Mystery in the Minster (40 page)

‘Even if Abbot Multone does believe Marmaduke, Chozaico will still escape,’ said Michael. ‘As we discovered earlier, everyone is too preoccupied with saving the city to worry about spies.’

‘I am not sure Marmaduke was the best person to tell, anyway,’ said Bartholomew resignedly. ‘Wy said he was a man to watch, and then started muttering about him, the plague pit at St Mary ad Valvas, and Cotyngham.’

‘The church where Sir William was shot,’ mused Michael, heaving his bulk on to a higher step. It meant Bartholomew was crushed, but he did not complain, grateful for the warmth of the monk’s body against his legs. ‘The sooner it is demolished, the better. Not only is it an eyesore, but Helen was right when she said it is cursed – it seems to attract evil happenings.’

‘Cynric does not think it is haunted,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite the fact that he is the first to detect questionable atmospheres—’

‘Then Cynric is wrong,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Because even
I
sense something nasty about the place.’

They lapsed into silence again, Bartholomew’s teeth chattering so violently that he feared they might crack. Then he began to drowse, and when Langelee spoke, startling him awake, he had no idea how much time had passed. He was immediately aware that something had changed, though: it was the sound of the water, which had gone from gushing to a low roar.

‘Something has broken,’ explained Langelee. ‘The river has burst its banks, or some reservoir of water has been released. The cellar is filling faster now.’

Bartholomew knew Langelee was right when Michael shifted positions and he could hear that the monk was sitting in water. He tried to force himself to think, although he had stopped shivering and there was a warm glow in the core of his being that he knew was illusory.

‘Does anyone want to make a final confession?’ asked Michael. ‘Because if so, he might want to do it now, while I am still in a fit state to grant absolution. Matt will have to swim to the far end of the room while I hear yours, Master, because I imagine
you
have plenty to get off your chest.’

‘I am not swimming anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of becoming trapped somewhere and suffocating against the ceiling. ‘Besides, listening will pass the time.’

‘I am not telling you two my sins,’ growled Langelee, adding haughtily, ‘Such few as they are. Bartholomew’s will be far greater.’

The physician had no idea what should have given him this notion, when
he
had not been the one who had performed unsavoury favours for high-ranking churchmen.
Suddenly, the water changed its sound once again. It was no longer a roar, but an odd kind of gurgle, and he could only assume that the grilles were now underwater. He tried to work out whether this meant the rate of flow would reduce, but his mind was too sluggish for complex calculations.

‘When we escape, the first thing I am going to do is run to the library and collect that box,’ said Langelee, although his defeated tone told his Fellows that he did not expect to be in a position to do any such thing. ‘With luck, whoever left the documents for us to find will not have recovered them yet. Then I am going to
make
Thoresby listen to me, and lead a posse to catch Chozaico.’

‘And I shall go to St Mary ad Valvas,’ said Michael. ‘Wy’s confidences, such as they were, suggest something is to be found there – something that ties together Cotyngham, Huntington, Myton and the shooting of Sir William.’

‘Chozaico was right: the solution to all our mysteries
does
lie in Myton,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to think clearly. ‘We have been hearing about him ever since we arrived …’

‘He was a good man,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘However, as it was he who revealed the fiasco surrounding the lost list of spies, perhaps we should look into his life. And his death.’

‘He was said to have been venerable and discreet,’ added Michael. ‘But I am beginning to wonder if we should accept William’s interpretation of what that means: haughty and secretive.’

‘No,’ said Langelee immediately. Then he sighed. ‘Complex and clever, perhaps, but not secretive. And I never met a man more deeply loyal to Zouche and to York.’

Bartholomew was growing sleepy again, but knew it had nothing to do with tiredness and a great deal to do
with the heat that was being leached from his body. He forced himself to his feet and began kicking the door again, determined not to let himself slide into a fatal doze just yet.

As he battered, the faces of those he loved flitted through his mind, starting with Matilde, and followed by his sister. Then came his friends at Michaelhouse, and the patients who declined to be treated by anyone else. And his students. Who would finish their training if he was not there?

At that point, something knocked into the door from the other side, and with a wave of despair, he realised the floodwaters must have invaded that room, too, and had washed a barrel or some other floatable object against it. He kicked again, to vent his rage at the futility of it all, and was startled when there were two answering thumps. There were voices, too.

Michael was quicker to understand what it meant than the physician. He leapt to his feet and began hammering and yelling for all he was worth. Within moments, there came the sound of the bar being removed, and the door was hauled open to reveal the startled faces of Abbot Multone and Warden Stayndrop. And behind them, equally astonished, was Prior Penterel of the Carmelites.

Langelee did not dash immediately to the library, and Michael did not go to St Mary ad Valvas, because both were far too cold. With calm efficiency, Penterel lit a fire, while Stayndrop piled it with logs. Meanwhile, Multone rummaged among the heaps of supplies, and emerged with armfuls of dry clothes. The habit he discovered was tight and short on Michael, but the monk donned it gratefully anyway, while the huge range of secular garments available for Bartholomew and Langelee underlined just how often
Chozaico’s intelligencers must have used Bestiary Hall as a base from which to prowl the town in civilian garb, gathering information.

‘The flood?’ Bartholomew asked, feeling warmth seep back into his body. He was sitting so close to the fire that he was in danger of setting himself alight, but he did not care. He wished his wits were sharper, though, and declined the wine Multone offered. A glance towards the window told him it was dark, and he wondered how long they had been trapped in the basement.

Multone sighed. ‘The Foss has invaded the south-eastern part of the city, and the Ouse has burst its western banks. Our nunnery is lost, I am afraid – Prioress Alice and her ladies are homeless, although the water is not very deep anywhere as yet.’

‘But the tidal surge is expected soon,’ added Stayndrop. ‘And then we shall see.’

‘Is it Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Already?’

Stayndrop nodded. ‘It will be light soon.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Langelee. ‘How did you know to rescue us?’

‘Stayndrop and I met Chozaico on the Ouse Bridge last night,’ explained Multone. ‘We begged him to attend our emergency conference in the minster, but he demurred, saying he had other urgent business. Then he gave us a letter for Prior Penterel, which he insisted we deliver in person with all possible speed.’

‘But we had better things to do than act as his messenger-boys,’ said Stayndrop indignantly. ‘So we went about our own affairs, and I forgot about the matter until I met Multone not long ago.’

‘Rather guiltily, we thought we had better do as he had asked.’ Multone took up the tale. ‘Even though it meant going to the Carmelite Priory.’

‘The letter urged me to hurry to Bestiary Hall immediately,’ said Penterel, gamely overlooking the slur on his foundation. ‘And to look in the cellar.’

‘Naturally, Stayndrop and I were intrigued,’ said Multone. ‘So we decided to accompany him. But I do not understand. What were you doing down there?’

‘He must have seen the rising water,’ said Michael to Langelee, after he had furnished their rescuers with a brief account of what had happened. ‘And he knew we would be in danger. He risked capture by making arrangements to set us free so soon – it was hardly his fault that the attempt was delayed. Will you go after him?’

Langelee started to nod, then sighed. ‘Later. He gave us a chance, so now I feel obliged to give him one. I wonder why he did it?’

‘We cannot stay here much longer,’ said Penterel, beginning to edge towards the door. ‘I want to be in my own convent when this high tide invades.’

‘We all do,’ nodded Abbot Multone, standing abruptly. ‘And we need to shepherd as many people inside our precincts as possible, so that when these waters arrive, folk will be safe.’

‘We Franciscans have already started,’ said Stayndrop. ‘So have the Dominicans, Gilbertines and Augustinians. Indeed, I suspect Holy Trinity will be the only foundation to remain closed.’

‘If this surge does come, York will need all the refuges it can get,’ said Langelee, suddenly all brisk business. ‘Send for Alice and her nuns, Abbot Multone – they are homeless, so
they
can open Holy Trinity in Chozaico’s stead. They are Benedictines, after all. And I shall help.’

‘That is an excellent idea,’ said Multone gratefully.

Langelee turned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘York was my home for a long time, and I owe it to the place to
make sure Alice knows what she is doing. You two must go to the library and take those documents to Thoresby. But hurry – the security of your country is at stake.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Langelee to cope with refugees alone, but understood it was important to retrieve the evidence that would convict the spies before it disappeared. Michael sketched a blessing after the Master, and they watched him dart away to where Holy Trinity was a forbidding black mass in the gloom. Then they began striding towards the bridge.

The main road was still crammed with people and animals, all confusion and noise. The water was barely ankle deep, and Bartholomew supposed it had been simple bad luck that they had been incarcerated in the one room in Bestiary Hall that was prone to flood. He glanced up at the sky: dawn was a twilighty glimmer through thick grey clouds.

‘Did Marmaduke come to you with a message?’ he asked of Multone as they went. ‘Telling you to bring armed lay-brothers?’

‘No,’ replied Multone, surprised. ‘Not that I would have been able to oblige anyway – they are too busy with the displaced hordes. Indeed, I should be there now, calming the panic and leading prayers …’

‘We all should,’ said Stayndrop. He was clutching Penterel’s hand to steady himself, and Multone was gripping the Carmelite’s other arm. People were pointing at the unusual sight of a Franciscan and a Benedictine accepting help from a White Friar, and Bartholomew wondered whether their example would begin to heal the damage Wy’s malice had wrought through the years.

They had not gone far when they met Jorden, wet, dirty and harried. The Dominican paddled towards them, and began to speak in an agitated gabble.

‘There is something I should tell you. I only remembered it last night – the first opportunity I have had to consider matters other than theology for an age, because Mardisley is a very demanding opponent. If I let my mind wander for an instant, he—’

‘Tell us what?’ interrupted Michael curtly, eager to be on his way.

‘It is about the codicil giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. I am afraid it does not exist. If my mind had not been so full of the Immaculate Conception, I might have recalled sooner—’

Michael was becoming impatient. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The clerk charged to draw up the deed was a Dominican, and I was his assistant at the time. We obliged, but Zouche kept ordering us to redraft it – he wanted to ensure it was absolutely right, you see, so as to safeguard Cotyngham. He discussed the wording with all manner of people, and the business took weeks.’

‘Are you saying it was never finished?’ asked Michael, alarmed. ‘That it is incomplete?’

‘We
did
finish, but Zouche died before it could be signed. Because it was effectively worthless, we scraped the parchment clean, and used it for something else.
Ergo
, you will never find the codicil, because it does not exist. It never did – at least, not in a form that could help you.’

‘But Radeford found it,’ objected Michael.

‘Impossible,’ said Jorden firmly. ‘But we had better discuss this later, when there are not people needing my help.’

He sped away before Michael could question him further.

‘Radeford suspected there was something amiss with what he found,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Michael about to dismiss Jorden’s testimony. ‘He said as much – told us he
wanted to study it carefully before showing it to anyone else.’

‘But who would forge a document giving us Huntington? It makes no sense!’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone who does not like the vicars-choral.’

‘Speaking of Radeford, what did your book-bearer mean when he said he would soon follow him?’ asked Multone, as they resumed their precarious journey. The water was filthy and it stank; Bartholomew was profoundly grateful that the day was still too dark to allow him to see why. ‘He called out as I passed him not long ago, and asked me to give you the message.’

Bartholomew stopped abruptly and stared at him. ‘What?’