Susanna GREGORY: Mystery in the Minster

‘Why not?’ asked Radeford curiously.

‘Because Zouche’s instructions were always perfectly clear, so I knew exactly what he wanted. By contrast, Thoresby was so subtle that I never knew what he was asking me to do – he spoke in riddles and paradoxes, and it was inordinately frustrating. I was relieved to leave his service and become a scholar, although he wrote me a pretty letter later, saying I would be missed.’

Michael smirked, not at all surprised that a clever and powerful churchman had declined to be specific about requesting some of the things Langelee had claimed to have done. ‘Is the letter from Thoresby, then?’ he asked.

‘It is from an old comrade-in-arms named Sir William Longton,’ replied Langelee. ‘Who writes to inform me that our College is on the verge of being cheated.’

‘Cheated?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘How? We have no connections with York.’

‘On the contrary, Zouche bequeathed Michaelhouse a church in his will. He knew our founder, apparently, and had heard about our ongoing battle with poverty, so he left us the chapel at Huntington, a village three miles or so north of York.’

‘But if Zouche died six years ago,’ said Radeford, puzzled, ‘why was this building not passed to us then?’

Langelee waved the letter. ‘According to Sir William, because Zouche stipulated that we were not to have it until its current priest died or resigned. John Cotyngham was his friend, you see, and Zouche always looked after those.’

‘So are we to assume that Cotyngham is dead, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Or has resigned?’

‘One or the other,’ replied Langelee carelessly. ‘Regardless, Huntington is vacant now. However, Sir William informs me that the minster’s vicars intend to seize it for themselves. We must travel to York immediately, to ensure they do not succeed.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Radeford. ‘It might be difficult to oust them once they have taken possession. Prompt action is certainly required.’

‘I am glad you think so,’ said Langelee slyly. ‘Because you are coming with me. I shall need a decent lawyer, and you are reputed to be one of the best in Cambridge.’

Radeford blushed modestly. ‘I am happy to serve the College any way I can, Master. Shall we leave in three days’ time? That will give us ample opportunity to–’

‘We leave at first light tomorrow,’ determined Langelee. ‘You must come, too, Brother. As Senior Proctor, you have a lot of experience with property deeds, and these vicars will not be easy to defeat. Our College will need all the resources at its disposal.’

‘I cannot!’ cried Michael, aghast. ‘I have duties in the University that–’

‘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 unofficial 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.’