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

by Gregory, Susanna

  For several hours Bartholomew was shown every corner of the foundation, after which Fournays was summoned to the scene of an accident. Bartholomew went with him, and the resulting surgery took some time, so it was dark by the time he returned to the abbey, wet and cold, but delighted to have learned a new technique for treating head wounds. York, he decided, was going to be far more interesting than Langelee had promised – and the Master had painted an absurdly rosy picture of the place.

  Bartholomew arrived at the hospitium to find that Langelee had forgiven Radeford for refusing to be corrupted, although his red, sweaty face said it had been done with copious quantities of wine. Michael’s rosy cheeks indicated that the Master was not the only one who had been drinking. Radeford was writing at a table, squinting in the unsteady light of a guttering candle, and Cynric was still out.

  ‘The minster library was locked, and no one knew where the Dean had put the key,’ said Michael. ‘So Radeford and I spent the afternoon talking to the canons instead. They all agree that Zouche did intend Michaelhouse to have Huntington, and he talked about it often in the weeks before his death. They are sure a codicil to his will exists.’

  ‘Our situation is looking more promising,’ nodded Radeford. ‘Afterwards, we met Lady Helen, and she invited us for wine and cakes. Isabella was with her.’ His expression was oddly dreamy.

  ‘I think I might make a play for her,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Helen, I mean. Isabella is too skinny, and I like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. What do you think?’

  ‘Isabella is not skinny,’ objected Radeford. ‘She has a perfect figure.’

  ‘I imagine Lady Helen has better taste than to fall for you, Master,’ said Michael rather coolly. ‘You are not much of a catch.’

  ‘And you are?’ asked Langelee archly, snapping his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate that he wanted some claret. The physician obliged only because pouring it himself meant he could water it down. He did the same for Michael, feeling both had had enough.

  ‘She could do worse,’ Michael flashed back. He viewed himself as a svelte Adonis, and thought women did, too. Oddly, many fell prey to the illusion, and Bartholomew could only suppose they saw something invisible to him, because as far as he was concerned, Michael was a long way from being the answer to any lady’s dreams.

  ‘You cannot court Helen,’ argued Langelee. ‘Not in a city full of Benedictines. Your fellow monastics would notice, and we might be asked to leave this nice hospitium.’

  ‘Perhaps you should both leave her alone,’ said Bartholomew, going to kneel by the fire. ‘Her protector Gisbyrn is accused of shooting Sir William – maybe he reacts violently to any would-be suitors.’

  ‘You are only saying that because you want to ravish her,’ said Langelee accusingly.

  Bartholomew shook his head, declining to admit that he would not refuse an opportunity to spend time in the company of a woman like Helen. ‘I have no intention of ravishing anyone.’

  ‘Why not?’ pressed Langelee. ‘And do not say it is because you still hanker after Matilde – she is long gone, and you will never see her again. I thought you understood that, which is why you have started to pay the occasional visit to—’

  ‘I will never forget Matilde,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before the Master could reveal something he had believed was private.

  ‘Visits to whom?’ asked Michael keenly.

  ‘No one,’ said Bartholomew, glancing warningly at Langelee to tell him that he was not the only one with secrets. Langelee, who had been about to supply an answer, shut his mouth abruptly.

  ‘Helen is nothing special,’ said Radeford, in the silence that followed. ‘But Isabella is a fine lady. Intelligent, too, with her opinions about theology. I was impressed with her analysis of the nominalism–realism debate.’

  ‘I was not,’ said Michael. ‘And neither would you have been, had you been listening and not gazing at her chest. She showed a feeble grasp of the main issues.’

  Radeford’s dismissive gesture showed he thought Michael was wrong. ‘I shall take a wife soon,’ he announced, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I like Michaelhouse, but I do not intend to be there for ever. I want to be married.’

  ‘Well, do not set your sights on Isabella,’ warned Langelee, holding out his cup for more wine ‘She is a novice, and there are rules against that sort of thing. Besides, she is rather religious, and I doubt you will win in a contest with God.’

  He was about to add something else when the door opened and Cynric strolled in. The book-bearer went to kneel next to Bartholomew, stretching chilled hands towards the flames.

  ‘One of the vicars-choral is dead,’ he said casually. ‘Murdered. I just heard it from Oustwyk.’

  ‘How does Oustwyk know it was murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Because the victim – his name was Ferriby – claimed he was poisoned,’ replied Cynric. ‘Apparently, he was struck down when he was saying an obit for a man called Myton.’

  ‘Ferriby?’ asked Langelee, and the urgency in his voice made the others regard him in alarm. ‘He was one of Zouche’s executors. Lord! I hope no one thinks we had anything to do with it!’

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day began with rain hammering on the roof, loudly enough to startle even Bartholomew awake, and he was a notoriously heavy sleeper. Instinctively, he scanned the ceiling for leaks, because it was something that had to be done at Michaelhouse. There was no sign of seepage at the hospitium, however – it was far too well built. For the first time in years, he lay back and enjoyed the sense of being comfortably warm and dry while the weather raged outside.

  ‘We have a lot to do today,’ announced Michael, emerging from behind the screen with cloak and hat in place. With a start, Bartholomew saw the others were ready, too, and he was the only one still in bed. Hastily, he crawled out and began to shave, astonished when he discovered that the water was hot, an unheard of luxury at home. ‘First and most important is to locate the codicil.’

  ‘We should examine the original will, too,’ added Radeford. ‘We have been told it contains nothing about Huntington, but it would be remiss not to check it for ourselves. Apparently, Dalfeld has it at his home on the Ouse Bridge.’

  ‘We shall do both without delay,’ determined Langelee. He was pale that morning, indicating he felt unwell after his excesses of the previous night. ‘And then I shall visit Lady Helen again.’

  ‘You do not have time for philandering,’ said Michael shortly. ‘The abbey will not allow us to stay here free of charge indefinitely, and the most we can hope to inveigle out of them is a week. After that, we shall be asked for a contribution, and we do not have enough to return home as it is.’

  ‘You do,’ said Langelee accusingly. ‘You have a personal supply. I have seen it.’

  ‘So do you,’ countered Michael. ‘But mine is for the bribes that might be required to secure Huntington. And perhaps the occasional meal.’

  ‘I have some,’ said Bartholomew, showing them the coins Fournays had given him for his part in tending Sir William. It was a generous sum, far more than he would have earned in Cambridge.

  ‘Good,’ said Langelee, taking most of it and putting it in the purse that held the meagre funds Michaelhouse had allocated. ‘You can use the rest to buy yourself a hat, because you look deranged in Cynric’s. But then again, it might put Helen off you, so perhaps you should keep it.’

  ‘Here is breakfast,’ said Michael, ignoring him as Oustwyk ushered in lay-brothers bearing trays. ‘I was beginning to think we were not going to be provided with any, and I am hungry.’

  ‘The pottage is good,’ said Radeford, tasting it with his grubby silver spoon. ‘But it would be more appetising served in a smaller bowl. I am unused to eating from pails.’

  ‘So are we all,’ said Langelee, quite untruthfully, as he vied with Michael for the largest portions of cold meat. He glanced at the lawyer. ‘Did I see you helping Isabella with her play about the whore last night? Or did
I imagine it?’

  ‘It is about a saint,’ objected Radeford. ‘And Isabella told me that it contains some especially interesting theological observations about the Creation.’

  ‘Not theological observations,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘More an examination of harmony—’

  ‘If so, then Abbot Multone is right to say the citizens of York will be disappointed,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Because I can tell you now that they would rather hear about the whore. You should persuade her to abandon it. I can suggest some suitable alternatives.’

  Bartholomew was sure he could, and was equally sure they would not be plays with which Isabella would want to be associated. He said nothing, hurrying to finish dressing and eat at the same time, so as not to delay their departure. Cynric had sponged the revolting mess from his cloak, so it was fit to be worn again, although it occurred to him that it was preferable to be pelted with slime than with arrows.

  When they went outside, it was to find Oustwyk waiting with a message: Archbishop Thoresby wanted them to visit him at the minster at their earliest convenience.

  ‘He means now,’ translated Langelee. ‘And we had better not annoy him by dallying, because he might be able to influence our case.’

  The rain had eased, but it had left the streets thick with mud, and Bartholomew’s feet were soon sodden. They stopped at a shop on Petergate, where he gazed in awe at the number and variety of hats for sale. Oustwyk had not been exaggerating when he had said anything could be purchased in York, and the physician had never seen such plenty; there was certainly nothing like it in Cambridge. His eye lit on a handsome green item, which he knew Matilde would have liked.

  ‘No,’ said Langelee, taking it from him and selecting a drab brown one instead. ‘If Cynric and Radeford are right, and you were the intended target of that murderous attack yesterday, we do not want to encourage the villain to try again by wearing brazenly distinctive clothing.’

  Bartholomew supposed he was right, but resented the fact that buying a hat he did not like took every penny remaining of the fee he had earned from Sir William, leaving him as impecunious as he had been when he had arrived.

  They had just entered the minster precinct, all alert for hissing arrows, when they met the vicars-choral, who were processing to their prayers. As the priests’ wooden pattens clattered on the cobbles, Bartholomew was reminded of a herd of performing ponies he had once seen in Spain. Careful to keep the priests between him and St Mary ad Valvas, Michael waylaid them.

  ‘We were sorry to hear about Ferriby,’ he said gently. ‘It is never easy to lose a friend.’

  Bartholomew and Radeford added their condolences, and most of the vicars seemed pleased to accept them. Ellis remained cold and aloof, though, and his henchman Cave’s expression was one of smouldering dislike.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jafford soberly. He looked especially angelic that morning, because the coolness of the day had given him rosy cheeks. ‘As you can imagine, it was a terrible shock.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ agreed Ellis. ‘We shall go shopping for shoes later, to soothe ourselves.’

  ‘Actually, we would rather pray for his soul,’ said Jafford, although startled looks from some of his brethren indicated that he did not speak for them all. ‘I shall remain at my altar in the minster.’

  ‘The one dedicated to Mary Magdalene?’ asked Langelee, and Bartholomew shot him an agonised glance, knowing he was going to add Oustwyk’s observation: that it was popular with whores. Fortunately, so did Radeford, who interceded smoothly with a question.

  ‘Did we meet Ferriby yesterday?’ he asked politely. ‘I cannot recall. What did he look like?’

  ‘He had grey hair,’ replied Jafford pleasantly, although as few of the vicars were in the first flush of youth, this was hardly helpful. ‘And teeth.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Radeford, while Bartholomew thought they must have been a very impressive set of fangs for the lawyer to have recognised Ferriby from that description. ‘He was not with you when our paths crossed by the abbey gate – we only met him later, in the minster precinct.’

  ‘He rarely left it,’ replied Ellis. ‘On the grounds that he believed someone was trying to poison him. No one was, of course. Why would they? And Fournays said he died of natural causes.’

  ‘His mind had gone,’ elaborated Cave. ‘So he was often given to reckless imaginings.’

  Bartholomew exchanged a brief glance with Michael, and could see the monk was thinking the same thing: that the vicars seemed curiously eager to discredit their dead colleague’s claim.

  ‘He was one of Zouche’s executors, I understand,’ said Radeford.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ellis curtly. ‘But that business was finished with years ago – he had done nothing for Zouche’s estate in a very long time. And before you ask, he did not recall a codicil giving Huntington to Michaelhouse. Ergo, it does not exist.’

  Langelee glared at him. ‘Of course it does, and you should be ashamed of yourselves for trying to circumvent Zouche’s wishes. So should Ferriby, because I imagine he did know what Zouche planned, no matter what he might have claimed later. And it is the second time he broke faith with the man who trusted him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Cave, a little dangerously.

  ‘Zouche’s chantry chapel,’ snarled Langelee, menacing in his turn. ‘His executors promised to see it finished, but did not bother. I said at the time that he should have chosen better men.’

  ‘The money ran out,’ snapped Ellis. ‘Perhaps Ferriby and the others should have paid closer attention to the fund, but it was hardly their fault Zouche underestimated the amount that would be needed. But we cannot stand here wasting time. We have obits to perform.’

  He stalked away, flicking his fingers to indicate that his vicars were to follow. Jafford was not the only one to shoot the scholars an apologetic smile as they left, and Bartholomew suspected they were decent men on the whole; they just had the misfortune to be burdened with a surly leader.

  ‘Do you think Ferriby was poisoned, to ensure his silence?’ asked Radeford once the priests had gone. ‘Because if he did know what Zouche wanted done with Huntington, he might have threatened to tell the truth.’

  ‘The same thought occurred to me,’ said Michael. ‘Moreover, it is suspicious that an executor should die now, just when we might be asking him questions.’

  ‘Especially as he claimed he was poisoned,’ added Langelee. ‘I would not put it past any of those villainous vicars to slip him a toxic substance. But there is nothing we can do about it now, and we had better visit Thoresby before he takes umbrage.’

  John Thoresby, Archbishop of York, was in the process of conducting an obit when they arrived, and a friendly priest by the name of Canon Gisbyrn offered to show them around the minster while they waited for him to finish.

  ‘Gisbyrn?’ asked Radeford. ‘You are not a merchant in your spare time, are you?’

  The canon laughed. ‘That is John Gisbyrn, my brother. And before you ask, there are plenty more of us. One is deputy to the Sheriff, another is the Archbishop’s chaplain, and our sisters are married to the reeve and the coroner.’

  ‘A newly wealthy family,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear, ‘clawing their way up the greasy pole of success, with fingers in every sphere of influence. It is happening all over the country, as merchant money speaks louder than the jaded powers of the landed gentry.’

  Bartholomew was more interested in admiring the minster, which was as glorious inside as it was out. Its stained-glass windows were among the finest he had ever seen, while the nave was an awe-inspiring forest of carved piers rising to a gracefully arched ceiling.

  It was also busier than any church he had ever visited, with the possible exception of Santiago de Compostela. Stalls had been set up in the aisles to sell badges, candles and other paraphernalia to pilgrims, and its shrines and chapels were a chaos of noise as people and priests said their prayers. Some masses were elaborate and involved
choirs, and the competing music provided a discordant jangle that vied with a frantically barking dog and the constant rattle of feet on flagstones.

  Pointing out features of interest as he went, Canon Gisbyrn led them towards the chancel, although they had not gone far before Langelee stopped, gazing at a spot where the southern wall met the east transept. A door had been inserted and a screen raised, blocking off a small room, but the chamber was a muddle of uncut stone, dusty cloths and abandoned equipment.

  ‘Zouche’s chantry?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing the sadness that suffused the Master’s face.

  Langelee nodded. ‘He started to build it himself, and asked to be buried here. Until then, he lies in the nave.’

  ‘I can think of worse places,’ said Michael consolingly.

  ‘But he wanted a chapel,’ snapped Langelee. ‘It was import ant to him.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Cynric guilelessly. ‘Was he so sinful that he thought he needed one?’

  Langelee scowled. ‘He was a decent man, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. I knew his executors would fail him! He trusted them, but I thought he could have made better choices. Me, for example. And Myton.’

  ‘I am sure he wished he could have included you,’ said Canon Gisbyrn kindly. ‘It was common knowledge that you were one of his favourites. Unfortunately, he was constrained by tradition – the executors of an archbishop must be noblemen or clerics. But the nine he chose were all good fellows, Langelee, and they loved him just as much as you did.’

  ‘So they said,’ muttered Langelee between clenched teeth. ‘But if it were true, his chantry would be finished.’

  No one spoke as he ran his hand over a carving by the door that, judging by the mitre and staff, was of Zouche himself. Bartholomew studied it, thinking that if the artist had been accurate, then the Archbishop had possessed a kindly face, but one wearied by the burdens imposed by his office. They all turned at a sudden clamour of noise and laughter, and Canon Gisbyrn frowned.