Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Read online

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  The Matthew Bartholomew Series

  A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

  AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  A DEADLY BREW

  A WICKED DEED

  A MASTERLY MURDER

  AN ORDER FOR DEATH

  A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT

  A KILLER IN WINTER

  THE HAND OF JUSTICE

  THE MARK OF A MURDERER

  THE TARNISHED CHALICE

  TO KILL OR CURE

  THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLES

  A VEIN OF DECEIT

  THE KILLER OF PILGRIMS

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  A CONSPIRACY OF VIOLENCE

  BLOOD ON THE STRAND

  THE BUTCHER OF SMITHFIELD

  THE WESTMINSTER POISONER

  A MURDER ON LONDON BRIDGE

  THE BODY IN THE THAMES

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12605-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 Susanna Gregory

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  ALSO BY SUSANNA GREGORY

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  For Michael Kourtoulou

  PROLOGUE

  The Archbishop’s Palace, Cawood, near York, 19 July 1352 William Zouche was dying. He had been unwell before the plague had swept across the country three years before, and had been sorry that the disease should have spared him, a sick man weary from a life of conflict and tangled politics, but had snatched away younger, more righteous souls.

  He was not afraid to die, although he was worried about how his sins would be weighed. He had tried to live a godly life, and had been a faithful servant of the King, even fighting a battle on his behalf and helping to win a great victory over the Scots at Neville’s Cross. It was hardly seemly for an Archbishop of York to indulge in warfare, though, and he regretted his part in the slaughter now, just as he regretted some of the other things he had done in the name of political expediency.

  He was particularly sorry for some of the exploits undertaken by two of his henchmen, although he knew they had been necessary to ensure the smooth running of his diocese. But would God see it that way, or would He point out that the same end could have been achieved more honestly or gently?

  Opening his eyes, Zouche saw his bedchamber was full of people – officials from his minster, representatives from the Crown, chaplains, town worthies, members of his family and servants – all waiting for the old order to finish so they could turn their attention to the new. He was simultaneously saddened and gratified to see a number in tears. For all his faults, he was popular, and many were friends as well as colleagues, kin and subordinates.

  His gaze lit on his henchmen – clever Myton the merchant, weeping openly and not caring who saw his grief, and dear, devoted Langelee, keeping his emotions in check by staring fixedly at the ceiling. Seeing them turned Zouche’s mind again to his sins, and the time his soul might have to spend in Purgatory. It was a concern that had been with him ever since the horror of Neville’s Cross, so he had started to build himself a chantry chapel in the minster, where daily prayers could be said for him – prayers that would shorten his ordeal in the purging fires, and speed him towards Heaven.

  ‘You will see it is completed?’ he asked his executors, the nine men he had appointed to ensure his last wishes were carried out. He loved them all, and had been generous to them in the past with gifts of money, privileges and promotion. He trusted them to do what he wanted, but his chapel was important enough to him that he needed to hear their assurances once again.

  ‘Of course,’ replied his brother Roger gently. ‘None of us will rest until your chantry is ready.’

  ‘And you will see me buried there? You will put me in the nave for the time being, but when my chapel is completed, you will move my bones into it?’

  They nodded, several turning away, not wanting him to see their distress at this bald reminder of his mortality. Reassured, Zouche leaned back against the pillows. Now he could die in peace.

  Cambridge, March 1358

  It had been an unpleasantly hectic term for the scholars of Michaelhouse. As usual, the College was desperately short of funds, so the Master had enrolled additional students in order to charge them fees. The strategy had been a disaster. Their presence meant classes were larger than his Fellows could realistically teach, and the extra money soon disappeared, leaving more mouths to feed but scant resources with which to do it. So when the bell sounded to announce the end of the last lesson before Easter, and the students clattered out of the hall to ready themselves for their journeys home, all the Fellows heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed John Radeford as he entered the conclave, the one room in the College where Fellows could escape from their youthful charges – not that there had been much opportunity to use it of late. He was a handsome, neatly bearded man of medium height who taught law. ‘I do not think I could have endured another day! Had I known you worked this hard, I would never have enrolled in Michaelhouse last month.’

  ‘It has been difficult,’ agreed Brother Michael, a portly Benedictine theologian who was also the University’s Senior Proctor. He was sprawled in one of the fireside chairs, uncharacteristically dishevelled. ‘And the gloomy weather has not helped – we have not seen the sun in weeks.’

  ‘Mud and drizzle,’ nodded Father William. He was a grubby, opinionated Franciscan of dubious academic ability. His students often complained that they knew more about their subject than he did, but he was blessed with an arrogant confidence equal to none, and rarely allowed their criticism to trouble him.

  ‘I am worried about Bartholomew,’ said Radeford, pouring himself a cup of the College’s sour wine and sinking wearily on to a bench. ‘He has vast numbers of patients to see, as well as teaching our medical students. It is too much, and he looked ill this morning.’

  ‘One was waiting for a consultation the moment teaching was over.’ Michael’s plump face creased in concern: Bartholomew was his closest friend, and Radeford was not the only one who had noticed the toll the physician’s responsibilities were taking. ‘He did not even have time for a restorative cup of claret before he left – not that this vile brew would have revived his spirits.’

  ‘The pressure will ease now term is over,’ said William soothingly. ‘Incidentally, I am going to adjust the marks of a few of my lads, so they graduate early. It will lighten my burden considerably, and thus save me from an early grave. I recommend you d
o the same.’

  ‘That would be unethical, Father,’ said Radeford sharply. ‘We have a moral obligation to—’

  He was interrupted when the door flew open, and the College’s Master entered. Ralph de Langelee looked more like the warrior he had once been than a philosopher, with his barrel chest and brawny arms. He was not a good scholar, having scant interest in the subjects he was supposed to teach, and his colleagues often wondered why he had not stuck to soldiering. But he was an able administrator, and even his most vocal detractors acknowledged that his rule was diligent and fair.

  ‘I have just received a letter,’ he announced, anger tight in his voice. ‘From York.’

  ‘From your former employer?’ asked William politely. ‘The Archbishop?’

  Michael and Radeford exchanged an uneasy glance. They knew from the stories Langelee had told them that he had engaged in all manner of dubious activities on the prelate’s behalf – bullying enemies, delivering bribes, acquiring properties for the minster by devious means. There had also been hints of even darker deeds, but he had not elaborated and they had not asked, feeling it might be wiser to remain in ignorance. Thus neither was comfortable with the fact that such a man should have contacted their Master now.

  ‘He is dead.’ An expression of great sadness flooded Langelee’s blunt features. ‘I wish he were not – he was a good man.’

  ‘Is that why the letter was sent?’ asked Michael, struggling to hide his relief. ‘To inform you of John Thoresby’s demise?’

  ‘It is not about Thoresby,’ snapped Langelee. ‘He is hale and hearty, as far as I know. I was referring to William Zouche, who was Archbishop before him. He died almost six years ago now, but I still miss him – he was a friend, as well as the man who paid my wages. Thoresby hired me afterwards, but working for him was not the same at all.’

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER 1

  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.’

  ‘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.’