Mystery in the Minster by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

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 tookhis 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 themhimself, 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