Dominating all was the cathedral. From a distance, its nave and chancel had appeared low, dwarfed by the tower with its soaring spire, but Bartholomew saw this was an illusion, and the main body of the building was actually impressively lofty. He began to walk around the outside, gazing up at the mighty buttresses, the intricately carved pinnacles, and finally the ancient frieze on the splendid west front. Michael went with him, for once voicing no objection to the extra walking.
When they had finished admiring the exterior, they entered the building through a gate near the south transept, and were immediately assailed by the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, along with the musty smell of damp: somewhere, a roof was leaking. Bartholomew gazed at the ceiling high above, a celebration of colour and carvings. The vaulted nave drew the eye to the chancel screen, which was a joyful jumble of gold, red and blue, and everywhere the stone eyes of saints and angels watched the people who came to pray, do business, chat to the priests or shelter from the cold weather. Michael led the way towards the central crossing, his footsteps echoing in the great vastness of empty space.
‘I always feel so tiny in places like this,’ he whisper ed. He was not easily awed, but Lincoln’s grandeur had impressed him. ‘They tell me I can enjoy as many Lombard slices as I like, because however large I grow, I will always be insignificant.’
‘Go and stand next to a beehive then,’ suggested Bartholomew practically. ‘That should curb any abnormal desires to eat enough to fill a cathedral.’
‘You have no sense of the magnificent,’ said Michael irritably. ‘This is a building fit for God, and I am honoured to be one of its canons.’
‘It is splendid,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Especially those two rose windows.’
‘Bishop Gynewell told me they are meant to represent eyes. The Bishop’s Eye faces south, inviting in the Holy Spirit, while the Dean’s Eye looks north and shuts out the Devil.’
‘You had better not mention that to Cynric, or he will turn it all around and have the bishop ushering in Satan. He has taken a dislike to Gynewell.’
‘Cynric is a superstitious fool, and so are we for letting him talk us out of a sojourn at the Bishop’s Palace. It would be far safer – no one has been stabbed in Gynewell’s guest-hall. God’s blessings, madam. I hope the saints were not too distressed over your late arrival this morning?’
Bartholomew turned to see Dame Eleanor standing nearby, and noted the way her eyes twinkled with amusement at the monk’s mild irreverence. ‘They seem to have survived the inconvenience, thank you. I have just finished my devotions at the Head Shrine and am about to tend Little Hugh.’
‘I am ashamed to confess that I have been too busy to inspect these famous sites so far,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps you might show us now? Can we accompany you to Little Hugh?’
Obligingly, Eleanor took them to the South Choir Aisle. Several pilgrims knelt next to a large stone sarcophagus, and the floor around it was carpeted with leaves and dried flowers. It comprised two sections: a sealed tomb-base, containing Little Hugh’s bones, and an ornately carved canopy above. The canopy was topped by a wooden statue of a child bearing the marks of crucifixion; the relevant parts were picked out in red paint, and were graphic enough to make Bartholomew wince. Pilgrims had left gifts of jewels, coins and prayers scribbled on scraps of parchment; they had been shoved through the canopy’s carved tracery, and could be seen piled untidily within.
‘I sweep up every day,’ whispered Dame Eleanor, gesturing to the vegetation-strewn floor. ‘But I have not had time to do it this morning, hence the mess. Meanwhile, the priests are supposed to collect the written prayers from inside the shrine, because they are the only ones allowed to touch them. They read them aloud, then burn them on the altar, to send them heavenward. All the other oblations go straight to the treasurer, who is trying to raise enough money to repair the roof in the north transept.’
‘What is that?’ asked Michael, pointing to a pottery flask that stood just behind the statue. ‘Do pilgrims leave offerings of wine for the boy, then?’
Eleanor passed it to him. ‘Holy water, Brother. The bishop gives me a jug of it each week. Some I sprinkle on the shrines I have undertaken to serve, some I dab on particularly needy pilgrims, and some I sip when I feel the need for God’s strength inside me. I am nearing seventy years of age, and attribute my good health to the saints and holy water. Will you make a petition to Little Hugh?’
Bartholomew backed away. There was something about the tomb that he did not like, and he was uncomfortable with the notion that the child’s ‘crucifixion’ had been used to justify a massacre of innocent Jews. ‘I would rather see the other shrine,’ he said evasively, trying not to hurt her feelings. ‘Bishop Hugh’s.’
St Hugh of Lincoln had not died a grisly death, like so many others who had been canonised, but he had been a good man, whose honour and integrity had been a bright blaze in a dark world. His massive tomb stood near the High Altar, but his cranium had been separately interred in the Angel Choir – a peaceful area east of the sanctuary, which Hugh had built himself. The Head Shrine was a grand affair surrounded by rough wooden railings, to keep eager pilgrims at bay. It comprised a large, solid plinth topped by a richly decorated chest that held the skull itself. The chest was fitted with handles, so the relic could be removed from its base, and carried about in religious processions. Pilgrims clustered around it. Some knelt quietly, others issued demands for cures, and others still thrust hands and arms through its stone pillars in an attempt to get as close to the saint’s mortal remains as possible. Many had lit candles, and the Angel Choir was full of their wavering light, which turned honey-coloured stone to gold. Several clerics were present, both at the Head Shrine and the nearby Visceral Shrine of Queen Eleanor. Among them was Archdeacon Ravenser, the bishop’s debauched scribe. He was in the process of removing a thick white candle from his sleeve, which he then passed to a Vicar Choral in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilled of pickpockets. After a moment, he produced a second one, and then a third, all of which were lit and set in pride of place on the altar dedicated to St Hugh. Michael frowned before disappearing for a few moments. When he returned, his expression was stern.
‘The High Altar seems to be missing three of its best candles,’ he said sharply, having slipped up behind Ravenser without being heard. The archdeacon jumped in shock at the voice so close to his left ear. ‘I wonder why.’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Ravenser, quickly regaining his composure. ‘John Suttone is in charge of the High Altar this week. I expect he forgot to collect them from the sacristy. Right, Claypole?’
His friend, a toothy fellow who wore a sword openly with his religious vestments, nodded. ‘We are only the poor souls detailed to look after St Hugh’s head – in a corner of the cathedral so draughty that the Host blows all around the altar.’
‘It is a grim part of the building,’ agreed Ravenser, rubbing red eyes and looking as though he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘That old lady in the Gilbertine habit who escorted you here – Dame Eleanor – says the wind is St Hugh’s spirit, chilling all those with evil hearts. She says it never cuts through her, implying she has a pure one, I suppose.’
‘Well, she does,’ said Claypole. ‘And that is why it is unreasonable for her to expect us to follow her example. We are mere mortals, and her standards are impossibly high.’
‘You do not look as though you try very hard,’ said Michael, looking them up and down.
Before either could reply, the choir started to sing, and the voices of boys soared through the chancel, complimented by the lower drone of Vicars Choral and canons. Bartholomew glanced up at the carvings of angels high above, and his imagination led him to wonder whether it was celestial voices that rang so beautifully along the ancient stones.
‘The dean is not warbling, thank God,’ said Claypole, cocking his head to one side. He grinned at Michael. ‘We can tell, because none of the glass is vibra
ting in its frames.’
‘The dean sings like an old tom cat,’ laughed Ravenser.
‘But you must excuse us. It is time to say prayers for the canons who died in the plague – which was all except two, Brother.’
He walked away and Claypole followed, leaving Bartholomew staring after them uneasily. Ravenser’s words had sounded vaguely like a threat. Michael was not paying any attention to the archdeacon and his crony, however; he was listening to the music.
‘It makes me see what a long way from perfection I am with my own efforts at Michaelhouse,’ he said wistfully. ‘My choir will never sing like that.’
‘These are professionals,’ Bartholomew pointed out, not liking to admit the monk was right: the Michaelhouse chorus could rival the Gilbertines for enthusiasm, but without the benefit of any redeeming talent. ‘Do not underestimate yourself, Brother; you have performed little short of a miracle already.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out suddenly to grab someone in the process of darting behind a pillar, apparently as part of a game of hide-and-seek. His captive wore the blue gown of a chorister, which, added to his mop of golden curls, gave him a cherubic appearance.
‘Where does Mayor Spayne live?’ asked the monk mildly, lifting the boy so his feet dangled in thin air. Michael was a strong man, and held the struggling lad as though he was as light as a kitten.
‘Oh,’ said the chorister sheepishly, recognising him and promptly abandoning his startled bid for freedom. ‘Did I point you in the wrong direction, sir?’
‘You did,’ said Michael evenly. ‘Now why would you do that?’
‘It was not you I meant to annoy,’ said the boy, hanging quite comfortably at the end of Michael’s outstretched arm. ‘It was Flaxfleete. I do not like him, even though he is a member of the Guild and they give us marchpanes on the first Sunday of every month.’
‘Was a member,’ corrected Michael. ‘He is dead, so will not be dispensing sweetmeats again.’
The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘Truly? Was he so angry with you for calling at the wrong house, that he challenged you to a fight? With swords? Or perhaps one of those new ribaulds they are using in the French wars? I would like to see men do battle with a pair of those!’ He jerked in the air as he made several violently descriptive gestures with his hands. Michael set him back on his feet.
‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘I am a monk, so I do not carry arms.’
The boy shot him a look that told him to try his claims on someone more gullible. ‘Our canons and Vicars Choral are also men of God, but they would never think of leaving home without a weapon. I am going to have a sword when I am fourteen.’
‘You do not intend to take holy orders, then?’ asked Michael, amused.
The boy shot him another withering look. ‘I am going to be a philosopher. Dame Eleanor tells me I have sharp wits, and will do well at a university.’
‘And how will owning a sword help you with your studies?’
The boy smiled cheerfully. ‘I will be able to defend my arguments better if I have a sharp blade.’
‘You will do well at a university,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think some of my students feel the same way.’
‘Tell me why you have taken a dislike to Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘And why you send innocent victims to his door, just to annoy him.’
The boy shrugged, unabashed. ‘I liked Aylmer, because he let me pick cherries from his trees last year. Flaxfleete hated Aylmer, so I hated Flaxfleete. Besides, Flaxfleete only became a priest because he thought he might hang for arson otherwise. He was a snivelling coward, not a true man at all.’
‘Why did Flaxfleete hate Aylmer?’
The boy shrugged again. ‘Probably because Aylmer was Miller’s friend, and Flaxfleete is Kelby’s. Adults take their squabbles very seriously, although they should just challenge each other to a duel and have done with it. That is what I would do.’
‘What is your name?’ asked Michael, watching him parry and thrust with an imaginary weapon.
‘Hugh Suttone.’ He pointed to the High Altar, where John Suttone – the cleric they had seen at Kelby’s celebration – was sweeping the floor. ‘That is my brother. He is the Clerk who Rouses the People, and this week he is in charge of the High Altar.’ There was pride in his voice.
‘We are friends of your cousin,’ said Michael. ‘The one who is to be installed as a canon.’
‘Thomas,’ said Hugh, with clear disdain. ‘My brother was offended when Thomas picked Aylmer to be his Vicar Choral. He said it should have been him. Do you think Thomas will choose John now Aylmer is dead? We were talking about it this morning, and John said the situation was looking a bit more hopeful.’
Michael tapped him gently under the chin. ‘Possibly, but you should not say this to anyone else. You may make people think John killed Aylmer, just to get his appointment.’
‘He did not, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought the same thing, you see, so I asked him, but he said he has killed no one. He never lies, so he is definitely innocent. Excuse me, Brother. The dean is coming, and I do not want him to lecture me about running in church when I am supposed to be singing.’
He was gone in a flash, leaving Michael quaking with astonished laughter. ‘I should hire him to help me with my investigation. There is something to be said for blunt questions.’
‘Yes, but perhaps not that blunt, Brother.’
Deans were the men who headed a cathedral’s hierarchy, and the office was thus an important one. Lincoln’s was a short man with a perfectly round head, which was bald with the exception of a thin fringe around the sides and back. His eyes were oddly small for the size of his face, which made him appear furtive. A strange clanking sound emanated from his robes as he walked, and Bartholomew saw Hugh dart from the shadows to grab a coin that appeared to have rolled from the dean’s person. He expected the boy to keep it, and was surprised when he trotted to the Head Shrine and dropped it through the railings. Dame Eleanor saw the gesture, too, and patted his shoulder encouragingly.
Three waddling canons intercepted the dean before he could reach Michael and Bartholomew, and the intense, whispered discussion that followed looked as though it might continue for some time, so the two scholars took the opportunity to visit the High Altar while they waited for it to finish, admiring the glitter of gold from a vantage point near Little Hugh’s shrine. When he spotted them, John Suttone came to pass the time of day.
‘I saw you with my young brother,’ he said, with a humourless smile that made him look very like Michaelhouse’s Suttone. ‘He is a rascal, so I hope he was not insolent.’
‘Not today,’ replied Michael. ‘Although the last time we met, he sent us to Kelby’s house when I had actually asked him for directions to Spayne’s.’
John grimaced. ‘He cannot help himself where mischief is concerned. I am sorry I did not make myself known when you tended Flaxfleete on Wednesday, but I had no idea who you were. Bishop Gynewell tells us you have been asked to find Aylmer’s killer – hopefully before the installation ceremony. Is it true?’
Michael nodded. ‘And young Hugh tells me you are not the guilty party, despite the fact that you have a powerful motive – you might benefit from Aylmer’s untimely death.’
John looked alarmed. ‘I have killed no one! And you are wrong to think I have a motive. Cousin Thomas overlooked me once, and there is no reason to suppose he will not do so again.’
‘What about your cathedral colleagues? Do any of them have a reason to kill Aylmer?’
John was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! Most of us prefer the Guild to the Commonalty – an honoured few have even been invited to join its ranks. Conversely, Aylmer was a fully fledged member of the Commonalty, and so naturally people here distrusted him.’
‘Was their “distrust” enough to see him killed?’
‘I imagine so.’ John’s expression became a little spiteful. ‘Will you talk to them all? T
here are thirty Vicars Choral, ten Poor Clerks, twelve choristers, and a dozen chantry priests. Oh, and there are eight archdeacons, too. You will be busy, Brother.’
‘I have faced greater challenges in the past,’ said Michael, unperturbed. ‘But the dean has finished talking to those three fat canons now. We have not met, so will you introduce us?’
John made a choking sound that Bartholomew assumed was a smothered gulp of laughter at the monk’s description of his new colleagues – or perhaps it was a gasp of disbelief that such a portly fellow should so describe men who were, after all, considerably slimmer than him.
‘His name is Simon Bresley,’ said John, controlling himself. ‘He and the bishop are the only cathedral men who do not stand against the Commonalty. Gynewell refuses to be drawn to either side, while Bresley often accepts invitations to dine with Miller and his cronies.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Ask him – the rest of us do not understand it at all. Dean Bresley, may I present Brother Michael? And this is his friend Doctor Bartholomew, who tried to save Flaxfleete two nights ago.’
Bresley nodded a polite greeting, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘The music,’ he explained, when Michael asked if anything was amiss. ‘It is so beautiful this morning that one might be forgiven for forgetting that it emanates from the throats of devils.’
John gave another of his grim smiles, as if anticipating what was coming next, then turned to Michael. ‘Some of my High Altar candles were stolen this morning, and I need to replace them. Please excuse me.’
‘Devils,’ repeated the dean when he had gone. ‘And by “devils” I mean Poor Clerks, choristers and Vicars Choral. They may sing like angels, but they swear, fight, spit, talk through the divine offices, and carry swords under their robes. They are more like pirates than men of God.’
‘These are serious charges,’ said Michael. ‘As a canon, I shall speak out against such practices.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 18