Susanna GREGORY: Mystery in the Minster

‘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.