It was hardly a conversation to hold in a crowded market, and Bartholomew had fallen out of the habit of discussing Matilde anyway, mostly because everyone except Michael seemed convinced that she was dead – killed by the outlaws that plagued the highways – and that was a possibility he refused to contemplate.
‘I have never seen so many different kinds of fish,’ he said in a transparently clumsy attempt to change the subject. ‘Not even in London. York is truly an impressive city.’
‘If you like seafood.’ Radeford shot Bartholomew a side-long glance. ‘Or hospitals.’
‘St Leonard’s is remarkable,’ said Bartholomew, eagerly seizing the opportunity to share what he had learned. ‘I wish we had its equal in Cambridge. It separates the old and infirm from those with contagious diseases, and—’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Radeford hastily. Like all Michaelhouse’s Fellows, he was wary of allowing the physician to hold forth about matters medical, lest he was told something he would rather not hear. ‘But I shall marry in due course. I like Michaelhouse, but I want a wife more. And speaking of spouses, Isabella is a fine lady. I spoke to Prioress Alice yesterday, and she thinks Isabella would be wasted in a convent.’
Bartholomew hoped Radeford was not about to have his heart broken. ‘I suspect Isabella does not see taking holy vows as a waste,’ he said gently. ‘She said herself that her passion is theology.’
‘You do not need to be a monastic to study theology,’ said Radeford dismissively. ‘Indeed, I imagine it is better not to be, because a nun’s daily offices take up a lot of time, and it would be frustrating to reach an interesting section, only to be hauled away to sing some psalms.’
‘She is a devout woman,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So that argument is unlikely to win her over. She is more likely to accuse you of blasphemy.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Radeford unhappily. ‘Try to think of another, will you? My own thoughts become oddly muddled when they dwell on her. And I would like her to be my wife.’
Bartholomew regarded him in mystification. ‘You barely know her, yet you are ready to embark on a liaison that will bind you to her for the rest of your life?’
Radeford shrugged and blushed. ‘There is something about her … A courtship just feels right to me, and I know in my heart that she is the one. Do you think I stand a chance?’
Bartholomew had no idea, but Radeford’s face was so desperately intense that he could not bring himself to say so. And what did he know of women, anyway, having failed so dismally to keep Matilde? He smiled encouragingly. ‘You will not know unless you try.’
Radeford smiled back. ‘I am hoping she will fall for me as I help her with her play. Besides, I firmly believe that if two people are meant to be together, all obstacles will melt away. Do you?’
The subject was far too uncomfortable for Bartholomew, who suspected that obstacles had melted away with Matilde, and that she had worked rather hard to ensure they had done so, but he had failed to take advantage of it. And by the time he had, it had been too late.
‘Here is the bridge,’ he said, pointing at the structure that loomed in front of them, and relieved to end the discussion. ‘I hope Dalfeld is at home after all this.’
The Ouse Bridge spanned a river that was both wide and fast, and comprised several arches built of stone. It was lined with houses and shops, which projected over the water in a manner Bartholomew thought unsafe, although they were certainly attractive. There was a chapel at its far end, a pretty, elegant building dedicated to William of York.
It did not take them long to find Dalfeld’s home. It was next to the chapel, a handsome affair with yellow-gold walls and a red-tiled roof. The door was thick and expensive, and all the window shutters were new.
‘Hardly what one would expect of a Franciscan sworn to poverty,’ remarked Radeford wryly. ‘Isabella must be right when she said Dalfeld is not much given to religion.’
Bartholomew knocked on the door, and a servant conducted him and Radeford to a small but well-appointed parlour on the first floor. Two large windows overlooked the river, a busy brown torrent over which rose the impressive façades of the minster and the abbey.
They were kept waiting far longer than was polite, but neither minded, transfixed as they were by the magnificent views. At last, the door opened and Dalfeld bustled in. The lawyer had dispensed with the gipon that had been so sadly stained the day before, and was clad in a long blue robe that, while plain, was still a long way from being a Franciscan habit. It crossed Bartholomew’s mind that the robber might have shoved Dalfeld in the mud because he knew how important sartorial elegance was to his victim.
‘What do you want?’ Dalfeld demanded curtly. ‘I have already told you that I have been retained by the vicars-choral, and is unethical to consort with the opposition.’
‘We understand,’ said Radeford pleasantly. ‘But you hold the original copy of Zouche’s will, so we have no choice but to approach you. We need to see it.’
Dalfeld sighed irritably. ‘Very well. Fortunately, it is short, so it will not take you a moment to read. Then you can leave me in peace.’
‘Thank you,’ said Radeford politely, although Bartholomew bristled at the man’s manner.
Dalfeld went to a chest near the hearth, which he unlocked with a key that hung at his waist. He rummaged for a moment, and emerged with a small, neat bundle. He sorted through it, then handed Radeford a page that had been penned on vellum and carried a seal of thick red wax.
‘What are those other documents?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Do they pertain to Zouche, too?’
Dalfeld shoved them at him. ‘Yes, and you should read them, because I do not want you accusing me of withholding information. You must see for yourselves that they are irrelevant.’
It did not take Bartholomew long to see that he was right. There were three writs, all containing instructions for the chantry – the tomb was to be carved from white marble; it was to depict Zouche as a simple priest, not an archbishop; and his altar was to have a green cloth for everyday use and a red one for special occasions. He passed them to Radeford, and was handed the will in return.
Although Bartholomew had not read the last testaments of many prelates, he was astonished by Zouche’s brevity. The first quarter comprised a robust declaration that the Archbishop was in sound mind and body – the reason was clear from the date: it had been written at the height of the plague. The next section said that his soul was to be given to God and the saints, while his body was to go in his chapel. The next part outlined which prayers were to be said and when, and the final portion instructed his nine executors – all named – to discharge his debts and see to his servants.
‘There must be a codicil,’ said Bartholomew, as he finished. ‘Probably lots of them. He will have owned all manner of properties, but none is mentioned here.’
‘If so, then I have not seen them,’ stated Dalfeld, although his expression was shifty, and Bartholomew was sure he was lying. ‘However, you can see that his will makes no mention of Huntington or Michaelhouse, so you would be wise to relinquish your claim now.’
‘It makes no mention of the vicars, either,’ countered Radeford. ‘Our petition is just as valid as theirs. More so, in that witnesses heard Zouche say he wanted Michaelhouse to—’
‘Witnesses who think they remember what a dying man mumbled six years ago,’ said Dalfeld, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘But it was always understood that Huntington would go to the vicars, and I shall ensure justice is done. Your College shall not have this church.’
Bartholomew expected Radeford to argue, but his colleague merely inclined his head, thanked Dalfeld for his help, and took his leave.
‘Is he right?’ asked Bartholomew, once they were outside. ‘Because if so, it is better to leave now than waste days on a lost cause.’
‘It is not a lost cause,’ said Radeford with a grin. ‘Dalfeld only said all that to unsettle us. But his ploy misfired, for it has revealed that he is
worried, and that gives me great hope. The next step is to locate the codicil, because you were correct in what you said to him – there will be one.’
‘Very well.’ Bartholomew looked around rather helplessly. ‘Which way is the minster?’
‘Fortune smiles on us today, because there are Langelee and Michael. They will conduct us there.’
Unfortunately, fortune had not smiled on their colleagues; neither of them looked happy.
‘Cotyngham is ill,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘And not receiving visitors. Well, all I can say is that he has a day to recover, because I shall certainly interview him tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee. ‘You had the foresight to bring a physician to York with you, after all. Bartholomew will offer him a free consultation, and you will gain access that way.’
‘No,’ objected Bartholomew, shocked. ‘That would be an unethical use of—’
‘That is an excellent idea, Master,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I shall act on it at first light.’
The minster library was a large, cold chamber off one of the aisles, cursed with windows that provided inadequate light. The scholars waited a moment for their eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, and then Michael and Radeford gasped, Langelee swore and Bartholomew simply stared.
They were confronted by a room that was so densely packed with parchments, scrolls and books that it was impossible to walk into it without standing sideways. Some were stored on purpose-built racks, but most were heaped on the floor or sat in teetering mounds on the carrels that had originally been intended to accommodate readers. Many more had been stacked in front of the shelves, and formed piles that were higher than a man was tall.
Bartholomew turned to Langelee accusingly. ‘You said York’s library was the finest in the country, with more medical texts than can be counted.’
‘That is partly true,’ said the Dean. His name was Talerand, a short, smiling man with red cheeks. ‘Our medical texts cannot be counted, because we do not know where most of them are.’
He chortled merrily at the jest, but Bartholomew did not find it at all amusing. He felt cheated: he had been looking forward to spending time among tomes he might otherwise never see.
‘Christ God!’ breathed Langelee, ignoring them both as he gazed around him. ‘I do not recall such chaos in Zouche’s day.’
Talerand shrugged. ‘It is Thoresby’s fault. He cleaned out all the palaces and houses he inherited, and dumped everything here. Unfortunately, it all arrived at once, so I have not yet had a chance to sort through it. But I will get to it one day.’
‘How will you begin?’ whispered Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face. He kept the University’s muniments in good order, and was appalled by the Dean’s anarchy. ‘With a shovel?’
Talerand laughed. ‘I shall hire some clerks. Perhaps you could lend me a few from your University? I understand you train your people well.’
‘We do,’ nodded Radeford. ‘But we only produce a couple of hundred a year, and I anticipate you will require rather more than that.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Talerand good-naturedly. ‘It is not as bad as it looks.’
But the scholars knew otherwise, and when Bartholomew picked up a roll – a series of documents sewn together to facilitate easy storage – the pile on which it had been resting collapsed, sending parchments skidding in all directions. He unfurled the roll, and was dismayed to see that it had been cobbled together with no regard to chronology, subject or author.
‘We will never find the codicil or anything else in here,’ he said, overwhelmed. ‘It will take years to sift through this …’ He waved a hand, not sure how to describe it.
‘Then we had better make a start,’ said Langelee grimly, rolling up his sleeves and stepping towards the nearest shelf. He seized a handful of cartularies, and then jerked away when the movement caused others to cascade down from the shelves above his head. Chuckling genially, Talerand gathered them up and rammed them behind the nearest bookcase.
‘I shall leave you to it, then,’ he said, backing out. ‘And if you happen to find the charter for the Archbishop’s mint, perhaps you would set it aside. It is rather important, but I cannot seem to lay my hands on the thing.’
‘I wonder why?’ muttered Radeford, gazing around helplessly. ‘I have never seen anything like this in my life.’
They each chose a shelf, and began to sort through what they found, speaking occasionally, but mostly concentrating on the task in hand. Langelee worked frenziedly, flinging records in every direction as he found them to be irrelevant, and growing increasingly exasperated as time passed. Michael and Radeford were more methodical, while Bartholomew was of little help, as he found a scroll about the geometrical elements of nature, and became engrossed in its contents.
By the time he realised the words were difficult to make out because dusk had fallen, he had sifted through half a shelf, Michael and Radeford had managed three apiece, and Langelee had been through seven by himself.
‘I am filthy!’ complained Michael. ‘Look at my habit! It was clean on this morning, and now I look as though I have been scrambling about in chimneys.’
Bartholomew laughed at that notion; chimneys were narrow.
‘There is order in the muddle,’ said Radeford. The others regarded him doubtfully, and he shrugged. ‘It is probably not obvious to a non-legal mind, but a system does exist. Of course, you would need an intimate knowledge of Corpus juris civilis to appreciate it.’
‘Corpus what?’ asked Langelee, showing a rank and inexcusable ignorance of what the law students in his College were obliged to learn. Radeford started to explain, but the Master waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, I am too tired for intellectual pursuits. All I want is a goblet of wine. I am going to a tavern. Who will join me?’
They were all in need of a drink, but finding a hostelry that suited their requirements was easier said than done, because Michael rejected the taverns Langelee recommended, on the grounds that he did not like the kind of clientele they seemed to have attracted. It started to rain, and tempers were beginning to wear thin as they passed an attractive house on Petergate. Lady Helen was just stepping outside, to supervise a servant who was disposing of a bucket of slops.
‘They dump it right outside my door unless I watch them,’ she explained to the scholars, after they had exchanged greetings. ‘And then I skid on it when I attend mass in the morning.’
‘I am glad she shared that with us,’ murmured Radeford in Bartholomew’s ear. Normally, the physician would have laughed, but his attention was taken by the way the lamplight shone through the thin fabric of Helen’s kirtle. So was Langelee’s, although the physician hoped his own admiration had been more discreet. Then a slight movement in the shadows opposite caught his eye. It was Gisbyrn’s henchman-warrior Frost, also transfixed by the sight.
‘We are looking for a tavern that is respectable enough for a Benedictine to enjoy,’ said Michael waspishly. ‘Can you recommend any?’
Helen nodded. ‘Plenty, but it is raining, and no night to be wandering about in the dark. You must dine with me instead. Come in. My other guests will not mind, under the circumstances.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, shoving past her before Bartholomew could remind the monk that they were all too tired, irritable and dirty to be congenial company. Langelee was hot on Michael’s heels, so Bartholomew exchanged a resigned shrug with Radeford and followed.
He was unsettled to find that all Helen’s other guests were women, every one of them well-dressed and obviously rich. Nodding haughty greetings as he went, Michael stalked past them, aiming for the assortment of pies and pastries that had been set on a table near the hearth, where he began to graze. Anyone watching would be forgiven for assuming that he had not seen food in a week.
A delighted grin lit Radeford’s face when he saw Isabella among the throng. He went to join her, and began regaling her with ideas about how to improve The Conversion of the Harlot. She had been
sitting apart from the other women, a book on her lap, giving the impression that she would rather have been in her nunnery. However, she smiled a very warm welcome to Radeford, and Bartholomew wondered whether his colleague might yet succeed in winning her heart.
‘I think we are interrupting what Matilde used to call “ladies’ night”,’ Bartholomew whispered to Langelee, recalling uncomfortably the occasion when he had inadvertently stumbled into one and had been the butt of jokes he had not begun to understand. ‘We should leave.’
‘Rubbish,’ declared Langelee, and went to sit next to Helen. Michael, holding a platter loaded with a selfish serving of delicacies, plumped himself down on her other side.
Bartholomew was not alone for long, because Prioress Alice came to bring him a cup of wine. The rings on her fingers rattled against the vessel as she passed it to him, and she had doused herself with so much perfume that he found himself wanting to open a window. She had re-dyed her hair that day, and the strands that escaped from under her wimple had gone from orange to something approaching scarlet. He wondered why the Archbishop allowed her to do it. Then he saw the predatory gleam in her eye, and did not blame Thoresby for electing to keep his distance.
‘York is a beautiful city,’ he said, when he saw he was expected to open a conversation. ‘It seems prosperous, too.’
‘It is, although it is a pity that Longton and Gisbyrn will insist on squabbling – their spat costs the city money and obliges the rest of us to choose a side. And I like them both.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what there was to like about the drunken Longton.
Alice sighed. ‘All right. I suppose it might be more accurate to say that I did like them both. Longton was once a fine fellow, but wine has turned him sour, while Gisbyrn has grown rather ruthless with the passing years. Of course, there are those who would say that he has always had it in him to be cruel – look what he did to poor Myton five years ago.’
‘He is not the one who murdered him, is he?’ asked Bartholomew, when she paused.
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 9
