Mystery in the Minster (14 page)

‘Opposite,’ nodded Oustwyk. ‘On the street called Fossgate. But be careful when you are there, because the White Friars love to sue people. Last year, they challenged this abbey over a house on Petergate and won, even though everyone said it should have been ours.’

‘I shall listen to gossip in the taverns,’ offered Cynric, making them all jump – he had been so quiet that they had forgotten he was there. ‘Oustwyk has told me which ones will be the most promising. I shall ask questions about Sir William, the chantry money
and
the vicars’ greedy interest in Huntington.’

When Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee reached the Abbot’s House, they saw a dozen men outside, divided into two distinct packs – one in a livery of red and gold, and the other in plain brown homespun. All were large, loutish individuals who looked as though they enjoyed fighting, and were eyeing each other speculatively, as if keen to hone their skills there and then.

‘Henchmen,’ whispered Oustwyk in explanation. ‘The ones in uniform belong to Longton, while the others work for Gisbyrn and Frost. Now Sir William is shot, we shall be seeing more of them – the stakes have been raised, see, and the leaders will be wanting protection.’

He ushered the scholars into Multone’s solar, where they discovered that the Abbot was not the only one interested in hearing their opinions. Four guests were there, too. The first was Dalfeld, resplendent in another new tunic; the second was Mayor Longton; the third was Frost; and the last was a sober, neat fellow in black with tired eyes.

‘Roger Zouche!’ exclaimed Langelee when he saw him. ‘I am shocked to find your brother’s chantry unfinished. He appointed you as one of his executors because he trusted you.’

Roger winced, and his friendly grin of greeting faded. ‘I am sorry, too. When the money ran out I raised some to pay for it myself, but Mayor Longton imposed a new set of taxes …’

‘The city’s safety is far more important than memorials for the dead,’ said Longton in a pompous voice that was calculated to aggravate. Roger scowled at him.

‘Safety?’ growled Langelee. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘These French spies,’ elaborated Longton. He sighed, releasing a wine-perfumed gust of breath. ‘They send information to our enemies, and I am expecting an invasion at any day. But preparations for our defence cost money, so of course I impose levies on those who can pay.’

‘When I realised you might be able to provide us with a new perspective, I invited Longton and Gisbyrn to hear it,’ said Multone. ‘We all share a common enemy, and—’

‘But Gisbyrn could not be bothered to attend,’ interrupted Longton, indicating that the Abbot’s efforts to broker peace had misfired. ‘He sent his lackeys instead – Roger and Frost.’

The ‘lackeys’ exchanged a weary glance, but made no reply to the insult and only took their seats at the table, waiting patiently for the scholars to tell them what they knew.

‘And you?’ demanded Michael of Dalfeld, declining to oblige. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I represent Archbishop Thoresby,’ replied Dalfeld loftily. ‘He often uses me as his envoy, and he asked me to provide him with a concise and accurate analysis of what you say here today.’

‘It is true,’ said Multone, when Langelee gave a scornful snort. ‘Dalfeld has risen in standing and importance since you lived here.’

‘
Zouche
would never have appointed a scoundrel to represent
him
,’ muttered Langelee, eyeing the lawyer with dislike. Dalfeld opened his mouth to reciprocate in kind, but the Master pointedly turned his back on him and addressed the others. ‘What did you want to ask us, gentlemen?’

‘As I said, a French invasion is imminent,’ replied Longton. ‘And I need information that will allow me to repel it.’ He sneered at the merchants. ‘And I do not care how much the resulting preparations will cost in taxes.’

‘Whose fault is it that the French know so much about us?’ demanded Frost, finally nettled into a retort. ‘If you had done your job and caught the spies that have plagued us all these years, we would not need to worry.’

‘Frost speaks the truth,’ said Roger quietly. ‘We intercepted a report only a week ago that gave exact details of when our ships would sail and the cargoes they would carry. Your ineptitude in this matter is a serious risk to commerce.’

‘Commerce!’ jeered Longton in rank disdain. ‘Who cares about commerce?’

‘It is what makes us all rich, Longton,’ interjected Dalfeld silkily. ‘Even you would suffer if the French seized all York’s ships, for then who would pay your taxes?’

Repeating the word ‘taxes’ was enough to ignite Frost’s temper, as Dalfeld had no doubt anticipated. ‘Taxes! It
is just another word for theft – stealing money from honest men.’

‘There are no
honest
merchants in York,’ countered Longton. ‘Besides, if you did not cheat the city of its due with your sly interpretations of our laws, we would not need to make them so high.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Multone, distressed. ‘We are here to discuss the French, not to quarrel. So ask these scholars what you would like to know, and then let us be about our business.’

Roger and Frost posed intelligent questions about the possible ways in which the spies might be communicating with their masters, and listened keenly to what Langelee and Michael had to say in reply. Then Longton demanded a résumé of French battle tactics, which Bartholomew supplied, although the physician seriously doubted it would ever be put to use – pirates might raid York, but he was sure there would never be a formal fight between armies, as there had been at Poitiers.

‘Will you visit my brother today, Bartholomew?’ asked Longton, when the meeting was at an end and everyone was moving towards the door. He glared at Roger and Frost. ‘He is improving, although those who tried to murder him will be disappointed by the news.’

‘
We
did not harm him,’ said Roger coolly. ‘However, Sir William is a skilled warrior, so perhaps these French spies shot him to ensure he cannot fight them when their army arrives.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Dalfeld, a sly expression on his face. ‘The culprit is probably from Michaelhouse, as part of a convoluted plot to deprive the vicars-choral of their lawful inheritance.’

Longton, Roger and Frost frowned, bemused at this remark, and Multone made an exasperated sound at the
back of his throat before bundling Dalfeld unceremoniously through the door and closing it after him. Then he wiped his hands on his habit, as if he considered them soiled.

‘I cannot abide that fellow,’ he said, grimacing in distaste. ‘I wish Thoresby had chosen someone else to represent him, because being in his company is like entertaining the Devil – you cannot take your eyes off him for an instant lest he eats all the pastries.’

It was a strange analogy, but Longton nodded understanding. ‘You put it well, Father Abbot. Dalfeld is not conducive company, although he is certainly the best lawyer in York.’

Roger and Frost voiced their agreement, and as they had not concurred with anything else Longton had said that day, Bartholomew could only suppose he was right.

Outside, the henchmen fell in at their masters’ heels, and both parties moved towards the gate, where some unedifying jostling took place until they were all through. Langelee walked with Roger, his angry gestures revealing that he was berating him again for failing to finish his brother’s chantry.

‘He is wasting his time,’ said Michael, watching. ‘I have seen other incidences where funds are provided for a specific purpose, but lack of supervision results in them trickling away – supplies are bought that fail to arrive, or that sit around for so long they are used for something else; craftsmen are paid in advance for work they forget to do; long delays mean work needs to be started again …’

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.