She regarded him askance. ‘No one murdered Myton – those sort of rumours always circulate when a man dies in his prime, but there was no truth in them. I refer to the fact that Gisbyrn competed so aggressively that Myton lost every penny of his fortune. Myton was an old-fashioned merchant, you see, who operated on a code based on honour and trust.’
Bartholomew’s eyes strayed to Helen, who was looking from side to side as Langelee and Michael vied for her attention. ‘Yet Gisbyrn was kind to Lady Helen when her husband died.’
Alice gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Naturally! The arrangement gave him access to her money, and he used it to benefit himself as well as her. Of course, he was far from pleased when she chose Sir William as a beau – the brother of his arch-enemy.’
‘That particular betrothal seems to have ended.’
Alice nodded. ‘But we all live in hope that she will agree to resume their courtship when she feels William has had sufficient time to grieve for his first wife. She is right, of course: no one wants to compete with a ghost.’
Bartholomew continued to stare at Helen, thinking her a lovely woman, although it was not her looks and figure that made him think so, as much as her character. She was intelligent, quick to smile and the stances she took on the various issues raised by Michael and Langelee told him that she was principled, too. He moved closer, so he could listen to her.
‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I learned my uncle’s chantry money had run out,’ she was telling Langelee. She gestured to her female guests. ‘We have started to raise funds for it ourselves, but such structures are costly, and it will take us years to amass what we need.’
‘But we will succeed,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘He was kind, honest and thoughtful, and deserves our best efforts. He encouraged me to learn about theology, and how many men would do that?’
‘Not many,’ agreed Helen. ‘He ministered to the sick during the Death, too, even though he was unwell himself, and he was never too busy to hear their confessions.’
‘No,’ nodded Langelee, although Bartholomew noticed the Master was more interested in her cleavage than her opinions. ‘I accompanied him during those dark times, of course.’
‘You did?’ asked Helen, startled. ‘I do not recall you being there.’
‘Because I am discreet,’ averred Langelee. ‘Of course you did not notice me.’
Bartholomew doubted he had done anything of the kind, but Helen smiled and took his hand in a silent gesture of appreciation. Unwilling to be outshone, Michael began to regale her with an entirely fictitious account of his plague-time activities, and Bartholomew was surprised to find himself resentful. He really had worked untiringly and without regard for his own safety during those bleak months, but he could never have brought himself to brag about it.
‘Speaking of the pestilence, I hear you ventured into St Mary ad Valvas yesterday,’ said Alice after a while, during which time the assembly might have been forgiven for thinking that the disease would still be with them had it not been for the Herculean efforts of Michael and Langelee.
‘We did,’ said Michael. ‘It is a nasty place, full of dead animals.’
‘Full of dead people, too,’ said Helen. ‘Its entire congregation was buried in the chancel when the cemetery proved unsuitable, and it is said that their souls moan there on certain moonlit nights.’
Bartholomew was glad Cynric had not accompanied them, sure he would have believed it. ‘Are there plans to dig them up and rebury them properly?’ he asked, before realising that this was hardly a subject that would encourage Helen to think well of him.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘And wise people stay away from the place. Not only is it cursed, but the roof is unstable and set to collapse. Dean Talerand should erect barriers around it, to keep people out.’
‘He is too busy ensuring that his rivals do not try to oust him from office again,’ said Alice. She smirked as she explained to the scholars. ‘There were two other men who thought they should be Dean, and keeping them at bay has left Talerand with scant time for St Mary ad Valvas.’
‘No time for his library, either,’ said Michael acidly. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Bartholomew, unable to prevent himself from shooting Langelee an accusing glance. The deception still rankled.
‘I remember the dispute for the deanery,’ said Langelee, ignoring them both. ‘Three different men claimed they had been appointed to the title – one by Zouche, one by the Pope and the other by the minster’s canons.’
‘Such situations are not unusual,’ said Michael. ‘Especially for a post that will confer on its holder great wealth and power. I would not mind having it myself.’
It was not the first time Michael had expressed a desire to hold high office, although Bartholomew had been under the impression that he would accept nothing less than an abbacy or a bishopric. The physician wondered whether it was the prospect of spending more time with Lady Helen that had encouraged him to revise his ambitions downwards.
‘Please do not issue a challenge,’ said Helen, laughing. ‘Poor Talerand must be weary of fighting. And apart from St Mary ad Valvas and the library, he manages the office well.’
‘But I would make a very good dean,’ insisted Michael. He smiled at her. ‘And I confess myself to be most charmed by York.’
‘It is a splendid city,’ declared Alice with pride. ‘We are famous for all manner of things – the quality of our manufactured goods, the beauty of our buildings, our unique and varied culture. And speaking of culture, how goes The Conversion of the Harlot?’
Isabella smiled. ‘Master Radeford has just agreed to come to another rehearsal later this evening. Incidentally, I am thinking of expanding the first section, for it skimps on the theological analysis of the Creation. I feel it needs to be longer.’
‘You may find your audience restless if you do,’ warned Bartholomew, recalling that the opening scene was already tediously lengthy.
‘Restless? But it is about theology!’ cried Isabella, her wide eyes revealing that her bemusement was genuine. ‘They will be captivated.’
‘This is the best soup I have ever had,’ declared Radeford, when Bartholomew was not sure how to reply and everyone else began to smirk. The lawyer had an elegant bowl in one hand and his silver spoon in the other. ‘Does it contain mint?’
Isabella smiled shyly. ‘I took the recipe from one of the books in Abbot Multone’s solar.’
‘If Master Radeford could win her heart, I should be very grateful,’ whispered Alice to Bartholomew, as the discussion ranged off on an appreciation of the monastery’s remarkable collection of culinary texts. ‘Isabella should not be allowed to wither in a convent when she would make an excellent wife for a lawyer.’
‘I am sure he will be delighted to hear that you think so,’ said Bartholomew.
CHAPTER 4
The next day showed no improvement in the weather. It had rained most of the night, and through the hospitium window Bartholomew could see that the Ouse was a swollen, brown torrent. He wondered if it would burst its banks and flood the city.
‘It might,’ replied Langelee. ‘It has certainly happened before. But it rains a lot in this part of the world, so the river often looks like that. The chances are that it will subside without problems.’
He broke off, because breakfast had arrived and Michael was speeding towards it. Langelee had a healthy appetite himself, and was loath to go short, but he need not have worried, because the abbey was absurdly generous. There was bread, soft cheese, pickled herrings and a vat of pottage. Bartholomew and Radeford each ate two bowls of the pottage, but the basin in which it came was so huge that their incursions made no visible impact.
‘I am sorry Sub-Chanter Ellis wields such power over the vicars-choral,’ said Radeford, shoving his silver spoon in the pouch on his belt without giving it even the most cursory of wipes. ‘His brethren are reasonable men, and I am sure our dispute could be set
tled amiably if one of the others was in charge. Particularly Jafford.’
‘Ellis has always been aggressive,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been sub-chanter for years, because he bullies his fellows into re-electing him. There is an occasional break, when they are brave enough to vote for someone else, but I suspect Cave’s rise to power will put an end to that – he will intimidate anyone wanting a change of regime.’
‘Abbot Multone wants to see you,’ said Oustwyk, appearing so suddenly at the door that Bartholomew wondered if he had been eavesdropping.
Langelee sighed irritably. ‘What, again? We have a great deal to do now that Thoresby has charged us to find who shot Sir William, and we have no time for idle chatter.’
‘It is not idle chatter,’ objected Oustwyk, offended. ‘He wants to enquire after your progress with Huntington, and to solicit your opinions about the possibility of a French invasion.’
‘A French invasion?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘How are we expected to know about that?’
‘Doctor Bartholomew was at the Battle of Poitiers; Master Langelee knows a lot about dangerous foreigners from when he tried to hunt down those spies; and you are in regular contact with the Bishop of Ely, who is currently in Avignon,’ replied the steward tartly. ‘Of course you can provide him with information about the French.’
Bartholomew marvelled that Oustwyk had found out so much about them; he had certainly not mentioned his experiences two years before, when unfortunate timing had put him with the English army when it had met a much larger French force. Cynric had thoroughly enjoyed the battle and the victory that followed, but Bartholomew had never been inclined to glorify what had been a distressingly bloody experience. Meanwhile, Michael rarely discussed his relationship with the powerful but devious prelate who had Cambridge in his See, and Langelee had been uncharacteristically reticent about his work for Zouche since arriving in York.
‘You three go; I will make a start in the library.’ Radeford grimaced. ‘Given that I have been allocated the formidable task of winning Huntington alone, while the rest of you chase murderous archers and chantry funds, I am the one who can least afford to squander time.’
‘True,’ agreed Langelee, unrepentant. ‘When we have finished with Multone, I shall explore the lost money, while Michael and Bartholomew discover who shot William.’
‘Very well,’ sighed Michael, before Bartholomew could say that he would far rather visit St Leonard’s Hospital again. ‘We shall start by questioning the victim himself. I understand he lives near the Carmelite Priory.’
‘Opposite,’ nodded Oustwyk. ‘On the street called Fossgate. But be careful when you are there, because the White Friars love to sue people. Last year, they challenged this abbey over a house on Petergate and won, even though everyone said it should have been ours.’
‘I shall listen to gossip in the taverns,’ offered Cynric, making them all jump – he had been so quiet that they had forgotten he was there. ‘Oustwyk has told me which ones will be the most promising. I shall ask questions about Sir William, the chantry money and the vicars’ greedy interest in Huntington.’
When Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee reached the Abbot’s House, they saw a dozen men outside, divided into two distinct packs – one in a livery of red and gold, and the other in plain brown homespun. All were large, loutish individuals who looked as though they enjoyed fighting, and were eyeing each other speculatively, as if keen to hone their skills there and then.
‘Henchmen,’ whispered Oustwyk in explanation. ‘The ones in uniform belong to Longton, while the others work for Gisbyrn and Frost. Now Sir William is shot, we shall be seeing more of them – the stakes have been raised, see, and the leaders will be wanting protection.’
He ushered the scholars into Multone’s solar, where they discovered that the Abbot was not the only one interested in hearing their opinions. Four guests were there, too. The first was Dalfeld, resplendent in another new tunic; the second was Mayor Longton; the third was Frost; and the last was a sober, neat fellow in black with tired eyes.
‘Roger Zouche!’ exclaimed Langelee when he saw him. ‘I am shocked to find your brother’s chantry unfinished. He appointed you as one of his executors because he trusted you.’
Roger winced, and his friendly grin of greeting faded. ‘I am sorry, too. When the money ran out I raised some to pay for it myself, but Mayor Longton imposed a new set of taxes …’
‘The city’s safety is far more important than memorials for the dead,’ said Longton in a pompous voice that was calculated to aggravate. Roger scowled at him.
‘Safety?’ growled Langelee. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘These French spies,’ elaborated Longton. He sighed, releasing a wine-perfumed gust of breath. ‘They send information to our enemies, and I am expecting an invasion at any day. But preparations for our defence cost money, so of course I impose levies on those who can pay.’
‘When I realised you might be able to provide us with a new perspective, I invited Longton and Gisbyrn to hear it,’ said Multone. ‘We all share a common enemy, and—’
‘But Gisbyrn could not be bothered to attend,’ interrupted Longton, indicating that the Abbot’s efforts to broker peace had misfired. ‘He sent his lackeys instead – Roger and Frost.’
The ‘lackeys’ exchanged a weary glance, but made no reply to the insult and only took their seats at the table, waiting patiently for the scholars to tell them what they knew.
‘And you?’ demanded Michael of Dalfeld, declining to oblige. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I represent Archbishop Thoresby,’ replied Dalfeld loftily. ‘He often uses me as his envoy, and he asked me to provide him with a concise and accurate analysis of what you say here today.’
‘It is true,’ said Multone, when Langelee gave a scornful snort. ‘Dalfeld has risen in standing and importance since you lived here.’
‘Zouche would never have appointed a scoundrel to represent him,’ muttered Langelee, eyeing the lawyer with dislike. Dalfeld opened his mouth to reciprocate in kind, but the Master pointedly turned his back on him and addressed the others. ‘What did you want to ask us, gentlemen?’
‘As I said, a French invasion is imminent,’ replied Longton. ‘And I need information that will allow me to repel it.’ He sneered at the merchants. ‘And I do not care how much the resulting preparations will cost in taxes.’
‘Whose fault is it that the French know so much about us?’ demanded Frost, finally nettled into a retort. ‘If you had done your job and caught the spies that have plagued us all these years, we would not need to worry.’
‘Frost speaks the truth,’ said Roger quietly. ‘We intercepted a report only a week ago that gave exact details of when our ships would sail and the cargoes they would carry. Your ineptitude in this matter is a serious risk to commerce.’
‘Commerce!’ jeered Longton in rank disdain. ‘Who cares about commerce?’
‘It is what makes us all rich, Longton,’ interjected Dalfeld silkily. ‘Even you would suffer if the French seized all York’s ships, for then who would pay your taxes?’
Repeating the word ‘taxes’ was enough to ignite Frost’s temper, as Dalfeld had no doubt anticipated. ‘Taxes! It is just another word for theft – stealing money from honest men.’
‘There are no honest merchants in York,’ countered Longton. ‘Besides, if you did not cheat the city of its due with your sly interpretations of our laws, we would not need to make them so high.’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Multone, distressed. ‘We are here to discuss the French, not to quarrel. So ask these scholars what you would like to know, and then let us be about our business.’
Roger and Frost posed intelligent questions about the possible ways in which the spies might be communicating with their masters, and listened keenly to what Langelee and Michael had to say in reply. Then Longton demanded a résumé of French battle tactics, which Bartholomew supplied, although the physician seriously doubted
it would ever be put to use – pirates might raid York, but he was sure there would never be a formal fight between armies, as there had been at Poitiers.
‘Will you visit my brother today, Bartholomew?’ asked Longton, when the meeting was at an end and everyone was moving towards the door. He glared at Roger and Frost. ‘He is improving, although those who tried to murder him will be disappointed by the news.’
‘We did not harm him,’ said Roger coolly. ‘However, Sir William is a skilled warrior, so perhaps these French spies shot him to ensure he cannot fight them when their army arrives.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Dalfeld, a sly expression on his face. ‘The culprit is probably from Michaelhouse, as part of a convoluted plot to deprive the vicars-choral of their lawful inheritance.’
Longton, Roger and Frost frowned, bemused at this remark, and Multone made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat before bundling Dalfeld unceremoniously through the door and closing it after him. Then he wiped his hands on his habit, as if he considered them soiled.
‘I cannot abide that fellow,’ he said, grimacing in distaste. ‘I wish Thoresby had chosen someone else to represent him, because being in his company is like entertaining the Devil – you cannot take your eyes off him for an instant lest he eats all the pastries.’
It was a strange analogy, but Longton nodded understanding. ‘You put it well, Father Abbot. Dalfeld is not conducive company, although he is certainly the best lawyer in York.’
Roger and Frost voiced their agreement, and as they had not concurred with anything else Longton had said that day, Bartholomew could only suppose he was right.
Outside, the henchmen fell in at their masters’ heels, and both parties moved towards the gate, where some unedifying jostling took place until they were all through. Langelee walked with Roger, his angry gestures revealing that he was berating him again for failing to finish his brother’s chantry.
‘He is wasting his time,’ said Michael, watching. ‘I have seen other incidences where funds are provided for a specific purpose, but lack of supervision results in them trickling away – supplies are bought that fail to arrive, or that sit around for so long they are used for something else; craftsmen are paid in advance for work they forget to do; long delays mean work needs to be started again …’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 10