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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It is those actors,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘The ones who will perform the drama about the six prostitutes in the brothel – the one Sister Isabella and Lady Helen are organising. Unfortunately, their players are an unruly rabble.’

  He hurried away to quell their boisterousness, while Bartholomew thought that York was going to be disappointed indeed if that sort of description was circulating about Hrotsvit of Gandersheim’s rather pompous moralistic ramblings.

  ‘There is a shrine in this minster,’ said Cynric, who always seemed to know about such matters. ‘To William of York, who was a past archbishop and did saintly things. Shall we visit it?’

  ‘I have never heard of William of York,’ said Radeford. ‘What “saintly things” did he do?’

  Cynric shrugged carelessly. ‘This and that. And he was said to have been very nice.’

  ‘He was very nice,’ averred Langelee, pulling his attention away from the carving. ‘And when he died, there were miracles.’

  ‘What sort of miracles?’ asked Radeford.

  ‘Does it matter?’ demanded Langelee, his defensive belligerence telling his Fellows that he did not know. ‘Suffice to say that he is York’s most famous saint. Well, its only saint, actually.’

  Rather cannily, the Dean and Chapter had arranged matters so that William had two shrines, not one, and pilgrims were invited to secure his favour by donating pennies at both. The first was a chipped sarcophagus in the nave, which looked as though it would have been ancient when William had been buried in it some one hundred and thirty years before. He was no longer there, having been translated to a purpose-built tomb behind the high altar, which formed the second shrine.

  ‘The minster is doing well out of him,’ remarked Radeford, when he saw the number of pilgrims who thronged the two sites. ‘Shall we ask for his help with Huntington?’

  Although the shrine was large, it could not accommodate all the penitents who wanted access to it, so a queue had formed, kept in order by vicars-choral. Bartholomew braced himself for trouble when they eventually reached the front and found Cave there.

  ‘You have to pay to go in,’ the vicar said, raising a hand to prevent the scholars from passing.

  ‘Pay?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘But we want to say some prayers.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Cave, regarding the monk as if he were short of wits. ‘What else would you do in there? But there is an entry fee: threepence each.’

  ‘Threepence?’ exploded Michael. ‘That is a fortune!’

  ‘If you do not like it, visit his sarcophagus instead.’ Cave smirked. ‘That only costs a penny.’

  ‘But what if someone cannot pay?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The poor, or beggars? Do you refuse to let them in?’

  ‘Of course. It would not be fair otherwise. We ask the same amount from everyone.’

  ‘But that means the shrine is available only to the wealthy,’ protested Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding vigorously at his side; the book-bearer had strong views about social justice.

  ‘What of it?’ shrugged Cave. ‘It keeps the riff-raff out.’

  Jafford arrived at that point, to find out why the queue had ground to a standstill. He smiled when he saw the scholars, immediately assuming that the hiatus was because they had been asking questions about the shrine’s history.

  ‘William was very holy,’ he beamed. ‘He was Archbishop here, and when he arrived to take up his post, so many people came to cheer that the Ouse Bridge collapsed, hurling hundreds of them into the river. But he appealed to God, and everyone was fished out alive.’

  ‘Three weeks later, he was murdered,’ added Cave darkly. ‘Poisoned during mass.’

  ‘He was placed in the sarcophagus,’ Jafford went on. He seemed unaware of the menace with which Cave had spoken, but the scholars had not missed the threat implicit in the words. ‘And a few weeks later, holy oil began to seep out, which we all know is a sign of great sanctity.’

  ‘Actually, I have noticed body fat leaking out of coffins on a fairly regular basis,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘I believe it is part of the natural process of decomposition.’

  Jafford and Cave were not the only ones who gaped at this particular piece of information; so did his colleagues.

  ‘Ellis said you were a Corpse Examiner,’ said Jafford, crossing himself quickly. ‘We wondered what it meant, and now we know. It does not sound a pleasant occupation.’

  ‘It is not an occupation,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘It is—’

  But Michael jabbed him in the back, and produced the requisite number of coins before anything else could be added. While he found the physician’s ability to prise secrets from the dead useful, he was acutely aware that observations about putrefaction were not something that should be shared with strangers, and especially not when discussing a saint.

  ‘We had better go and pay our respects,’ he said, shoving Bartholomew through the door.

  ‘Do not even think of asking the saint to give you Huntington,’ Cave called softly after them. ‘Because I have already petitioned him, and you will be wasting your time.’

  The shrine was splendid, with an altar cloth that would have taken years to embroider, and a huge silver-gilt cross studded with precious stones. The place was full of statues, too, some of which had been painted with such skill that they were uncannily lifelike. Most were apostles, but there were also two green men and a jester with a leering smile. The chapel was lit with a staggering array of candles, which rendered it bright enough to hurt the eyes.

  Unfortunately, it was also crowded and no place to linger, with people jostling to lay hands on the tomb, and the scent of strong incense vying for dominance with unwashed bodies and flowers past their best. The scholars did not stay long.

  ‘We had better see whether Thoresby is ready,’ said Radeford, once they were outside again. ‘And then we shall begin the hunt for Zouche’s will and its codicils.’

  When the Archbishop saw them, he gestured that he would not be long, and his Latin took off at a tremendous rate, so fast that Bartholomew struggled to catch the words. It was over in less than half the time it would have taken him to recite them, leaving him with the feeling that whoever had paid for the ceremony had been short-changed.

  ‘Hugh de Myton,’ supplied Oustwyk, who happened to be passing and heard Bartholomew say so. ‘That was his obit.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Myton. His name crops up with intriguing regularity. He was Langelee’s friend, and heard Zouche say on his deathbed that Michaelhouse was to have Huntington. The vicar who expired last night – Ferriby – was saying prayers for Myton when he was struck down. And there are rumours that Myton was murdered.’

  Oustwyk nodded. ‘But there was no truth in them. Still, the Archbishop thought Myton’s soul might not like a priest keeling over in the middle of its mass, so he elected to say another one himself, to compensate.’

  ‘You claim to be a mine of information,’ said Michael, regarding the steward thoughtfully. ‘So tell me this: was Ferriby poisoned, as he claimed?’

  Oustwyk considered the question carefully, but then shook his head, although it was clear he would rather have nodded. ‘He often complained that someone was trying to dispatch him, and it became something of a joke. Fournays inspected the body, and he said Ferriby died of a debility.’

  ‘A debility?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard of such a thing.

  Oustwyk regarded him askance. ‘Call yourself a physician? It means he had a seizure. All perfectly natural, and Ferriby was elderly, anyway. He was well past his allotted years.’

  He bustled away, eyes everywhere, and slowing when he passed knots of people in order to eavesdrop. No wonder he was so well informed, thought Bartholomew, watching in distaste. But Thoresby had completed his duties, and was coming to greet them, forcing the physician to pull his attention away from Oustwyk’s antics.

  John Thoresby was in his fifties, with a cap of immaculately groomed silver hair and the lean face of
an ascetic. His bearing was haughty, as befitted one of England’s most influential churchmen, and there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes. He shrugged out of his ceremonial vestments to reveal a simple priest’s habit, albeit one made of exceptionally expensive cloth. It made him a striking figure, and Bartholomew immediately sensed the power of his presence.

  ‘Langelee,’ Thoresby said, coming towards the Master and extending a hand so his episcopal ring could be kissed. ‘I am delighted to see you looking so well.’

  ‘Zouche’s chantry,’ said Langelee, performing the most perfunctory of bows over the proffered fingers and coming straight to the matter he wanted to raise. ‘It should have been finished by now.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Thoresby sadly. ‘I did my best to spur his executors into action, but they are a frustratingly inert group of men.’

  ‘Especially given that several are dead,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘You cannot get more inert than that.’

  ‘And then the money ran out,’ Thoresby went on. ‘I was surprised, because I had been under the impression that Zouche had left them plenty, but the Dean showed me the rosewood chest from the treasury, where the coins had been stored, and it was empty.’

  ‘The Queen gave him that box,’ said Langelee softly. Then his expression hardened. ‘Perhaps some of the coins were stolen, because there were enough. Zouche told me so himself.’

  ‘Unfortunately, each executor assumed the others were overseeing the chapel, and by the time they realised that was not the case, the funds had just dribbled away,’ explained Thoresby. ‘I was vexed, of course, but there was nothing to be done.’

  ‘So the money was stolen?’ Langelee was outraged.

  Thoresby shook his head. ‘It disappeared through incompetence and negligence, not dishonesty. I would finish the thing myself, but we are preparing to rebuild the choir and have no funds to spare. Do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Langelee sullenly.

  With an elegant nod, Thoresby indicated that the Master was to introduce his companions. Bartholomew and Radeford received no more than nods, but Michael was favoured with a smile.

  ‘I have heard much about Cambridge’s Senior Proctor,’ the prelate said. ‘From my brother bishops at Ely and Lincoln. Both speak very highly of you.’

  ‘I flatter myself that I have been of use to them,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘Perhaps I may be of similar service to you. Especially if you were to help us in the matter of Huntington.’

  Bartholomew shot him an alarmed glance, not liking to think what this urbane, shrewdly clever cleric might ask in return for such a favour. Thoresby regarded the monk appraisingly.

  ‘I am sure we can come to an arrangement.’ His gaze flicked suddenly to Bartholomew. ‘Are you the surgeon who helped Sir William? I heard he was saved by a stranger.’

  ‘He is a physician.’ Langelee raised his hand when the prelate started to speak. ‘He knows he is not supposed to commit surgery, but it is a habit we cannot break in him. However, he is rather good at it, and if anyone can heal William, it is him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Thoresby. ‘Because William is my advocatus ecclesiae, and I want whoever shot him caught. Find me the culprit, and I shall try to help Michaelhouse win Huntington.’

  ‘But that would mean you working against priests from your own minster,’ Bartholomew pointed out doubtfully. ‘You would do that?’

  There was a flash of something dangerous in Thoresby’s eyes, and Langelee elbowed the physician hard enough to make him stagger. It had been an insolent question, but Bartholomew felt it was one that needed to be answered before they agreed to anything. There was a possibility that one attempt had been made on his life, and it would be reckless to embark on an investigation without a full understanding of the politics into which they were being invited to plunge.

  ‘I have spoken to enough of Zouche’s friends and family to know that he did want Huntington to go to Cambridge,’ replied the Archbishop at last. ‘I have seen no written evidence, but his intentions were clear. I should like to see his wishes fulfilled – as I hope my successor will do for me when the time comes. That is my reason for helping you.’

  ‘But you will have to live with the vicars-choral after we leave,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘They may bear you a grudge.’

  ‘They almost certainly will,’ said Thoresby with the ghost of a smile. ‘Which is why they must never find out. So my assistance to you will be in the form of information that may help you to prove your case, but that cannot be traced back to me.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Michael and Bartholomew are good at solving mysteries, so they will look into what happened to William. Meanwhile, Radeford will concentrate on Huntington, and I shall investigate Zouche’s chantry fund.’

  His Fellows gaped at him. Bartholomew did not want to hunt would-be killers in a strange city; Radeford objected to being left to win Huntington alone; and Michael thought they could have secured a better bargain, so was irked that the Master had capitulated so quickly.

  ‘You aim to claw some of the fund back?’ asked Thoresby of Langelee. ‘Then I wish you luck. Zouche should have a chapel, given how much he longed for one. He was deeply anxious about Purgatory, and how long he might have to spend there. I suppose he regretted his actions at Neville’s Cross. And perhaps he was right to be worried – a war is no place for a prelate.’

  Having been told some of what Langelee had done for Zouche, Bartholomew suspected the Archbishop had had a lot more than a battle on his conscience, and was not surprised the man had been concerned for his immortal soul. He stared at his feet, uncomfortable with the whole affair.

  Seeing they were stuck with the arrangement, Michael sighed and went to business. ‘What information do you have for us, My Lord Archbishop?’

  ‘Huntington’s priest was named John Cotyngham. Zouche had stipulated that he was to keep the appointment until he either died or resigned.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘We know. Cotyngham left, which is why we are here.’

  Thoresby nodded impatiently. ‘When I heard what Cotyngham had done, I was astonished, because he always claimed he was happy in Huntington. He came to York, and is currently residing with the Franciscans.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ mused Langelee. ‘I had forgotten he was one of those.’

  ‘I went to visit him there, to assure myself that all was well,’ Thoresby went on, ‘but was told he could not see me. I think you will agree that this was odd. So my advice to you is to insist on an interview, and demand to know why he left Huntington. If he was coerced, and the vicars-choral were responsible, it might strengthen your case against them.’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael’s eyes gleamed. ‘It might.’

  They left the minster, and Michael declared his intention to visit Cotyngham immediately. Langelee decided to accompany him – for all his feisty words, he was not sure how to begin exploring what had happened to Zouche’s chantry money, and needed time to ponder.

  ‘Will you come with me to read Zouche’s will, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford. ‘Dalfeld has it, and I did not take to him yesterday. He seemed sly, and with such men it is always best to have witnesses to any encounters. Abbot Multone was right to stage our first meeting in his company.’

  Bartholomew hesitated. Surgeon Fournays had invited him to meet more of York’s medical men that day, and because he had been impressed with what he had seen so far, he was eager to accept. He started to point out that he had been brought to York to rest, but his conscience pricked him before the words were out: Radeford was right to be wary of the slippery lawyer, and the encounter would certainly be safer with two of them.

  He nodded reluctant agreement, and Radeford set off at a purposeful trot. However, it was not long before Bartholomew realised that the brisk pace was not because Radeford knew where he was going, but because it was raining again, and he was choosing those streets he thought offered more protection from the elements.

  ‘We have been her
e before,’ he said, sure they were heading north when they should have been going south. ‘I recognise that church.’ He stopped to examine it. ‘It is beautiful! Look at the quality of the carvings around the door. Shall we go inside?’

  ‘It would not be fair to shirk while our colleagues labour,’ said Radeford, smiling indulgently at his enthusiasm. ‘But unfortunately, we are hopelessly lost, so we had better hire someone to take us to the bridge – we do not want to lose the entire day to aimless wandering.’

  He removed a coin from his purse, and before Bartholomew could stop him, had approached a rough, unshaven character – the kind of man who looked as though he would escort them down a deserted lane and rob them. The physician grew increasingly alarmed as they were conducted along some of the darkest, narrowest alleys he had ever seen, and he was on the verge of dismissing the fellow when they emerged into an open space that bordered the river. It reeked of fish, powerfully enough to make him recoil.

  ‘This is the fish-market,’ said their guide, rather unnecessarily. ‘And the Ouse Bridge is at the far end. You can’t get lost from here.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure, because the market was huge, and comprised a vast number of close-packed stalls. Radeford began to pick his way through them, although Bartholomew took the lead when the lawyer promptly selected a route that involved two left-hand turns. The place was chaotically busy, and he kept a firm hold of Radeford’s sleeve, suspecting they might never find each other again if they became separated.

  ‘I would not like to live here,’ said Radeford, speaking loudly enough to make himself heard over the hubbub of commerce, but also loudly enough to attract offended gazes. ‘When I wed, I shall build a house in the country. Will you ever leave Michaelhouse and marry?’