced to concede that his task was impossible.

‘We are wasting our time,’ he said, disheartened.

‘We are,’ agreed Langelee in disgust. ‘Some of these cartularies date back to the Conqueror. And looking for newer parchment is pointless, because the minsters’ clerks are in the habit of writing current documents on the backs of old ones, to save on costs.’

‘And none of us are Radeford,’ sighed Michael. ‘We do not have a feel for what we are doing, like he did. But we must persist, because there is nowhere else he could have put those documents.
Ergo
, they are in here somewhere, and I refuse to give up just yet.’

Persist they did, working until well into the afternoon, at which point their eyes burned from strain and dust, and all of them were filthy.

‘Enough,’ said Langelee, tossing the scroll he had been reading on to a pile of others. It caused a landslide, and more slithered to join those already on the floor. ‘I have just remembered another fletcher I can question, so I shall visit him now. It will be more profitable than this nonsense.’

‘Then Matt and I will beg an interview with the vicars,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Although we do not really have any evidence to accuse them of anything untoward concerning Cotyngham – the lace you found at Huntington is hardly damning.’

‘No,’ admitted Langelee. ‘But it is a start, and you are a cunning interrogator. See what a few “innocent” questions can shake loose.’

Bartholomew was relieved to be away from the library, and he and Michael were just passing William of York’s shrine, where the monk grumbled again about the iniquity of charging an entrance fee, when they met Thoresby.

‘I was sorry to hear about your lawyer,’ the Archbishop said kindly. ‘As he died in the parish of St Olave, I have taken the liberty of arranging an interment there. And I persuaded Multone to pay for it, on the grounds that Radeford was an abbey guest.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael gratefully. ‘I shall say the mass myself, though.’

‘As you wish. How are your investigations proceeding?’

‘Very well,’ lied Michael. ‘We have a list of suspects for the attack on Sir William, and we have evidence that a codicil does exist and that there is more than one copy of it.’

‘I imagine so,’ nodded Thoresby. ‘I have made duplicates of all mine.’

‘I suspect Cotyngham owned one,’ said Michael, more to himself than the prelate. ‘Which is why the vicars searched his house. And they visited the library last night for the same reason.’

‘Obviously,’ replied Thoresby. ‘
You
only need one of these documents to prove your case, but
they
must locate and destroy them all, which is difficult, given that they do not know how many there are. Otherwise, there will always be a risk of you presenting them with one.’

‘You think that is what they have been doing?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘But that would be sly and dishonest!’

Thoresby gave him a patronising smile. ‘Huntington may not seem like much, but who knows what it might be worth in the future? And Ellis has always had an eye for the longer term.’

Michael regarded him stonily. ‘So do we, and it includes plans for Huntington. I do not suppose you have any more useful leads, do you? You promised to help if we caught William’s attacker.’

Thoresby raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I did, but you have not presented me with a culprit – only devised a list of suspects. But, to show good faith, I shall ask one or two questions on your behalf.’