Susanna GREGORY - Mystery in the Minster

Anketil flinched. ‘I know, and I would have done what he asked, had it been in my power. But the money is gone. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise, but…’

‘I agree with Master Langelee,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘My poor uncle’s bones still lie in the minster’s nave, whereas he expected to be in his tomb by now, one with an altar, so that prayers can be said to speed his soul out of Purgatory.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Langelee in a strained voice. ‘It was important to him.’

‘When I make money from my theological treatises, I shall donate every penny to his chapel,’ vowed Isabella. She smiled wanly at Langelee. ‘His real friends will see his wishes granted.’

Dalfeld, making no effort to disguise the fact that he was bored with the discussion, turned to Multone. ‘Give me your blessing, Father, and then I shall be about my own affairs.’

The Abbot started to raise his hand before realising that he could not bless anyone with a roll of parchment stuffed up his sleeve. He faltered, and a sly grin stole across Dalfeld’s face when he saw that his ploy to force Multone to reveal it was going to work. Seeing the Abbot’s predicament, Chozaico stepped forward, and performed the service instead.

‘I do not want your benediction,’ the lawyer snapped, showing his anger at being thwarted by knocking Chozaico’s hand away. ‘I do not treat with French traitors!’

Bartholomew held his breath, anticipating an unedifying row, but Chozaico only bowed politely to Multone and took his leave, indicating with a nod that Anketil was to go with him. Alice and Isabella also took the opportunity to depart, and when Dalfeld followed, Radeford hurried after him, asking how he could be so certain that no codicil existed. Langelee and Michael were hot on his heels, apparently distrusting their mild-mannered colleague to extract the truth from so devious and unpleasant a man.

Bartholomew followed more sedately, and only after he had thanked the Abbot again for his hospitality, feeling that to tear away as abruptly as the others would be unmannerly. Sir William trailed him down the stairs, remarking wryly that his own business with Multone could wait until the Abbot had had a chance to regain his composure after his trying morning.

‘It has stopped raining, but the wind has picked up,’ the knight said conversationally, as he and Bartholomew walked towards the monastery’s main gate together. ‘Do you have no hat? It is not a good idea to walk around York without one.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, loath to admit to a knight – a man with elite equestrian skills – that he had lost it falling off a horse.

‘Because we have narrow streets,’ explained William. ‘And our residents are in the habit of hurling night-soil out of their windows. You will not want that in your hair, because it is difficult to rinse out. But you can buy one here – York is full of fine hats.’

Bartholomew was sure it was, and was equally sure they would be well beyond his meagre means. He had his College stipend and the money he was paid by his wealthier patients, but most of his customers were poor, and could not afford the medicines he prescribed. As there was no point in tending them if they did not have access to the remedies that would make them better, he bought them himself, a practice that made him popular among Cambridge’s paupers, but which meant that items like new hats were a luxury he would have to do without.

However, he soon saw Sir William’s point about the inadvisability of venturing out sans adequate protection, because it was not long before something brown and sticky slapped into his shoulder. He could not be certain, but he thought he glimpsed a hulking figure with a fur-edged hood and pattens ducking out of sight. Vicars did not hurl muck at people in Cambridge, and he wondered whether Cave was completely in control of his wits.

‘Take off your cloak,’ advised Sir William, after attempts to remove the mess had made it worse. ‘And carry it under your arm. We shall keep to the middle of the road from now on, so it will not happen again. Thank God it did not land on your head – the stuff reeks!’

Fortunately, Bartholomew’s wealthy sister had insisted on buying him a new tunic before he had left Cambridge, afraid he would catch his death of cold if he ventured north in the threadbare clothes he usually wore. Its quality was such that, as long as the rain held off, he would not miss the cloak. It was travel stained, but warmer than anything else he had owned in a very long time.

Sir William chatted amiably as they set off again, explaining that the street along which they walked was named Petergate, which continued through the city until it became Fossgate and then Walmgate. He led the way into the minster precinct, where Bartholomew saw his colleagues some distance ahead, talking to a few of the vicars-choral. The discussion appeared to be amiable, and he wondered whether they were trying to make amends for their sub-chanter’s earlier hostility.

But bad-mannered vicars flew from his mind when he turned his attention to the minster, which was even more magnificent close up than it had been from afar. Delicately arched windows soared skywards, interspersed with buttresses and arcades that were simultaneously imposing and elegant. Above him, the lofty towers seemed to graze the dark clouds that scudded overhead, their stone a deep honey-gold in the sullen grey light.

‘It is grand,’ said William, smiling as the physician gazed in open-mouthed admiration. ‘We are very proud of it.’

Bartholomew was about to tell him he had good cause, when there was a hiss followed by a thump. He had seen enough of war to recognise the sound of an arrow hitting flesh when he heard it, and he whipped around to see Sir William crumple, both hands clasped around the quarrel that protruded from his side.

For a moment, Bartholomew was too stunned to do more than stare at Sir William’s prostrate form, but a scream from a passing woman jolted him back to his senses. He dropped to his knees and fought to stem the bleeding with a piece of clean linen from the bag he always carried over his shoulder. He was dimly aware of a crowd gathering, but his mind was on medicine as he pressed on the wound with one hand, and groped for forceps with the other.

As a physician, he should not have been considering a procedure that was the domain of barber-surgeons, but Cambridge had no competent sawbones of its own, and as he was of the opinion that patients should have access to any treatment that might save their lives, he was more skilled at such techniques than he should have been. Working quickly, he inserted the forceps into the wound, careful to place them around the barb, so it could be neutralised before removal.

‘I told you,’ murmured a familiar voice, and Bartholomew glanced up to see Cynric crouching beside him. ‘I said something terrible would happen. This arrow was intended for you.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘At me? Why? I have no enemies here.’

‘No, but Michaelhouse has,’ whispered Cynric. ‘A distant College, which has laid claim to a local church. There will be more than vicars-choral who resent us for it.’

Bartholomew thought it a ludicrous assertion and dismissed it from his mind. He started to ease the arrow out, but William began to writhe, and the book-bearer was unequal to keeping him still. He was on the verge of commandeering help from the spectators, when someone knelt next to him and expertly pinioned the knight’s arms. It was still not enough, but within moments more help arrived in the form of the woman who had shrieked. She was extremely attractive, with olive skin, dark eyes and silky black hair. She was past the first flush of youth, and her figure was mature but shapely. Bartholomew was slightly ashamed when Cynric was obliged to elbow him in order to bring his attention back to medicine.