Mystery In The Minster

Book 17: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In 1358 the fledging college of Michaelhouse in Cambridge is in need of extra funds. A legacy from the Archbishop of York of a parish close to that city promises a welcome source of income. However, there has been another claim to its ownership and it seems the only way to settle the dispute is for a deputation from Michaelhouse to travel north.

Matthew Bartholomew is among the small party which arrives in the bustling city, where the increasing wealth of the merchants is unsettling the established order, and where a French invasion is an ever-present threat to its port. But soon he and his colleagues learn that many of the Archbishop's executors have died in unexplained circumstances and that the codicil naming Michaelhouse as a beneficiary cannot be found...

Release date: August 11, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

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 do 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.

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.’


‘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.


He was hard pressed not to gape when it began to arrive, used as he was to the frugal fare of Michaelhouse. There was fresh
fish, an impressive array of cheeses, several kinds of bread, stewed fruit and ale served in jugs large enough to be called
buckets. The meal reflected the fact that the abbey was not only rich enough to buy whatever it chose, but that it was located
in a city with access to the sea – goods were available both from the surrounding countryside and from overseas, which accounted
for some of the more exotic wares provided.


‘If we eat like this every day, we shall go home the size of Michael,’ muttered Radeford to Bartholomew, as enough pottage
was ladled into his bowl to feed a family for a week. He produced the silver spoon he always used at meals, being of the firm
belief that horn ones were unhygienic. It was dirty from the last time he had eaten with it, so he wiped it on his cloak, a practice Bartholomew was
sure negated any sanitary advantages the metal might have conferred.


‘I heard that,’ said the monk, offended. ‘I am not fat, I have heavy bones. It is a medical fact, as Matt will attest.’

Before Bartholomew could remark that it was not a medical fact recognised by any physicians, Abbot Multone, a short, bustling
man with large white eyebrows, regarded them admonishingly.


‘We maintain silence during meals at St Mary’s.’

Thus rebuked, the only sounds for the rest of the repast were the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the mumble of a monk reading
from the scriptures. Meals were supposed to be taken in silence in Michaelhouse, too, but scholars were a talkative crowd,
and it was a rule they seldom followed.


‘Right,’ said Langelee, when the Abbot had intoned a final grace, signalling the end of the silence. ‘Now let us be about
our business before we can be delayed any further.’


‘It is raining!’ exclaimed Michael in dismay as he stepped through the door. ‘How did that happen? The weather was glorious
before we went inside.’


‘It is only a shower,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘It will soon clear up.’

‘It will not,’ muttered Cynric, appearing at Bartholomew’s side and making the physician jump by whispering suddenly in his
ear. He crossed himself as he squinted up at the sky. ‘Look at the blackness of those clouds, boy! It is an omen – something
very bad will happen to us here.’


‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, who rarely took his book-bearer’s predictions seriously. ‘Besides, I am going home in a few
days whether we have secured Huntington or not – I will never catch up if we miss the beginning of term, and we cannot afford to leave Father William in charge for too long.
So there will not be time for dire misfortunes to befall us.’


‘There will,’ insisted Cynric earnestly. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, and although the rational part of his mind dismissed the warning as a lot of superstitious
drivel, there was something about the utter conviction in the Welshman’s words that left him with a distinct sense of unease.


Langelee and his Fellows had just reached the abbey’s main gate when a voice caught their attention. A monk was running towards
them, waving frantically. He was a short man, with bright eyes and a narrow head that gave him the appearance of an inquisitive
hen.


‘Good. I caught you before you escaped. Come with me – Abbot Multone wants to see you.’

‘Why?’ asked Radeford anxiously. ‘Because if it is to berate us for chatting during breakfast, you can assure him it will
not happen again. We are sorry.’


The monk grinned. ‘No, he just wants to meet you properly. I am Oustwyk, by the way, his steward. And if you want anything
– anything at all – come to me first.’ He winked meaningfully.


‘Thank you,’ replied Michael. ‘Since you have offered, the edibles in your guest house—’

‘We call it the hospitium,’ interrupted Oustwyk. ‘We keep it for less exalted company, although I have always considered it
far nicer than the draughty hall we use for wealthy visitors – the ones from whom we aim to wheedle benefactions.’


‘—in the hospitium are reasonably generous,’ Michael went on, blithely ignoring the subject of donations. Michaelhouse simply could not afford one. ‘But another jug of wine, a
bowl of nuts and some pastries would not go amiss. For emergencies, you understand.’