Mystery in the Minster (7 page)

‘Sleeping,’ explained Bartholomew hastily, when there was a shocked intake of breath from the onlookers. ‘Do you have a stretcher? He must be taken home.’

‘It was Gisbyrn!’ howled Longton, and the slumbering William was the only one who did not jump at the sudden shrillness of his voice. ‘Damn him to Hell!’

‘Please!’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘A minster precinct is no place for cursing.’

‘Then where is?’ screeched Longton. ‘Gisbyrn has attempted to murder my brother, and if that is not cause for cursing, then I do not know what is! How dare he!’

‘He did it to weaken us,’ added one of his cronies, a portly man in a blue gipon with wine-stains down the front. He scowled at Helen. ‘Or because
she
was vexed when William refused to marry her, so she urged Gisbyrn to make an end of him. They are friends, after all.’

‘He is right,’ yelled the Mayor, also glaring. ‘This is Lady Helen’s fault!’

‘No!’ Helen’s lovely face was pale. ‘First, it was I who decided to end our courtship – William still mourns the wife he lost last winter, and needs more time to grieve. And second, John Gisbyrn may be my friend, but he is hardly at my beck and call. He—’

‘He has looked after your interests ever since you were widowed four years ago,’ snapped Longton. ‘Of course he is at your beck and call.’

‘He was my husband’s business partner, and they were close,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘So yes, he helps me. However,
he would never harm William – on my orders or anyone else’s.’

‘Lies!’ bawled Longton. ‘But I shall see my brother avenged. Just you wait.’

His cronies roared their agreement, and Bartholomew watched in distaste: Longton was more interested in hurling accusations than in his brother’s well-being. More people arrived, led by a man with red hair so thick and curly that it was like fur. He was clad in plain but expensive clothes, and his eyes immediately lit on Helen, where they filled with undisguised admiration.

‘Now we shall have trouble,’ murmured Fournays. ‘
His
name is Frost, and he was delighted when Helen broke her betrothal to Sir William, because he thinks himself in with a chance. He has been besotted with her for years, and will not like Longton railing at her. Moreover, he is Gisbyrn’s favourite henchman.’

Sure enough, Longton and Frost began to snipe at each other, and the crowd shifted in such a way as to form two distinct factions, supplying hisses or cheers as their chosen protagon ists scored a point over the other.

As Fournays ordered two youths, obviously apprentices, to fetch a stretcher, it occurred to Bartholomew that there was probably a very good reason why the man had known exactly how to assist him: Fournays was a surgeon himself. Bartholomew sighed inwardly, knowing the fellow’s good humour would evaporate when he learned he had been usurped by someone who had no business dabbling in his trade.

He was about to confess when Helen knelt next to him, and took his hand in hers. Her touch made his skin tingle in a way it had rarely done since Matilde had left, and he regarded her in astonishment. At the same time, a strangled noise from Frost said he had witnessed both the gesture and the physician’s reaction to it. Bartholomew was relieved
when the two nuns came to hover behind Helen, inadvertently blocking the henchman’s view.

‘Thank you for helping William,’ said Helen softly. ‘Although I thought Master Langelee said you were a physician, not a surgeon. I must have misheard.’

‘No,’ said Langelee, and Bartholomew braced himself for the inevitable recriminations. ‘You did not. He is my Doctor of Medicine, but loves to shock everyone by chopping and slicing.’

‘A
physician
?’ breathed Fournays in astonishment. ‘But you are too competent to belong to that band of leeches!’

Uncomfortably, Bartholomew wondered whether he should defend his fellow
medici
in the name of comradely solidarity, but was acutely aware that not all physicians were competent practitioners, and he did not know York’s. Fortunately, Helen spoke again, sparing him the need to decide. She made a moue of distaste at the quarrel that still raged nearby.

‘Listen to them,’ she said in disgust. ‘Longton and his cronies are drunk, even though it is not yet noon. And they wonder why John Gisbyrn despises them!’

‘John Gisbyrn is a very comely man,’ sighed Alice wistfully. ‘Especially in his ceremonial red leggings. It is a pity that Longton’s meddling means we shall not see him in them very often.’

‘He was elected as our bailiff last year,’ explained Helen, seeing Bartholomew’s bemusement at the remark. ‘But Longton refuses to let him take the post. They have been at war ever since.’

‘Can Longton do that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If Gisbyrn was legally elected …’ He trailed off, realising he actually had no idea how such matters worked.

‘He said John had stolen money from the city,’ she replied. ‘It was nonsense, of course. Longton just wants one of his
own cronies in the post – one of his debauched landowners, who inherited their wealth and have never done a day’s labour in their lives. By contrast, John works hard for
his
money, and so do his fellow merchants.’

‘Their quarrel means the rest of us have a choice,’ said Isabella with weary resignation. ‘To support dour merchants who are overly interested in gold, or licentious rakehells who exist only to drink themselves senseless.’

‘Not an easy decision,’ said Langelee sympathetically. ‘And not one I was obliged to make when I lived here, thank God. Their squabbles were more private then.’

‘Did you come to York to assess the quality of the medical services we provide?’ asked Fournays of Bartholomew. ‘If so, I shall show you our hospitals. We have several.’

‘No, he came because of Huntington,’ explained Alice. Bartholomew wished she had kept quiet, because he would have liked to accept Fournays’s offer. ‘As you know, the vicars have claimed it.’

‘So they did,’ acknowledged Fournays. ‘The very same day that Cotyngham left the place and arrived in York.’

‘But it is not what our uncle intended,’ said Isabella. ‘He wanted Michaelhouse to inherit.’

‘Will you serve as a witness to strengthen our case?’ asked Langelee. ‘You said in Abbot Multone’s solar that you heard him express a desire to favour our College. I did, too, but Dalfeld will not accept my testimony – he considers it tainted.’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ replied Isabella with a smile. ‘Helen heard him, too – not on his deathbed, like you, but before, when he was still fit enough to manage his affairs. There will be a codicil. It is just a case of locating it.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping she was right.

‘Because our uncle was an efficient administrator, who
would not have overlooked such an important detail,’ replied Isabella with quiet conviction. ‘Dalfeld was probably lying when he said one had not been drafted. He is not an honest man, and rarely tells the truth.’

‘Isabella is right,’ said Helen. ‘Our uncle would not have neglected to produce a codicil, and I would like to see Huntington go where he intended. You must let us know if there is anything we can do to help. Besides, the vicars-choral are already wealthy: they do not need another church.’

The crowd was still squabbling when the stretcher arrived. Longton shouldered Bartholomew and Fournays away, and in a belated attempt at concern, insisted on carrying his brother himself. The moment he had gone, voices became calmer and people began to drift away, sensing the excitement was over. Frost and his companions also left, although the red-headed henchman lingered long enough to secure a private word with Lady Helen. When she gave him a distracted nod, he blushed and grinned inanely.

‘I had better accompany Sir William, too,’ said Fournays. ‘He is my patient, after all.’

‘Is he?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Lord! I am sorry. I hope you do not—’

‘You saved his life,’ interrupted Fournays, smiling. ‘There is nothing to be sorry about. I shall send your share of the fee to the abbey – his family will be generous once they understand what we did for him today.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Helen, before Bartholomew could say that payment had been the last thing on his mind. ‘For all his faults, Longton is not miserly. Perhaps you will use it to buy a hat, because it is unwise to wander about York without one.’

When they had gone, Bartholomew went to rinse his
hands in a water butt, scrubbing until the gore that stained them had gone; he did not want to walk around a strange city looking like a ghoul.

‘This place is almost as bad as Cambridge for disputes,’ remarked Michael, coming to stand next to him. Langelee, Radeford and Cynric were at his heels. ‘It is torn between supporters of Mayor Longton and supporters of Gisbyrn, and some very unpleasant remarks were traded. The minster’s officials tried to quell the bickering, but they were wasting their time.’

‘And there is York’s dislike of Holy Trinity,’ added Langelee. ‘There
are
French spies here, and have been for years, but there is no evidence that the alien Benedictines are responsible. Only the dim-witted and bigoted believe it, but unfortunately, those seem to form a majority.’

‘I do not feel comfortable here,’ said Radeford, looking around uneasily. ‘Not with a murdering archer on the loose.’

‘Not a
murdering
archer – Sir William is not dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out, a little curtly.

‘He is going to live,’ said Langelee with utmost conviction, although the physician was unhappy with this assertion, too – he knew how quickly such wounds could turn poisonous. ‘Here is the arrow, by the way. I slipped it up my sleeve after Dalfeld threw it away.’

‘Did you?’ Bartholomew regarded him in distaste. ‘Why?’

‘Because he was right: arrows
are
distinctive,’ explained Langelee. ‘Look for yourself.’

Bartholomew took it, but could see nothing unusual or notable. It had brown feathers for fletching, a shaft of pale wood, and a metal head with barbs that ensured it would embed itself in its prey. He shrugged to express his ignorance of such matters, but Cynric nodded.

‘I do not know about its barbs,’ said the book-bearer, ‘but the fletching is peculiar.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee, pleased the Welshman had noticed. ‘Most fletchers use goose feathers, but these are smaller and softer. From a chicken, perhaps.’

‘That would be an odd choice,’ mused Cynric.

Langelee grinned. ‘Precisely!
Ergo
, this arrow represents a vital clue in solving the crime.’

‘Speaking of clues, we should inspect that church,’ said Michael, turning to look at it.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘The attack is none of our concern, and York will have its own people to investigate. There might be trouble if we meddle.’

‘There might,’ nodded Michael. ‘But the vicars-choral were suspiciously close when Sir William was shot, and it would not surprise me to learn that
they
had a hand in it.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How? They were talking to you at the time. I saw them.’

‘Not all of them,’ countered Michael. ‘Ellis, Cave and Jafford had disappeared a few moments earlier, to fetch some documents.’

‘Then
why
would they harm Sir William?’ Michael had no reply, so Bartholomew continued. ‘If the quarrel we just witnessed is anything to go by, Gisbyrn is the most likely suspect, to strike at the brother of his mortal enemy. Lady Helen denies it, but—’

‘Lady Helen,’ said Langelee, speaking the name with naked desire. ‘She has certainly improved with the passing of time.’

‘She is pleasing to the eye,’ agreed Michael, his gaze rather distant.

Bartholomew was not surprised that Helen’s loveliness had caught his colleagues’ eyes, but he was astonished that they should acknowledge the attraction openly – they usually kept such thoughts to themselves, in deference to the fact that they should at least try to remain chaste.

‘Of course, she
would
defend Gisbyrn,’ Langelee went on, reluctantly pulling his thoughts back to the matter in hand. ‘He manages her dead husband’s business in a very profitable manner, and has ensured that she remains wealthy. However, I imagine he keeps more than a little for himself. He always was greedy and ruthless, which is why he is such a successful merchant.’

‘So are you saying he is the culprit?’ asked Radeford. ‘Matt is right?’

‘It is a possibility, although he is more likely to have ordered his henchman Frost to do it. He would not soil his own hands, and Frost was once a professional warrior.’

‘Frost did not strike me as a man who had just shot someone,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘He ogled Helen shamelessly, and I imagine a man who had just attempted murder would have had other matters on his mind. Personally, I still suspect those vicars.’

‘Or Dalfeld,’ added Cynric. ‘The abbey servants told me about him when you were in Abbot Multone’s solar. He is reputed to be the most devious and treacherous man alive.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Michael, smiling at the description. ‘But unfortunately, he left the abbey when we did – he has not had the opportunity to shoot anyone.’

‘I disagree,’ countered Langelee. ‘He raced away from us at a tremendous speed, and I would say he had plenty of time to sneak into the church and loose an arrow.’