Mystery in the Minster (10 page)

‘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.

‘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.