Mystery in the Minster (3 page)

‘If we eat like this every day, we shall go home the size of Michael,’ muttered Radeford to Bartholomew, as enough pottage was ladled into his bowl to feed a family for a week. He produced the silver spoon he always used at meals, being of the firm belief that horn ones were
unhygienic. It was dirty from the last time he had eaten with it, so he wiped it on his cloak, a practice Bartholomew was sure negated any sanitary advantages the metal might have conferred.

‘I heard that,’ said the monk, offended. ‘I am not fat, I have heavy bones. It is a medical fact, as Matt will attest.’

Before Bartholomew could remark that it was not a medical fact recognised by any physicians, Abbot Multone, a short, bustling man with large white eyebrows, regarded them admonishingly.

‘We maintain silence during meals at St Mary’s.’

Thus rebuked, the only sounds for the rest of the repast were the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the mumble of a monk reading from the scriptures. Meals were supposed to be taken in silence in Michaelhouse, too, but scholars were a talkative crowd, and it was a rule they seldom followed.

‘Right,’ said Langelee, when the Abbot had intoned a final grace, signalling the end of the silence. ‘Now let us be about our business before we can be delayed any further.’

‘It is raining!’ exclaimed Michael in dismay as he stepped through the door. ‘How did that happen? The weather was glorious before we went inside.’

‘It is only a shower,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘It will soon clear up.’

‘It will not,’ muttered Cynric, appearing at Bartholomew’s side and making the physician jump by whispering suddenly in his ear. He crossed himself as he squinted up at the sky. ‘Look at the blackness of those clouds, boy! It is an omen – something very bad will happen to us here.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, who rarely took his book-bearer’s predictions seriously. ‘Besides, I am going home in a few days whether we have secured Huntington or not – I
will never catch up if we miss the beginning of term, and we cannot afford to leave Father William in charge for too long. So there will not be time for dire misfortunes to befall us.’

‘There will,’ insisted Cynric earnestly. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, and although the rational part of his mind dismissed the warning as a lot of superstitious drivel, there was something about the utter conviction in the Welshman’s words that left him with a distinct sense of unease.

Langelee and his Fellows had just reached the abbey’s main gate when a voice caught their attention. A monk was running towards them, waving frantically. He was a short man, with bright eyes and a narrow head that gave him the appearance of an inquisitive hen.

‘Good. I caught you before you escaped. Come with me – Abbot Multone wants to see you.’

‘Why?’ asked Radeford anxiously. ‘Because if it is to berate us for chatting during breakfast, you can assure him it will not happen again. We are sorry.’

The monk grinned. ‘No, he just wants to meet you properly. I am Oustwyk, by the way, his steward. And if you want anything – anything at all – come to me first.’ He winked meaningfully.

‘Thank you,’ replied Michael. ‘Since you have offered, the edibles in your guest house—’

‘We call it the hospitium,’ interrupted Oustwyk. ‘We keep it for less exalted company, although I have always considered it far nicer than the draughty hall we use for wealthy visitors – the ones from whom we aim to wheedle benefactions.’

‘—in the hospitium are reasonably generous,’ Michael
went on, blithely ignoring the subject of donations. Michaelhouse simply could not afford one. ‘But another jug of wine, a bowl of nuts and some pastries would not go amiss. For emergencies, you understand.’

Oustwyk waved a dismissive hand. ‘The hosteller will see to that. I was offering
other
services. I know York better than anyone, and can get you anything you want.’ He glanced at the physician. ‘Such as a hat. People do not go hatless in York. It is not seemly.’

‘He lost it falling off his horse,’ explained Langelee.

Bartholomew winced. He was an appalling rider, and the journey had taken far longer than it should have done because of his inability to control even the most docile of nags. But he disliked his colleagues remarking on it to strangers, even so.

‘Hats, cloaks, shoes,’ said Oustwyk, waving an expansive hand. ‘Women. Or even information.’

‘We can find our own women, thank you,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘I know—’

‘Information?’ interrupted Michael, speaking before the Master could say more than was politic. ‘In that case, you can tell us who
they
are.’

He pointed through the gate to the street, where a procession of thirty or so men in clerical robes was passing. All wore smart black cloaks that billowed impressively in the wind and matching hoods trimmed with white fur. They kept their elegant shoes from the filth of the street with wooden pattens, which made sharp clacking sounds on the cobbles.

‘The vicars-choral,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘They will have finished their prayers in the minster, and are now going shopping in Bootham – a street with excellent cobblers. The vicars like shoes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, bemused by the confidence.

‘You will not have vicars-choral in Cambridge, so I shall tell you about them,’ Oustwyk went on, apparently unaware that Michaelhouse was a quasi-religious foundation, so its members needed no such explanation from him. ‘The minster has canons, appointed to perform various functions, but most of them live away, so they appoint deputies to do their duties. These are called vicars-choral.’

‘Three have broken ranks, and are coming towards us,’ remarked Michael.

Oustwyk nodded. ‘The fat, sly one is Sub-Chanter Ellis, their elected leader. The one who looks like an ape is Cave, his henchman. And the pretty one is Jafford, who is popular with whores.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought Oustwyk’s descriptions were brutally accurate. Ellis
was
portly and his close-set eyes
did
make him appear devious; Cave had heavy brow-ridges and long arms that rendered him distinctly simian; while Jafford’s halo of golden curls and rosy cheeks would not have looked out of place on an angel.

‘Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene,’ explained Oustwyk. ‘In the minster. And as whores feel that particular saint watches over them, they are always hovering around it. The Archbishop disapproves, but Dean Talerand says they have a right to pray there, and Jafford is always very accommodating.’

Before Michael could ask Oustwyk exactly what he was saying about Jafford’s relationship with the city’s prostitutes, the vicars arrived.

‘You must be the scholars from Cambridge,’ said Ellis, with a distinct lack of friendliness. He had fat, red lips, which glistened with saliva. ‘We have been expecting you.’

‘Remember me, Ellis?’ asked Langelee, lifting his hat to reveal his face.

The sub-chanter gaped in astonishment. ‘Langelee? Good God! I know Cambridge is well behind Oxford in academic standing, but I did not imagine it had fallen low enough to admit you!’

Langelee’s grin of greeting faded, and Michael bridled, never one to tolerate criticism of his beloved University. Bartholomew and Radeford exchanged a pained glance, both sorry that the first exchange with their rivals for Huntington should be acrimonious.

‘I am Master of Michaelhouse,’ declared Langelee coldly. ‘It is by far the most scholarly College in the country, and we have the ear of the King.’

Neither claim was true: Michaelhouse was burdened with several members whose intellectual credentials were dubious, Langelee being one of them, while Bartholomew doubted the King was aware it even existed, let alone cared enough to give it his ear. Ellis evidently knew an empty boast when he heard it, because his moist lips curled into a sneer.

‘Then you must appeal to him for Huntington, because you shall not have it from us.’

‘But Zouche wanted it to go to Michaelhouse,’ objected Langelee, in the loudly belligerent voice he used to quell dissent in Fellows’ meetings. ‘And I am here to see his wishes fulfilled.’

The ape-like Cave stepped forward angrily, but Jafford laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. It was too soft to hear, but it stopped his colleague’s advance.

‘Zouche never told
me
that he intended some distant foundation to inherit a local church,’ said Ellis disdainfully. ‘And there are no documents to support your claim.’

‘Myton heard it, too,’ countered Langelee hotly. ‘He …’

‘Myton is dead, as you know perfectly well,’ sneered
Ellis, when the Master faltered. ‘So he is hardly in a pos ition to testify on your behalf.’

‘We were sorry to lose him,’ said Jafford, more gentle than his sub-chanter. ‘He was venerable and discreet, and York has been a poorer place since he went to live with God.’

‘Murdered,’ said Cave with malicious satisfaction. ‘There were rumours that he was murdered.’

‘None of which were proven,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Sir William Longton told me. But never mind Myton. There
will
be written evidence that Zouche wanted Michaelhouse to have Huntington, because he was an efficient administrator, so it is just a question of locating it. Besides, I imagine there is no document to support your claim, either.’

‘No, but he always said we were to have it,’ argued Ellis. ‘It was understood.’

‘He changed his mind,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘He knew our College’s founder, and appreciated the fact that Michaelhouse needs money. Not like you vicars, who already own half of York.’

‘We are fortunate in that respect,’ acknowledged Ellis, licking his lips as if the notion was pleasurable to him. ‘But he always promised us Huntington, and it would be immoral to let it go to an absent landlord. We
will
prevail.’

‘You will have to kill me first,’ vowed Langelee. Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, not liking the way Cave’s eyes glittered, as if contemplating how he would go about it. Again, Jafford’s hand landed warningly on his colleague’s shoulder.

‘There is no need for hot words,’ said Radeford quietly. ‘I am sure we can come to a—’

‘We have hired the best lawyer in York,’ interrupted Ellis, cutting across him contemptuously. ‘So any “evidence” you produce will be very carefully examined.’

It was tantamount to saying that Michaelhouse would cheat, and even Bartholomew, slower than most to take umbrage, was offended. Meanwhile, Michael was outraged, while the blood drained from Langelee’s face and his fists clenched at his sides. Cave threw off Jafford’s restraining hand.

‘It must have been expensive to make this journey,’ he stated, addressing not Langelee, but his three Fellows. ‘But Huntington is poor, so even if you do win, it will be a long time before you recoup your losses. Your Master is not here to help Michaelhouse, but because he thinks to do Zouche’s bidding – a man he loved like a father.’

‘We are not here to quarrel,’ said Radeford quickly, raising his hand as Langelee stepped forward furiously. ‘And there is no reason why this matter cannot be settled amicably.’

‘Settled amicably?’ echoed Ellis, regarding the lawyer as if he was something unpleasant on his shoe. ‘The only settlement we shall accept is your unconditional withdrawal. But we cannot waste time here when we have important matters to attend. Good day to you.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away, pulling Cave with him. Jafford lingered, though.

‘I am sorry,’ he said with a pained smile. ‘The shock of seeing you here must have prompted those hot words. I am sure our next meeting will be more cordial.’

‘We must ensure it is,’ said Radeford, troubled. ‘The last thing we want is conflict.’

Jafford’s smile relaxed as he sensed Radeford’s sincerity. ‘I quite agree.’

With a brief bow, he hurried after his companions, fair curls bobbing. Michael glowered at his retreating back, then addressed Langelee. ‘Please tell me there is no truth in what Cave just said.’

‘Of course there is not,’ snapped Langelee. ‘I
do
want to see Zouche’s last wishes fulfilled, but we are not here because of him. We are here because Michaelhouse needs the money.’

‘Is this why you chose to enrol in Michaelhouse when you came to Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because Zouche had a connection with it?’

‘No. I had forgotten about the bequest when I selected it as a place worthy of my talents. I only remembered two weeks ago, when Sir William wrote to tell me what the vicars were planning.’

‘Who is Sir William again?’ asked Radeford. ‘A friend?’

Langelee nodded. ‘He fought with Zouche and me at the Battle of Neville’s Cross, after which he was knighted. These days, he serves as the minster’s
advocatus ecclesiae
, which means he sees to its interests in various secular matters.’

‘And what about Cave’s other claim?’ persisted Michael. ‘That Huntington is poor. Is that true?’

The defiant expression on Langelee’s face told his colleagues all they needed to know. ‘Beggars cannot be choosers, Brother, and Michaelhouse is penniless. Even a poor church will benefit us.’

‘We had better visit the Abbot,’ said Bartholomew, before they could argue.