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

  Bartholomew experienced a twinge of guilt. He had been appointed as executor for one of Michaelhouse’s masters, and charged to oversee the building of a grand monument in the church. Unfortunately, he had dallied to the point where the money had devalued, and all that could be managed was a plain black slab. He knew how easy it was to let other matters interfere with such responsibilities, and was sympathetic to the men Langelee intended to persecute.

  He and Michael crossed the yard, and emerged on Petergate, where it began to rain so hard that Bartholomew’s cloak was quickly saturated. Above, the clouds were a solid iron grey, of the kind that showed the bad weather was likely to be with them for some time. The streets were slick with mud, and Michael yelped when a wagon bearing pots clattered past, spraying him with a shower of filth. Bartholomew had managed to duck behind a water butt, so escaped the worst of it.

  ‘We should keep to the smaller streets,’ he said, remembering what Radeford had done the previous day. ‘Carts do not fit down those.’

  ‘Nor do Benedictines with heavy bones,’ remarked Michael, when the alley Bartholomew had chosen constricted so much that he was obliged to walk sideways. ‘Oustwyk gave us clear directions to Sir William’s house, and we should have followed them. I thought you would have learned your lesson about shortcuts after becoming so hopelessly lost with Radeford yesterday.’

  But Bartholomew did not mind. Their wanderings had led them into a pretty district of winding alleys and picturesque courtyards, and he was thoroughly enjoying the diversion. He discovered unexpectedly fine churches, exquisitely crafted guildhalls, and an enormous number of extremely handsome mansions.

  ‘You are leading us in circles,’ declared Michael after a while, uninterested in the jewels of architecture that so amazed the physician. ‘Just as you accused Radeford of doing to you yesterday.’

  ‘At least you are dry,’ said Bartholomew, but at that moment, the wind caught a splattering deluge from a gutter and landed it squarely on the monk’s head. Michael squawked his outrage, and although Bartholomew tried not to laugh, he could not help himself.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Michael. He glanced upwards. ‘I cannot even see enough sky to take a bearing from the sun, so I have no idea how to reach either William’s house or the Franciscan Friary.’

  ‘The clouds are too thick to help you navigate, anyway,’ said Bartholomew defensively, although he knew they should be doing something more profitable than sightseeing.

  ‘I hope you are not dawdling because you resent being put to work hunting the archer,’ said Michael waspishly. ‘I know you would rather be with Fournays, learning new grisly techniques to inflict on your hapless patients when we get home, but if Cynric and Radeford are right, and you were the intended victim, it is in your own interests to see the matter resolved.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘I know. And we are lost by accident, I assure you – dallying will do me no good, when all it does is cut into any free time I might snatch. Besides, I would never leave you to investigate this matter alone, Brother. It may not be safe.’

  ‘Is that why you are wearing a sword?’ asked Michael, eyeing it uncomfortably. ‘I am unused to seeing you armed, except on the open road, when even I have a stave to hand. But never in towns, and I do not like it.’

  Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Langelee insisted. I objected, because physicians are not supposed to wander around looking as though they itch to run someone through, but he said—’

  He stopped in surprise when the alley along which they were squeezing suddenly widened out into a large, open rectangle. An impossible number of stalls had been crushed into it, and the reek of dung, rotting straw and wet livestock was breathtaking.

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, gazing at the spectacle in alarm. ‘I hope you are not intending to pass through this and emerge on the other side. I am not sure it is physically possible – the shops have been placed so that only skeletons will be able to sidle between them. Moreover, there are a lot of filthy animals roaming around, and this is a new habit.’

  Bartholomew saw his point when a bullock was driven past, and although he pressed himself flat against the wall, the beast still managed to deposit a thick layer of muck on his cloak. It was followed by a gaggle of geese, one of which shook itself next to him, providing several white feathers to adhere to the mess.

  The noise was astounding, too. Bartholomew was used to Cambridge, where reluctant livestock were driven to market and iron-shod cartwheels constantly rattled across cobbles, but it was nothing compared to York. Vendors screamed the prices and quality of their wares, and agitated animals honked, brayed, bleated, lowed and squealed back. People haggled in a dialect he could not understand, and the bells of several churches were clanging. When he turned to speak to Michael, he could not hear his own voice above the cacophony.

  Reluctant to go back the way they had come, because he was sure it was the wrong direction, he cut across the top of the square, aware of a medley of grumbles as Michael followed. Another gust caused water to splatter over both of them, and when they reached a church he shot inside it with relief, grateful for the opportunity to pause and take stock of their situation.

  The building was ancient, with thick stone walls that muted the racket from outside. It smelled pleasantly of incense, fresh plaster and beeswax. There was no glass in its windows, and the shutters were closed, rending the place peaceful but dark.

  ‘Welcome to St Sampson’s,’ came a disembodied voice from the gloom. ‘We have his toe.’

  ‘Whose toe?’ asked Michael, disconcerted.

  ‘St Sampson’s. I assume that is why you are here? To inspect it? It attracts many visitors.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew hastily, when Michael seemed about to tell the voice what it could do with its digits. He groped his way to where he thought the speaker was, stumbling over uneven flagstones as he went. Then there was a flare of light, and a lamp was lit.

  ‘Fuel is costly,’ came the explanation. ‘So I only ever use it when people come for the toe. The rest of the time, I sit in the dark. My eyesight is not very good anyway so it makes little difference.’

  ‘Are you the priest?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘I am Marmaduke Constable.’ When the lamp was finally alight the scholars found themselves facing a squat man who seemed abnormally wide for his height. ‘A tall name for such a short fellow, you might say, but we cannot help what our parents do. And I was a priest, but I am one no longer.’

  Bartholomew frowned in confusion. ‘You renounced your vows?’

  ‘No – I was asked to leave the Church,’ replied Marmaduke shortly. ‘But that is all in the past, and you will not be interested in my travails. You want to see the toe.’

  ‘Hurry up, Matt,’ hissed Michael. ‘Time is passing, and we cannot return to the abbey tonight and confess that we spent our day admiring the body parts of saints I have never heard of.’

  ‘Sampson was a Welsh bishop.’ Marmaduke’s hearing was evidently better than his eyesight. ‘And a great missionary. Do not denigrate him in his own church.’

  ‘My apologies,’ murmured Michael.

  Marmaduke led the way to the chancel, which boasted an especially fine altar with a reliquary built into it. He opened the box, to reveal a wizened, blackened object lying on a carefully folded piece of cloth. Bartholomew and Michael leaned forward to peer at it.

  ‘It is a toe,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what more could be added.

  ‘Sampson’s toe,’ corrected Marmaduke. ‘Well? Are you just going to stare at it, or will you petition it for a favour?’

  Obligingly, Michael knelt, but Bartholomew found he could not do it. There was something vaguely profane about the shrivelled object in the reliquary, and he did not want to prostrate himself before the thing. He backed away.

  ‘Here!’ said Marmaduke, aggrieved. ‘What are you doing? Pray, or Sampson will be offended.’

  ‘He will do it later,’ said Michael, pressing a coin into Marm
aduke’s hand to appease him.

  ‘When?’ demanded Marmaduke, taking the money but declining to be mollified.

  ‘Tonight, in the minster,’ replied Michael. ‘Do not worry, I shall see he does it.’

  ‘Then be sure you do,’ sniffed Marmaduke, regarding Bartholomew stonily. ‘Because it is not nice to be repelled by the sight of holy relics.’

  ‘He is not repelled, believe me,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has admired more rotting human parts than you can possibly imagine. But as we are here, perhaps you will help us. We need to visit Sir William Longton and then the Franciscan Friary, but we are lost. Will you give us directions?’

  Marmaduke closed the box with a businesslike snap. ‘You need a guide? I have nothing pressing to do, and I am sure Sampson can manage without me for a while. I understand your predicament – it is very easy to become disoriented when the Thursday Market is going.’

  Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘But today is Wednesday.’

  Marmaduke grinned. ‘Quite. So just imagine what it will be like tomorrow!’

  Marmaduke closed the door behind him, then set off at what could best be described as a scuttle, moving so fast that Bartholomew and Michael were obliged to run to keep up. It was a peculiar gait for so wide a man, and put Bartholomew in mind of a crab. The ex-priest scurried along the front of St Sampson’s, and disappeared down a lane opposite, leaving the two scholars to follow as best they could through the crowds that surged around them.

  The alley was more tunnel than street, with the upper storeys of its houses leaning together to blot out even the merest ribbon of sky. Then they emerged on another square, where even Bartholomew, inured to noxious smells, gagged at the stench of blood, entrails and dung. It was the meat-market, complete with pens full of frightened captives, and with an incongruously elegant hall in the middle, belonging to the Guild of Butchers. Once through it, Marmaduke scampered off again, finally reaching a wide road at the end of which stood a castle. It was impressive, boasting not only a tower on a motte but a heavily defended enclosure bristling with turrets.

  ‘Mayor Longton is worried about the French,’ explained Marmaduke. ‘So he imposes taxes to ensure that both York’s fortresses are kept in good working order – there is a second castle over the river, although it is mostly just earthworks now. It is nonsense, of course.’

  ‘What is nonsense?’ asked Bartholomew, when the ex-priest slowed enough for conversation to be possible. ‘The notion that the French will invade?’

  Marmaduke spat. ‘Longton thinks they will steal his manors, like the Normans did when the Conqueror came. But if the French do appear, they will be more interested in what the merchants have – their chests of money, nice clothes and fancy jewellery.’

  ‘Why were you defrocked?’ asked Michael, somewhat out of the blue.

  Marmaduke shot him a reproachful glance. ‘That is personal.’

  ‘Then tell me how you earn your living,’ pressed Michael. ‘I mean no disrespect to Sampson’s feet, but I cannot imagine that pilgrims flock there.’

  ‘You would be surprised. Many cannot afford the entrance fees at the minster, and Sampson is free. But to answer your question, I do not need to work, because I have a benefactor. I was a favourite of Archbishop Zouche, you see – one of his executors, no less – and this has earned me respect in certain quarters.’

  ‘Zouche chose a defrocked priest to represent him?’ said Michael, stopping to stare.

  ‘I was not defrocked when he died,’ replied Marmaduke stiffly. ‘And we were friends. Do not judge me by how I appear now, because I was an influential member of the minster hierarchy once.’

  ‘We are from Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, trying without success to imagine Marmaduke in a position of authority – and as someone an archbishop might befriend. ‘Here to contest the vicars’ claim on Huntington. Do you know anything about it?’

  Marmaduke gaped at them, but then smiled. ‘I heard scholars had come to challenge Ellis, but I did not realise it was you. What can I do to help? I recall Zouche saying quite clearly that he wanted your College to have Huntington, and I would like to see his wishes fulfilled.’

  ‘Tell us what you know about the matter, then,’ instructed Michael. ‘Was there a codicil?’

  ‘There must have been – Zouche was too efficient not to have committed such an important matter to parchment. I never saw it, but I imagine it will be in the library with all his other cartularies, land grants, rents and privileges. All you have to do is find it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that is easier said than done,’ said Bartholomew ruefully.

  Marmaduke’s expression was angry. ‘Everyone knows Zouche left Huntington to Michaelhouse, and the vicars-choral have no right to contest it. What is wrong with them?’

  ‘Perhaps they follow the example set by the executors,’ remarked Michael, disappointment making him acerbic. ‘The ones who flouted his wishes by failing to finish his chapel.’

  Unexpectedly, Marmaduke’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I did my best to prod the others into action, but obviously I did not try hard enough. And then the fund ran dry. I shall never forgive myself. Zouche trusted me, and I let him down.’

  ‘Langelee plans to investigate,’ said Michael, gruffly kind when he saw he had upset the man. ‘Perhaps he will be able to reclaim some of the money, and the project may yet resume.’

  Hope filled Marmaduke’s face. ‘If he does, I shall pray for him every day for the rest of my life! But here is the Franciscan Friary, where we part company.’

  ‘The friary?’ asked Michael. ‘But we wanted to visit Sir William first.’

  Marmaduke shrugged. ‘The friary was closer.’ He wagged a finger at Bartholomew. ‘And do not forget your prayers to Sampson’s toe tonight. I shall be vexed if you forget, and so will he.’

  The Franciscans had arrived in York some one hundred and thirty years before, eventually settling near the confluence of the city’s two rivers: the deep and fast-flowing Ouse, and the smaller, more sluggish Foss. Although not as large as the Benedictine abbey, the priory was still impressive, comprising chapel, dormitory, refectory and a range of attractive outbuildings. The arms of the King’s great-grandfather carved above its gate indicated it had that once enjoyed royal patronage.

  ‘Cotyngham remains unwell, Brother,’ said the lay-brother who answered their knock. ‘I am afraid you still cannot see him.’

  ‘Wait!’ ordered Michael as the gate started to close. ‘I have brought a physician with me today, one skilled in curing unusual diseases. You cannot refuse him access.’

  Bartholomew groaned, and Michael elbowed him hard, warning him to keep his silence.

  The lay-brother brightened. ‘Really? In that case, I shall conduct you to Warden Stayndrop, because he told me not an hour ago that he is worried about the length of time Cotyngham is taking to recover. He will be grateful for a second opinion.’

  He ushered them in. High walls muted the clamour from the streets, so the only sound was the delicate chime of a bell as it called the friars to terce. The scholars were escorted to a simple but pretty house, where the Warden was just emerging to join his brethren at their devotions. He was flanked by another Franciscan and a Dominican, who were arguing furiously.

  ‘Of course the Blessed Virgin was immaculately conceived,’ the Franciscan was declaring. ‘How can you even consider otherwise?’

  ‘Because she only became free of sin when Our Saviour was planted within her,’ argued the Dominican with equal passion.

  The pair passed Bartholomew and Michael without sparing them so much as a glance, which made the physician vaguely homesick: it was the kind of academic dispute – and eccentric behaviour – common among his University’s scholar-priests, and he found he missed it.

  ‘They are going to debate in public soon,’ explained Warden Stayndrop, a kindly faced man with yellow hair. ‘So they are practising. Personally, I do not see how the question can be resolved without asking her, but
I doubt she will be willing to confide. It is a personal matter, after all.’

  Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, not sure whether he was making a joke.

  ‘Yesterday, I was told Cotyngham was ill,’ said Michael, wisely electing to ignore the Warden’s enigmatic remarks. ‘So today I brought a physician. Matt is good with—’

  ‘What is wrong with Cotyngham?’ asked Bartholomew, before the monk could make promises about cures that would almost certainly be impossible to realise.

  ‘He has lost his wits,’ replied Stayndrop sadly. ‘We have kept it secret, so as to spare him embarrassment when he recovers, but I think it is time we were open about it.’

  ‘Is that why you refused to let Archbishop Thoresby see him?’ asked Michael.

  Stayndrop nodded. ‘And because Surgeon Fournays recommended that we repel all visitors, lest they distress him. We have kept him isolated for a month now – since he arrived, in fact. But the treatment is not working, so I would not mind trying something different. Besides, it grieves me to think of him locked in the infirmary all day, alone.’

  ‘He has been ailing for a month?’ asked Michael, shocked. His green eyes hardened. ‘I did not know it had been that long. That must be about the time he left Huntington.’

  ‘Yes, Brother, although I am not sure whether he left because he was mad, or whether he left and it drove him mad. Suffice to say he was brought here in a daze. Perhaps the shock of losing his congregation at St Mary ad Valvas during the plague is responsible, although we all thought he had recovered from that.’

  Stayndrop took them to the infirmary himself. It was an elegant building overlooking the Ouse, although the outlook was bleak that day. Sheets of rain drifted across the water, swathing the buildings on the opposite bank in misty-white wetness. The river itself seemed higher than it had been earlier, a muddy torrent that carried with it bushes and small trees.