‘Indeed,’ nodded Radeford. ‘The last case in which I was involved took seven years to settle.’
‘Seven years?’ Bartholomew was horrified, and turned accusingly to Langelee. ‘You said it would take a few days. I knew I should not have come!’
Langelee regarded him coolly. ‘You came because I ordered you to, and as a mere Fellow, you are obliged to do what I say. Besides, you said you wanted to visit the minster library, which has the finest collection of books in England. Or so I have been told.’
Bartholomew regarded him sharply, for the first time wondering whether he had been sensible to believe the Master’s promises of what would be on offer in York. Langelee was not always truthful, and his general indifference to learning hardly made him a reliable judge of such matters.
‘And there are the hospitals,’ Langelee went on. ‘St Leonard’s is a massive foundation, and you are certain to learn a good deal there. Look – you can see it from here.’
He pointed, and Bartholomew saw he had not been exaggerating about that at least. It was massive, with smart red-tiled roofs and a sizeable laundry, which led the physician to hope that hygiene might feature in its daily life. He preached constantly in Cambridge about the benefits of cleanliness, but neither his medical colleagues nor his patients were very willing to listen. However, the sheer size of the building dedicated to washing in St Leonard’s gave him a sudden surge of hope.
‘But you are forbidden to offer anyone your professional services,’ warned Michael, retreating prudishly behind a screen to perform his morning ablutions; he hated anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘We brought you here to rest, not to exchange one set of patients for another.’
‘Quite,’ growled Langelee. ‘You may observe, read and discuss, but you may not practise. We cannot afford to hire another medicus to teach your classes if you collapse from overwork.’
‘There are better ways to rest than being dragged the length of the country,’ grumbled Bartholomew, declining to admit that the tiredness he had experienced on the journey was the healthy weariness of a day spent in fresh air, not the crushing fatigue that had dogged him at home.
Langelee did not deign to reply. ‘Where is Cynric?’ he asked instead.
Cynric, the fifth and last member of their party, was Bartholomew’s book-bearer, a wiry, superstitious Welshman, who was more friend than servant.
‘I sent him to fetch some bread and ale,’ replied Radeford. ‘I know Abbot Multone has invited us to join him for breakfast, but we should not waste time on lengthy repasts.’
‘It is not wasting time,’ objected Michael, who liked a good meal. He emerged from the screen a new man: his lank brown hair was neatly combed around a perfectly round tonsure, and he wore a habit sewn from the best cloth money could buy. He was tall as well as fat, so a good deal of material had been used to make its full skirts and generous sleeves. ‘It is being polite to our hosts.’
‘We can be polite once we have a better idea of where we stand with Huntington,’ argued Radeford. ‘It would be a pity to go home empty-handed, just because we squandered hours in—’
‘We will not go home empty-handed,’ vowed Langelee. ‘First, Michaelhouse is in desperate need of funds and we cannot afford to lose a benefaction. And second, and perhaps more importantly, it was what Zouche wanted. I owe it to him to see his wishes fulfilled.’
Partly because he was loath to offend the Abbot by rejecting an invitation, but mostly because he was hungry, Michael overrode Radeford, and insisted on eating breakfast in the frater. They all walked there together, admiring the monastery’s grounds and the many elegant buildings that graced them.
‘This will be easy to defend in times of trouble,’ remarked Cynric, looking around approvingly. ‘It is enclosed by high walls, and could seal itself off completely, should it choose.’
‘And I imagine it does choose, on occasion,’ said Radeford. ‘An abbey as obviously wealthy as this one must attract much unwanted attention.’
‘Actually, people tend to leave it alone,’ replied Langelee. ‘It is the Benedictine priory – Holy Trinity – that draws the trouble.’ He pointed across the river, to where sturdy walls and a squat tower could be seen in the distance. ‘Riots there were almost a daily occurrence when I lived here.’
‘Why?’ asked Cynric. ‘And why are there two Benedictine foundations in the same city?’
‘Actually, there are three,’ said Langelee with undisguised pride. ‘Because there is a nunnery, too. But Holy Trinity attracts dislike because it is an alien house, owned and run by the monks of Marmoutier in France. And as we are currently at war with the French, Holy Trinity is accused of harbouring spies.’
‘And do they?’ asked Cynric, looking as if he might stage an assault himself if the answer was yes. The Welshman was nothing if not patriotic.
‘Of course not,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although French intelligencers are at work in York. I spent years trying to catch them when I was employed by Zouche. But they are not in Holy Trinity.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘My Order would not condone that sort of thing.’
‘Prior Chozaico’s monks rarely leave their precinct for fear of being lynched,’ Langelee went on. ‘I would hate such confinement personally, but he says his is a contemplative Order, so his brethren do not object to being virtual prisoners. They are happy to stay inside and pray.’
‘That is a pity,’ said Radeford, ‘because I suspect York has much to offer.’
‘Oh, it does,’ Langelee assured him keenly. ‘The brothels are second to none, and we shall visit a few later, when it is dark.’
Bartholomew laughed when the others blinked their astonishment at the remark. As scholars, he, Langelee and Radeford were supposed to forswear relations with women, while Michael was a monk and Cynric was married. All the Fellows ignored the prohibition on occasion, but discreetly, and the notion of a brothel-crawl under the guidance of the Master was an activity none of them had anticipated as being on offer.
‘Of course, the best place for entertainment is the Benedictine nunnery,’ Langelee went on blithely. ‘Prioress Alice was in charge when I was here. And she knew how to enjoy herself.’
Michael stopped walking abruptly. ‘Is there anything else I should know before we go any farther? One of my Order’s foundations is accused of sheltering French spies, while another is famous for its recreational pursuits. What about this abbey – what does it do to make a name for itself? Should we lodge elsewhere? I have my reputation to consider, you know.’
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Abbot Multone keeps good order, and nothing remotely exciting ever happens here. Your reputation will be quite safe at St Mary’s, Brother.’
The frater was as attractive on the inside as on the outside, with religious murals designed to inspire the monks to holy thoughts as they consumed their victuals. Bartholomew had been in enough Benedictine houses to know this was a ploy that rarely worked. It was an Order that fed its members well, and the monks’ attention tended to focus on their food, not on the walls.
He was hard pressed not to gape when it began to arrive, used as he was to the frugal fare of Michaelhouse. There was fresh fish, an impressive array of cheeses, several kinds of bread, stewed fruit and ale served in jugs large enough to be called buckets. The meal reflected the fact that the abbey was not only rich enough to buy whatever it chose, but that it was located in a city with access to the sea – goods were available both from the surrounding countryside and from overseas, which accounted for some of the more exotic wares provided.
‘If we eat like this every day, we shall go home the size of Michael,’ muttered Radeford to Bartholomew, as enough pottage was ladled into his bowl to feed a family for a week. He produced the silver spoon he always used at meals, being of the firm belief that horn ones were unhygienic. It was dirty from the last time he had eaten with it, so he wiped it on his cloak, a practice Bartholomew was sure negated any sanitary a
dvantages the metal might have conferred.
‘I heard that,’ said the monk, offended. ‘I am not fat, I have heavy bones. It is a medical fact, as Matt will attest.’
Before Bartholomew could remark that it was not a medical fact recognised by any physicians, Abbot Multone, a short, bustling man with large white eyebrows, regarded them admonishingly.
‘We maintain silence during meals at St Mary’s.’
Thus rebuked, the only sounds for the rest of the repast were the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the mumble of a monk reading from the scriptures. Meals were supposed to be taken in silence in Michaelhouse, too, but scholars were a talkative crowd, and it was a rule they seldom followed.
‘Right,’ said Langelee, when the Abbot had intoned a final grace, signalling the end of the silence. ‘Now let us be about our business before we can be delayed any further.’
‘It is raining!’ exclaimed Michael in dismay as he stepped through the door. ‘How did that happen? The weather was glorious before we went inside.’
‘It is only a shower,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘It will soon clear up.’
‘It will not,’ muttered Cynric, appearing at Bartholomew’s side and making the physician jump by whispering suddenly in his ear. He crossed himself as he squinted up at the sky. ‘Look at the blackness of those clouds, boy! It is an omen – something very bad will happen to us here.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, who rarely took his book-bearer’s predictions seriously. ‘Besides, I am going home in a few days whether we have secured Huntington or not – I will never catch up if we miss the beginning of term, and we cannot afford to leave Father William in charge for too long. So there will not be time for dire misfortunes to befall us.’
‘There will,’ insisted Cynric earnestly. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away, and although the rational part of his mind dismissed the warning as a lot of superstitious drivel, there was something about the utter conviction in the Welshman’s words that left him with a distinct sense of unease.
Langelee and his Fellows had just reached the abbey’s main gate when a voice caught their attention. A monk was running towards them, waving frantically. He was a short man, with bright eyes and a narrow head that gave him the appearance of an inquisitive hen.
‘Good. I caught you before you escaped. Come with me – Abbot Multone wants to see you.’
‘Why?’ asked Radeford anxiously. ‘Because if it is to berate us for chatting during breakfast, you can assure him it will not happen again. We are sorry.’
The monk grinned. ‘No, he just wants to meet you properly. I am Oustwyk, by the way, his steward. And if you want anything – anything at all – come to me first.’ He winked meaningfully.
‘Thank you,’ replied Michael. ‘Since you have offered, the edibles in your guest house—’
‘We call it the hospitium,’ interrupted Oustwyk. ‘We keep it for less exalted company, although I have always considered it far nicer than the draughty hall we use for wealthy visitors – the ones from whom we aim to wheedle benefactions.’
‘—in the hospitium are reasonably generous,’ Michael went on, blithely ignoring the subject of donations. Michaelhouse simply could not afford one. ‘But another jug of wine, a bowl of nuts and some pastries would not go amiss. For emergencies, you understand.’
Oustwyk waved a dismissive hand. ‘The hosteller will see to that. I was offering other services. I know York better than anyone, and can get you anything you want.’ He glanced at the physician. ‘Such as a hat. People do not go hatless in York. It is not seemly.’
‘He lost it falling off his horse,’ explained Langelee.
Bartholomew winced. He was an appalling rider, and the journey had taken far longer than it should have done because of his inability to control even the most docile of nags. But he disliked his colleagues remarking on it to strangers, even so.
‘Hats, cloaks, shoes,’ said Oustwyk, waving an expansive hand. ‘Women. Or even information.’
‘We can find our own women, thank you,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘I know—’
‘Information?’ interrupted Michael, speaking before the Master could say more than was politic. ‘In that case, you can tell us who they are.’
He pointed through the gate to the street, where a procession of thirty or so men in clerical robes was passing. All wore smart black cloaks that billowed impressively in the wind and matching hoods trimmed with white fur. They kept their elegant shoes from the filth of the street with wooden pattens, which made sharp clacking sounds on the cobbles.
‘The vicars-choral,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘They will have finished their prayers in the minster, and are now going shopping in Bootham – a street with excellent cobblers. The vicars like shoes.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, bemused by the confidence.
‘You will not have vicars-choral in Cambridge, so I shall tell you about them,’ Oustwyk went on, apparently unaware that Michaelhouse was a quasi-religious foundation, so its members needed no such explanation from him. ‘The minster has canons, appointed to perform various functions, but most of them live away, so they appoint deputies to do their duties. These are called vicars-choral.’
‘Three have broken ranks, and are coming towards us,’ remarked Michael.
Oustwyk nodded. ‘The fat, sly one is Sub-Chanter Ellis, their elected leader. The one who looks like an ape is Cave, his henchman. And the pretty one is Jafford, who is popular with whores.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought Oustwyk’s descriptions were brutally accurate. Ellis was portly and his close-set eyes did make him appear devious; Cave had heavy brow-ridges and long arms that rendered him distinctly simian; while Jafford’s halo of golden curls and rosy cheeks would not have looked out of place on an angel.
‘Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene,’ explained Oustwyk. ‘In the minster. And as whores feel that particular saint watches over them, they are always hovering around it. The Archbishop disapproves, but Dean Talerand says they have a right to pray there, and Jafford is always very accommodating.’
Before Michael could ask Oustwyk exactly what he was saying about Jafford’s relationship with the city’s prostitutes, the vicars arrived.
‘You must be the scholars from Cambridge,’ said Ellis, with a distinct lack of friendliness. He had fat, red lips, which glistened with saliva. ‘We have been expecting you.’
‘Remember me, Ellis?’ asked Langelee, lifting his hat to reveal his face.
The sub-chanter gaped in astonishment. ‘Langelee? Good God! I know Cambridge is well behind Oxford in academic standing, but I did not imagine it had fallen low enough to admit you!’
Langelee’s grin of greeting faded, and Michael bridled, never one to tolerate criticism of his beloved University. Bartholomew and Radeford exchanged a pained glance, both sorry that the first exchange with their rivals for Huntington should be acrimonious.
‘I am Master of Michaelhouse,’ declared Langelee coldly. ‘It is by far the most scholarly College in the country, and we have the ear of the King.’
Neither claim was true: Michaelhouse was burdened with several members whose intellectual credentials were dubious, Langelee being one of them, while Bartholomew doubted the King was aware it even existed, let alone cared enough to give it his ear. Ellis evidently knew an empty boast when he heard it, because his moist lips curled into a sneer.
‘Then you must appeal to him for Huntington, because you shall not have it from us.’
‘But Zouche wanted it to go to Michaelhouse,’ objected Langelee, in the loudly belligerent voice he used to quell dissent in Fellows’ meetings. ‘And I am here to see his wishes fulfilled.’
The ape-like Cave stepped forward angrily, but Jafford laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. It was too soft to hear, but it stopped his colleague’s advance.
‘Zouche never told
me that he intended some distant foundation to inherit a local church,’ said Ellis disdainfully. ‘And there are no documents to support your claim.’
‘Myton heard it, too,’ countered Langelee hotly. ‘He …’
‘Myton is dead, as you know perfectly well,’ sneered Ellis, when the Master faltered. ‘So he is hardly in a pos ition to testify on your behalf.’
‘We were sorry to lose him,’ said Jafford, more gentle than his sub-chanter. ‘He was venerable and discreet, and York has been a poorer place since he went to live with God.’
‘Murdered,’ said Cave with malicious satisfaction. ‘There were rumours that he was murdered.’
‘None of which were proven,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Sir William Longton told me. But never mind Myton. There will be written evidence that Zouche wanted Michaelhouse to have Huntington, because he was an efficient administrator, so it is just a question of locating it. Besides, I imagine there is no document to support your claim, either.’
‘No, but he always said we were to have it,’ argued Ellis. ‘It was understood.’
‘He changed his mind,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘He knew our College’s founder, and appreciated the fact that Michaelhouse needs money. Not like you vicars, who already own half of York.’
‘We are fortunate in that respect,’ acknowledged Ellis, licking his lips as if the notion was pleasurable to him. ‘But he always promised us Huntington, and it would be immoral to let it go to an absent landlord. We will prevail.’
‘You will have to kill me first,’ vowed Langelee. Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, not liking the way Cave’s eyes glittered, as if contemplating how he would go about it. Again, Jafford’s hand landed warningly on his colleague’s shoulder.
‘There is no need for hot words,’ said Radeford quietly. ‘I am sure we can come to a—’
‘We have hired the best lawyer in York,’ interrupted Ellis, cutting across him contemptuously. ‘So any “evidence” you produce will be very carefully examined.’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 2
