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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Even if we knew, we would not tell you,’ came an unpleasant response. Bartholomew glanced up to see that the speaker was Ellis, surrounded by vicars-choral, none of whom displayed any surprise or embarrassment at the remark. ‘You are French spies!’

  When virtually every onlooker growled agreement, the two monks made themselves scarce. Bartholomew did not blame them: crowds turned quickly into mobs when there was a scapegoat to hand, and he could tell by the response Ellis’s words had provoked that the reports describing the city’s hostility towards a foundation thought to be working for the enemy had not been exaggerated.

  He finished suturing a vein, and clipped off the ends of the twine with tiny but very sharp scissors. He started to reach for more thread, only to find Fournays ready with it. At this point, the spectators craned forward so eagerly that they blocked his light. Fournays ordered them back, and while he waited for them to oblige, Bartholomew noticed that the lawyer Dalfeld and the two nuns from the Abbot’s solar were among them, along with his Michaelhouse colleagues.

  Michael’s face was a mask of dismay; clearly he was anticipating the trouble that would ensue when it became known that a physician, not a surgeon, was publicly conducting grisly procedures on the minster’s advocatus ecclesiae. Radeford was more interested in gazing at Isabella, while Langelee was pale, shocked by the assault on his old friend. He bent to whisper in Bartholomew’s ear.

  ‘Will he survive?’

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I hope so, but it is too soon to say for certain.’

  Langelee gripped his shoulder hard. ‘Do your best for him. He is a good man.’

  As Sir William was still insensible and did not need to be held, Lady Helen stood on wobbly legs. A number of men immediately rushed to steady her, but she declined their hands and aimed for Isabella instead, who received her with a comforting hug. Bartholomew recalled that Langelee had mentioned a cousin of Isabella’s named Helen.

  ‘Helen’s distress is understandable,’ Fournays whispered to the physician. ‘She and Sir William were close until recently. We all thought they would marry, which would have been good for the city – they belong to opposing factions, you see, so it would have brought a measure of peace – but they changed their minds. They remain fond of each other, though.’

  Bartholomew wondered how the knight could have let such a woman slip through his fingers, quite forgetting that he had done much the same with Matilde. He said nothing as he continued to stitch, listening with half an ear to the discussion taking place above his head.

  ‘The apprentices practise in the butts on a Monday,’ one of the vicars was saying. ‘So there are weapons everywhere. It would be easy for anyone to lay hold of one.’

  ‘Is there anything special about the arrow?’ Dalfeld shrugged when everyone regarded him in bemusement. ‘They are often distinctive, and may allow us to identify the man who shot it.’

  Cynric handed it to him. Haughtily, the lawyer took it between thumb and forefinger, and made a show of examining it. The crowd waited in tense expectation for his verdict, although Bartholomew noticed several nudging each other and smirking at the sorry state of his clothes.

  ‘The barb is unique,’ Dalfeld announced eventually. ‘See how the tips are flattened?’

  ‘They were crushed when the arrow was removed from Sir William,’ said Cynric dismissively. ‘By the forceps. Obviously, they were not that shape when they struck.’

  ‘You mean you destroyed evidence that may allow us to catch a murderer?’ demanded Dalfeld. It was a remark made purely to repay Cynric for making him look foolish, but a murmur of suspicion rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew felt decidedly uneasy.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Fournays firmly, cutting it off. ‘Obviously, it was better to damage the arrow than to further damage the patient.’

  Meanwhile, Langelee was scanning the area with the eye of a professional. ‘The bowman could have loosed the weapon from anywhere, but the most likely place is there.’

  He pointed to a church that sat curiously close to the eastern end of the minster. It had probably once been handsome, but was now derelict: its window shutters were rotting, ivy grew over its roof, and pigeons roosted in the cracks that yawned in its crumbling tower.

  ‘St Mary ad Valvas?’ asked Lady Helen in surprise. ‘I sincerely doubt it! That place is cursed, and no one goes in it for any reason.’

  ‘It does have a reputation,’ agreed Isabella. She glanced at Langelee. ‘It is odd that you should single it out, because it has a slight connection to Michaelhouse. As you know, John Cotyngham is the current vicar of Huntington, but before that, he was priest at St Mary ad Valvas.’

  ‘A strange dedication,’ mused Michael. ‘Do I understand from the Latin that it has a sliding door? Perhaps a similar contrivance to the rollable stone that sealed Jesus’s tomb?’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ replied Isabella. ‘But it fell into disrepair years ago.’

  ‘Regardless, it is the perfect place for an ambush,’ said Langelee, still staring at it. ‘An archer could stand in there and no one would see him.’

  ‘But who would want to kill Sir William Longton?’ asked Fournays. ‘He is one of the most popular men in York.’

  ‘Yes, but his brother is not,’ said Dalfeld slyly. ‘John Longton has enemies galore.’

  When the last stitch was in place, Fournays helped Bartholomew dress the wound, and they finished just as William opened pain-filled eyes. Helen crouched next to him, muttering re assurances; the knight smiled gratefully and squeezed her fingers.

  Knowing the patient was going to be in for an uncomfortable time as he was carried home, no matter how careful the bearers, Bartholomew helped him sip a powerful soporific. It was not long before the knight’s eyes closed a second time, although he struggled to open them when someone began shoving through the crowd in a manner that was rudely aggressive.

  ‘Is it true?’ the newcomer demanded. ‘Someone has attacked my brother?’

  There was a resemblance between him and the casualty, but the older man’s brusque manner could not have been more different from William’s amiable dignity. Moreover, his face was florid from high living, and he was unsteady on his feet, despite the fact that it was not yet noon. He was accompanied by companions who were also far from sober, all of whom wore clothes that said they were wealthy.

  ‘Sir William has been shot, Mayor Longton,’ supplied Dalfeld, when no one else spoke. ‘I imagine the wound will prove fatal. They usually are, where innards are concerned.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ countered Fournays sharply, while Bartholomew gaped at the lawyer in dismay: the patient was listening, and hearing such a grim prognosis would do nothing to aid his recovery. ‘Sir William is strong.’

  ‘Yes, and I am not ready to die just yet,’ whispered William with a wan smile. He tried to fight the effects of the medicine, but could not do it, and his head lolled to one side.

  ‘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 courtshi
p – 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 ar
e 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.’