Mystery in the Minster (2 page)

‘Delegate,’ ordered Langelee crisply. ‘We shall take Bartholomew, too, before his patients kill him with their unceasing demands. He is in desperate need of a rest.’

‘A long journey hardly constitutes a rest, Master,’ objected Michael. He was appalled by the turn the discussion had taken, for himself as well as the physician. ‘It will take weeks, and—’

‘It will not. I managed it in five days once.’ Langelee glanced towards the window, where dusk had come early because of the rain. ‘Although that was in summer, when the roads were dry.’

‘The weather may be better farther north.’ Father William grinned gleefully. ‘This benefaction could not have come at a better time, given the current state of our finances. Go to York and ensure we inherit this church, Master. Do not worry about the College. I shall run it while you are away.’

‘We will be back before the beginning of Summer Term,’ said Langelee warningly, while Michael and Radeford exchanged another look of alarm, neither liking the notion of their home in the Franciscan’s none-too-capable hands.

‘Are you
sure
Zouche left us Huntington?’ asked Michael, desperate to find a reason not to go. ‘I have never seen any documentation for it.’

‘Doubtless his executors decided to wait until it was vacant,’ said Langelee. ‘And yes, I
am
sure, because I heard him mention it on his deathbed myself. I was unaware of Michaelhouse’s existence at the time, of course, but I distinctly recall him telling Myton what he wanted to happen.’

‘Myton?’ asked Michael, sullen because he saw the Master had set his mind on a course of action, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do to change it.

‘The merchant who helped me manage Zouche’s
un
official affairs,’ Langelee explained. ‘When he died, there
were rumours that he was murdered, but I am sure there is no truth in them.’

Michael regarded him unhappily. The whole business was sounding worse by the moment.

York, April 1358

The first thing Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse, did when he woke was fling open the window shutters. He and his companions had arrived late the previous night, when it had been too dark to see, and he was eager for his first glimpse of England’s second largest city.

‘Matt, please!’ groaned Brother Michael, hauling the blankets over his head as the room flooded with the grey light of early morning. ‘Have some compassion! This is the first time I have felt safe since leaving Cambridge two weeks ago, and I had intended to sleep late.’

Bartholomew ignored him and rested his elbows on the windowsill, shaking his head in mute admiration at what he saw. They had elected to stay in St Mary’s Abbey for the duration of their visit, partly because Michael had refused to consider anywhere other than a Benedictine foundation, but also because they were unlikely to be asked to pay there – and the funds the College had managed to scrape together for their journey were all but exhausted already.

The monastery was magnificent. It was centred around its church, a vast building in cream stone. Cloisters blossomed out of its southern side, while nearby stood its chapter house, frater, dormitory and scriptorium. But looming over them, and rendering even these impressive edifices insignificant
was the minster, a fabulous array of towers, pinnacles and delicately filigreed windows. Bartholomew had seen many cathedrals in his life, but York’s was certainly one of the finest.

Master Langelee came to stand next to him, breathing in deeply the air that was rich with the scent of spring. It was a glorious day, the sun already bathing the city in shades of gold. It was a far cry from the miserably grey weather they had experienced in Cambridge, when it had drizzled for weeks, and the days had been short, dismal and sodden. Proud of his native city, Langelee began to point out landmarks.

‘Besides the abbey and the minster, there are some sixty other churches, hospitals and priories. From here, you can see St Leonard’s Hospital, St Olave’s—’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Michael, shifting irritably in his bed before the Master could name them all. ‘We know. You spoke of little else the entire way here.’

‘We had better make a start if we want to be home by the beginning of next term,’ said John Radeford, standing up and stretching. ‘We do not know how long this dispute will take to resolve.’

‘Not long,’ determined Langelee. ‘I remember quite clearly Zouche saying on his deathbed that Michaelhouse was to have Huntington.’

‘Then it is a pity you did not tell him to write it down,’ remarked Radeford. ‘Documents are what count in a case like this, not what people allege to have heard.’

‘I am not “alleging” anything,’ objected Langelee indignantly. ‘He said it.’

‘I am not disputing that,’ said Radeford impatiently: they had been through this before. ‘But the letter you received from Sir William Longton says that the codicil relating to this particular benefaction cannot be found.
Our rivals will ask us to prove our case, and that will be difficult.’

‘The vicars-choral,’ said Langelee with rank disapproval. ‘They always were a greedy horde, and this business shows they have not changed. They have no right to flout Zouche’s wishes by claiming Huntington for themselves.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, reluctantly prising himself from his bed; there was no hope of further repose if his colleagues were going to chatter. ‘And it is fortunate that your friend wrote to tell us what was happening, or we might have been permanently dispossessed. I am no lawyer, but I know it is difficult to reclaim property once someone else has laid hold of it.’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Radeford. ‘The last case in which I was involved took seven years to settle.’

‘Seven years?’ Bartholomew was horrified, and turned accusingly to Langelee. ‘You said it would take a few days. I knew I should not have come!’

Langelee regarded him coolly. ‘You came because I ordered you to, and as a mere Fellow, you are obliged to do what I say. Besides, you said you wanted to visit the minster library, which has the finest collection of books in England. Or so I have been told.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply, for the first time wondering whether he had been sensible to believe the Master’s promises of what would be on offer in York. Langelee was not always truthful, and his general indifference to learning hardly made him a reliable judge of such matters.

‘And there are the hospitals,’ Langelee went on. ‘St Leonard’s is a massive foundation, and you are certain to learn a good deal there. Look – you can see it from here.’

He pointed, and Bartholomew saw he had not been exaggerating about that at least. It
was
massive, with smart red-tiled roofs and a sizeable laundry, which led the
physician to hope that hygiene might feature in its daily life. He preached constantly in Cambridge about the benefits of cleanliness, but neither his medical colleagues nor his patients were very willing to listen. However, the sheer size of the building dedicated to washing in St Leonard’s gave him a sudden surge of hope.

‘But you are forbidden to offer anyone your professional services,’ warned Michael, retreating prudishly behind a screen to perform his morning ablutions; he hated anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘We brought you here to rest, not to exchange one set of patients for another.’

‘Quite,’ growled Langelee. ‘You may observe, read and discuss, but you may not practise. We cannot afford to hire another
medicus
to teach your classes if you collapse from overwork.’

‘There are better ways to rest than being dragged the length of the country,’ grumbled Bartholomew, declining to admit that the tiredness he had experienced on the journey was the healthy weariness of a day spent in fresh air, not the crushing fatigue that had dogged him at home.

Langelee did not deign to reply. ‘Where is Cynric?’ he asked instead.

Cynric, the fifth and last member of their party, was Bartholomew’s book-bearer, a wiry, superstitious Welshman, who was more friend than servant.

‘I sent him to fetch some bread and ale,’ replied Radeford. ‘I know Abbot Multone has invited us to join him for breakfast, but we should not waste time on lengthy repasts.’

‘It is not wasting time,’ objected Michael, who liked a good meal. He emerged from the screen a new man: his lank brown hair was neatly combed around a perfectly round tonsure, and he wore a habit sewn from the best cloth money could buy. He was tall as well as fat, so a good
deal of material had been used to make its full skirts and generous sleeves. ‘It is being polite to our hosts.’

‘We can be polite once we have a better idea of where we stand with Huntington,’ argued Radeford. ‘It would be a pity to go home empty-handed, just because we squandered hours in—’

‘We will not go home empty-handed,’ vowed Langelee. ‘First, Michaelhouse is in desperate need of funds and we cannot afford to lose a benefaction. And second, and perhaps more importantly, it was what Zouche wanted. I owe it to
him
to see his wishes fulfilled.’

Partly because he was loath to offend the Abbot by rejecting an invitation, but mostly because he was hungry, Michael overrode Radeford, and insisted on eating breakfast in the frater. They all walked there together, admiring the monastery’s grounds and the many elegant buildings that graced them.

‘This will be easy to defend in times of trouble,’ remarked Cynric, looking around approvingly. ‘It is enclosed by high walls, and could seal itself off completely, should it choose.’

‘And I imagine it does choose, on occasion,’ said Radeford. ‘An abbey as obviously wealthy as this one must attract much unwanted attention.’

‘Actually, people tend to leave it alone,’ replied Langelee. ‘It is the Benedictine
priory
– Holy Trinity – that draws the trouble.’ He pointed across the river, to where sturdy walls and a squat tower could be seen in the distance. ‘Riots there were almost a daily occurrence when I lived here.’

‘Why?’ asked Cynric. ‘And why are there two Benedictine foundations in the same city?’

‘Actually, there are three,’ said Langelee with undisguised pride. ‘Because there is a nunnery, too. But Holy Trinity attracts dislike because it is an
alien
house, owned
and run by the monks of Marmoutier in France. And as we are currently at war with the French, Holy Trinity is accused of harbouring spies.’

‘And do they?’ asked Cynric, looking as if he might stage an assault himself if the answer was yes. The Welshman was nothing if not patriotic.

‘Of course not,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although French intelligencers
are
at work in York. I spent years trying to catch them when I was employed by Zouche. But they are not in Holy Trinity.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘My Order would not condone that sort of thing.’

‘Prior Chozaico’s monks rarely leave their precinct for fear of being lynched,’ Langelee went on. ‘I would hate such confinement personally, but he says his is a contemplative Order, so his brethren do not object to being virtual prisoners. They are happy to stay inside and pray.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Radeford, ‘because I suspect York has much to offer.’

‘Oh, it does,’ Langelee assured him keenly. ‘The brothels are second to none, and we shall visit a few later, when it is dark.’

Bartholomew laughed when the others blinked their astonishment at the remark. As scholars, he, Langelee and Radeford were supposed to forswear relations with women, while Michael was a monk and Cynric was married. All the Fellows ignored the prohibition on occasion, but discreetly, and the notion of a brothel-crawl under the guidance of the Master was an activity none of them had anticipated as being on offer.

‘Of course, the best place for entertainment is the Benedictine nunnery,’ Langelee went on blithely. ‘Prioress Alice was in charge when I was here. And
she
knew how to enjoy herself.’

Michael stopped walking abruptly. ‘Is there anything else I should know before we go any farther? One of my Order’s foundations is accused of sheltering French spies, while another is famous for its recreational pursuits. What about
this
abbey – what does
it
do to make a name for itself? Should we lodge elsewhere? I have my reputation to consider, you know.’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Abbot Multone keeps good order, and nothing remotely exciting ever happens here. Your reputation will be quite safe at St Mary’s, Brother.’

The frater was as attractive on the inside as on the outside, with religious murals designed to inspire the monks to holy thoughts as they consumed their victuals. Bartholomew had been in enough Benedictine houses to know this was a ploy that rarely worked. It was an Order that fed its members well, and the monks’ attention tended to focus on their food, not on the walls.

He was hard pressed not to gape when it began to arrive, used as he was to the frugal fare of Michaelhouse. There was fresh fish, an impressive array of cheeses, several kinds of bread, stewed fruit and ale served in jugs large enough to be called buckets. The meal reflected the fact that the abbey was not only rich enough to buy whatever it chose, but that it was located in a city with access to the sea – goods were available both from the surrounding countryside and from overseas, which accounted for some of the more exotic wares provided.