Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Langelee groaned. ‘I was hoping to avoid that. I cannot abide lawyers, and Dalfeld is worse than most.’ He either did not notice or did not care about Radeford’s hurt expression. ‘I do not suppose there has been any improvement in him since I left?’

  ‘He has grown in importance,’ replied Chozaico carefully. ‘Thoresby uses him a great deal.’

  ‘He does not even live in the Franciscan Priory now,’ added Anketil. ‘He has his own house.’

  ‘On the Ouse Bridge,’ elaborated Multone. ‘I asked Warden Stayndrop why he allowed one of his friars such liberty, and he said it was expedient.’

  ‘In other words,’ translated Alice, ‘Stayndrop was glad to be rid of him. Dalfeld was arrogant, nosy and sly when you knew him, Ralph, but now he is worse than ever. In fact, he is a beast.’

  ‘He is not very religious, either,’ added Isabella, in a way that suggested that she considered this the ultimate damnation. ‘He does not even bother wearing his habit these days.’

  Chozaico cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with such blunt talking. ‘If Dalfeld cannot help you, try looking in the minster library. When Thoresby became Archbishop, he sent all Zouche’s correspondence there, so if a codicil does exist, that is where it will be.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘But I suppose we had better start with Dalfeld. We shall visit him today.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Multone. ‘Because I asked him to come here this morning for that express purpose. I thought you might prefer to deal with him in my presence, because he is …’

  ‘Ruthless, devious and greedy,’ supplied Alice, when the Abbot faltered, searching for a tactful phrase. ‘The kind of man who should only be addressed in the presence of reliable witnesses, lest he later twists your words or forges your signatures.’

  Multone winced, although he made no effort to contradict her. ‘I expect him at any moment.’

  ‘Then perhaps we could discuss my business before he arrives, Father Abbot,’ suggested Chozaico uneasily. ‘Because … well, you understand.’

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded Multone quickly. ‘The founding of an obit for Stiendby is none of his affair.’

  ‘Stiendby is dead?’ asked Langelee, shocked. ‘He was another of Zouche’s executors. Why did no one inform me?’

  ‘Because hiring messengers to ride all the way to Cambridge is expensive,’ replied Anketil. ‘Besides, Sir William wrote when Myton died, and you never replied. Naturally, we all assumed you were engrossed in your new life, and the old one no longer held any interest for you.’

  Langelee glared at him. ‘I was so stricken with sorrow that responding must have slipped my mind. But never mind this – what happened to Stiendby?’

  ‘He died last year, of spotted liver.’ Abbot Multone shuddered. ‘God deliver us all from such a vile affliction! It took Neville, too – another executor – although that was five years ago now.’

  ‘What is spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, while Langelee’s jaw dropped with the realisation that events in York had moved on without him during the time he had been absent.

  ‘A terrible disease,’ replied Multone bleakly. ‘Best not ask.’

  The Abbot turned his attention to the document Chozaico produced and began to scan through it, although he shoved it rather furtively up his sleeve when Oustwyk appeared with yet another guest. There was immediate disquiet among those already there, and it was obvious that none of them appreciated being thrust into the company of the latest arrival.

  Dalfeld was a tall man with a mop of black curly hair and restless eyes. There was nothing to identify him as a member of the Franciscan Order, because he wore a green belted tunic called a gipon, and fine calfskin boots. However, although both were of excellent quality, they were sadly stained with mud and one sleeve had been ripped. He was also wet, and wore no hat or cloak.

  ‘I have just been robbed,’ he raged, stamping into the room and making directly for the fire. He jostled Alice as he went, and only a timely lunge by Chozaico prevented her from falling. ‘Me, a poor friar!’

  ‘Robbed?’ asked Abbot Multone in astonishment. ‘By whom?’

  ‘If I knew that, the villain would be kicking on a gibbet by now,’ fumed Dalfeld viciously. ‘He knocked me into the filth of the street, and then stole my purse, my new hat and my favourite cloak. And although there were a dozen witnesses, not one admitted to seeing anything.’

  ‘Fleeced of your belongings,’ said Alice flatly. ‘Now you know how your victims feel.’

  ‘I do not fleece people,’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘I merely apply the law.’

  ‘It invariably amounts to the same thing with you,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘And a little conscience would not go amiss. What you do is rarely just, and your religious vows—’

  ‘How dare you lecture me!’ snarled Dalfeld. ‘You are a damned French spy.’

  ‘I hardly think—’ began Multone, shocked, while the colour drained from Chozaico’s face.

  ‘I know why you asked me here,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘But the answer is no: I wrote no document giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. Ergo, the vicars will win this case. But that was a foregone conclusion when they went out and hired the best lawyer available to represent them: me.’

  ‘You are not the only notary-public in York,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘Zouche may have asked someone else to produce the codicil.’

  ‘He may,’ acknowledged Dalfeld. ‘But if you do discover one, you will have to prove it is not a forgery – especially as I imagine Oustwyk has already offered to introduce you to men skilled at producing fraudulent writs. However, I am not easily deceived, so you may as well save your money and go home now. You stand as much chance of besting me as you do of flying to Venus.’

  Before the scholars could react to Dalfeld’s remarks, Oustwyk appeared with yet another visitor. Exasperated, the Abbot hauled his steward into a corner, whispering fierce admonitions, but although Oustwyk nodded understanding, he did not seem contrite.

  The newcomer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the number of people the Abbot was entertaining, but he squeezed himself into the solar gamely. He aimed for Langelee, and gripped the Master’s arm in comradely affection. His sword and short cloak said he was a knight, and he carried himself with confidence and dignity. He was in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and a weather-beaten face that might have been austere, were it not for his ready smile.

  ‘Scholarship suits you, Langelee,’ he said warmly. ‘You look younger than you ever did here.’

  ‘This is Sir William Longton,’ said Langelee to his colleagues. He grinned at the knight. ‘It is hard to believe that twelve years have passed since Zouche took us to put an end to the Scots’ unrest at Neville’s Cross. It feels like yesterday.’

  Sir William sighed. ‘It does. Thoresby is an excellent archbishop, who has given up all his royal appointments to concentrate on running his diocese, but I liked Zouche.’

  ‘I liked him, too,’ said Alice. ‘He did not appreciate music, but he was a fine figure of a man.’

  ‘He did nothing untoward, Mother,’ said Isabella, aware of the conclusions that Bartholomew, Michael and Radeford were drawing from this particular remark. ‘He was not that sort of person.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He was decent and practical – not irritatingly devout, like many clerics, but a man for the people. I shall visit his chantry chapel later, and pray for his soul.’

  ‘I only wish you could,’ said Sir William sadly. ‘But unfortunately, it is not finished.’

  Langelee frowned. ‘Not finished? But that is impossible! It was started long before he died, and by the time I left, it was half done. He left ample money—’

  ‘It ran out,’ interposed Dalfeld, all smug malice. ‘He should have provided more.’

  ‘Ran out?’ exploded Langelee. ‘But he left a fortune – enough to pay for a shrine twice over. He told me so himself.’

  ‘As he told you h
e left Huntington to Michaelhouse?’ asked Dalfeld snidely.

  Langelee rounded on Anketil. ‘You are his executor – appointed to see his last wishes carried out. Why is his chapel not ready after nearly six years?’

  Anketil raised his hands placatingly. ‘Masons are costly, and so is stone. We all thought what he left would be more than sufficient, but we were wrong.’

  ‘Then why does the minster not pay?’ demanded Langelee.

  ‘Because it is about to begin remodelling the choir, and there are no funds to spare,’ explained Multone. He brightened. ‘Have you seen the plans? They are pleasingly ambitious, and—’

  ‘He was good to you, Anketil,’ shouted Langelee angrily. ‘He defended Holy Trinity against those spying accusations, and he helped you secure lucrative benefactions.’ He whirled around to include Dalfeld in his tirade. ‘And he was generous to you, too. He introduced you to wealthy clients and he left you property. Is this how you repay him? By failing to complete his chantry?’

  ‘It is not my concern,’ stated Dalfeld indignantly. ‘I was not one of his executors.’

  ‘But you were his lawyer!’ yelled Langelee, unappeased. ‘He trusted you – both of you.’

  Anketil flinched. ‘I know, and I would have done what he asked, had it been in my power. But the money is gone. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise, but …’

  ‘I agree with Master Langelee,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘My poor uncle’s bones still lie in the minster’s nave, whereas he expected to be in his tomb by now, one with an altar, so that prayers can be said to speed his soul out of Purgatory.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Langelee in a strained voice. ‘It was important to him.’

  ‘When I make money from my theological treatises, I shall donate every penny to his chapel,’ vowed Isabella. She smiled wanly at Langelee. ‘His real friends will see his wishes granted.’

  Dalfeld, making no effort to disguise the fact that he was bored with the discussion, turned to Multone. ‘Give me your blessing, Father, and then I shall be about my own affairs.’

  The Abbot started to raise his hand before realising that he could not bless anyone with a roll of parchment stuffed up his sleeve. He faltered, and a sly grin stole across Dalfeld’s face when he saw that his ploy to force Multone to reveal it was going to work. Seeing the Abbot’s predicament, Chozaico stepped forward, and performed the service instead.

  ‘I do not want your benediction,’ the lawyer snapped, showing his anger at being thwarted by knocking Chozaico’s hand away. ‘I do not treat with French traitors!’

  Bartholomew held his breath, anticipating an unedifying row, but Chozaico only bowed politely to Multone and took his leave, indicating with a nod that Anketil was to go with him. Alice and Isabella also took the opportunity to depart, and when Dalfeld followed, Radeford hurried after him, asking how he could be so certain that no codicil existed. Langelee and Michael were hot on his heels, apparently distrusting their mild-mannered colleague to extract the truth from so devious and unpleasant a man.

  Bartholomew followed more sedately, and only after he had thanked the Abbot again for his hospitality, feeling that to tear away as abruptly as the others would be unmannerly. Sir William trailed him down the stairs, remarking wryly that his own business with Multone could wait until the Abbot had had a chance to regain his composure after his trying morning.

  ‘It has stopped raining, but the wind has picked up,’ the knight said conversationally, as he and Bartholomew walked towards the monastery’s main gate together. ‘Do you have no hat? It is not a good idea to walk around York without one.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, loath to admit to a knight – a man with elite equestrian skills – that he had lost it falling off a horse.

  ‘Because we have narrow streets,’ explained William. ‘And our residents are in the habit of hurling night-soil out of their windows. You will not want that in your hair, because it is difficult to rinse out. But you can buy one here – York is full of fine hats.’

  Bartholomew was sure it was, and was equally sure they would be well beyond his meagre means. He had his College stipend and the money he was paid by his wealthier patients, but most of his customers were poor, and could not afford the medicines he prescribed. As there was no point in tending them if they did not have access to the remedies that would make them better, he bought them himself, a practice that made him popular among Cambridge’s paupers, but which meant that items like new hats were a luxury he would have to do without.

  However, he soon saw Sir William’s point about the inadvisability of venturing out sans adequate protection, because it was not long before something brown and sticky slapped into his shoulder. He could not be certain, but he thought he glimpsed a hulking figure with a fur-edged hood and pattens ducking out of sight. Vicars did not hurl muck at people in Cambridge, and he wondered whether Cave was completely in control of his wits.

  ‘Take off your cloak,’ advised Sir William, after attempts to remove the mess had made it worse. ‘And carry it under your arm. We shall keep to the middle of the road from now on, so it will not happen again. Thank God it did not land on your head – the stuff reeks!’

  Fortunately, Bartholomew’s wealthy sister had insisted on buying him a new tunic before he had left Cambridge, afraid he would catch his death of cold if he ventured north in the threadbare clothes he usually wore. Its quality was such that, as long as the rain held off, he would not miss the cloak. It was travel stained, but warmer than anything else he had owned in a very long time.

  Sir William chatted amiably as they set off again, explaining that the street along which they walked was named Petergate, which continued through the city until it became Fossgate and then Walmgate. He led the way into the minster precinct, where Bartholomew saw his colleagues some distance ahead, talking to a few of the vicars-choral. The discussion appeared to be amiable, and he wondered whether they were trying to make amends for their sub-chanter’s earlier hostility.

  But bad-mannered vicars flew from his mind when he turned his attention to the minster, which was even more magnificent close up than it had been from afar. Delicately arched windows soared skywards, interspersed with buttresses and arcades that were simultaneously imposing and elegant. Above him, the lofty towers seemed to graze the dark clouds that scudded overhead, their stone a deep honey-gold in the sullen grey light.

  ‘It is grand,’ said William, smiling as the physician gazed in open-mouthed admiration. ‘We are very proud of it.’

  Bartholomew was about to tell him he had good cause, when there was a hiss followed by a thump. He had seen enough of war to recognise the sound of an arrow hitting flesh when he heard it, and he whipped around to see Sir William crumple, both hands clasped around the quarrel that protruded from his side.

  CHAPTER 2

  For a moment, Bartholomew was too stunned to do more than stare at Sir William’s prostrate form, but a scream from a passing woman jolted him back to his senses. He dropped to his knees and fought to stem the bleeding with a piece of clean linen from the bag he always carried over his shoulder. He was dimly aware of a crowd gathering, but his mind was on medicine as he pressed on the wound with one hand, and groped for forceps with the other.

  As a physician, he should not have been considering a procedure that was the domain of barber-surgeons, but Cambridge had no competent sawbones of its own, and as he was of the opinion that patients should have access to any treatment that might save their lives, he was more skilled at such techniques than he should have been. Working quickly, he inserted the forceps into the wound, careful to place them around the barb, so it could be neutralised before removal.

  ‘I told you,’ murmured a familiar voice, and Bartholomew glanced up to see Cynric crouching beside him. ‘I said something terrible would happen. This arrow was intended for you.’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘At me? Why? I have no enemies here.’

  ‘No, but Michaelhouse has,’ whispere
d Cynric. ‘A distant College, which has laid claim to a local church. There will be more than vicars-choral who resent us for it.’

  Bartholomew thought it a ludicrous assertion and dismissed it from his mind. He started to ease the arrow out, but William began to writhe, and the book-bearer was unequal to keeping him still. He was on the verge of commandeering help from the spectators, when someone knelt next to him and expertly pinioned the knight’s arms. It was still not enough, but within moments more help arrived in the form of the woman who had shrieked. She was extremely attractive, with olive skin, dark eyes and silky black hair. She was past the first flush of youth, and her figure was mature but shapely. Bartholomew was slightly ashamed when Cynric was obliged to elbow him in order to bring his attention back to medicine.

  ‘It is all right, William,’ the lady was whispering encouragingly. ‘I am here, and so is Fournays. We will look after you.’

  Once the patient was immobile, removing the arrow was easy. The wound bled copiously, but Bartholomew hoped this would serve to wash out any dirt. Unfortunately, it also meant the patient would bleed to death if he was carried home before it was sutured, so Bartholomew decided to complete the task in the street. He enlarged the hole slightly so that he could see what he was doing, found needle and thread, and began the laborious process of repairing damaged blood vessels and layers of muscle. William fainted, leaving Bartholomew’s assistants free to talk.

  ‘Did anyone see what happened?’ asked Fournays. He glanced at the woman. ‘Lady Helen?’

  ‘Yes, but I cannot credit it,’ replied Helen, in a voice that was unsteady with shock. ‘William and this surgeon were admiring the minster, when an arrow just thudded into him.’

  ‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’ asked one of the crowd, before Bartholomew could inform her that he was nothing of the kind. The speaker was Prior Chozaico. Anketil was at his side, and both had evidently hurried back when they had heard the commotion, because they were breathing hard. ‘I thought everyone liked Sir William.’