‘They have a poor example in the adults,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not many clergy are in their places, either. They are either in the nave doing secular business, or they have not bothered to come at all.’
Claypole shrugged. ‘It is the dean’s responsibility to maintain discipline, so you can blame him. He is a sanctimonious fool! What is wrong with the odd game of chance of an evening?’
‘Presumably, he has a problem with you arriving for your duties with nothing to wear.’
Claypole pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is in no position to preach, given what he does in his spare time. Perhaps he appointed Bautre because he knew the choir would run amok, and it means his own voice can be heard. He is singing now.’
Bartholomew winced as a response was issued several tones too high, creating a discordant clash that had the other choristers faltering uncertainly. ‘Lord help us!’
Claypole grinned. ‘I had better get back to St Hugh’s head before Dame Eleanor admonishes me again. The dean can ride me all he likes for insolence and irregularity, but I do not like it when she does it. She has a knack for making me feel ashamed – and she might tell Lady Christiana.’
He moved away, but was intercepted by Ravenser, who was weaving up the nave in a manner that suggested he was drunk. He leaned heavily on Claypole, and laughed raucously at some joke of his own making. A woman joined them, and Ravenser whispered something that made her slap him.
It was some time before Michael emerged from the chancel. His face was bleak. ‘The dean has just given me a complete catalogue of offences committed by Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks. It seems I am about to be installed in a den of vice. And speaking of vice, here is my deputy.’
‘Your alb, Brother,’ said Tetford cheerfully, flinging a garment at Michael in such a way that it landed on his head. ‘Rosanna could not believe the dimensions I gave her, and is keen to meet you for herself. I intend to introduce you.’
‘No, you will not,’ said Michael, hauling the vestment from his face. ‘I am not some prize bull, to be produced on demand for the entertainment of women of easy virtue. And you agreed to give them up, if you recall. Or had you forgotten my threat to dismiss any assistant whose character is tainted?’
Tetford snorted his disdain. ‘Which saint will you hire, then, Brother? Dame Eleanor? She is the only one around here who reaches your lofty standards. What do you think of the alb?’
Michael glared at him, but declined to waste his breath with further recriminations. Bartholomew stepped forward and helped him hoist the garment over his shoulders. The length was good, and the seam was barely visible thanks to some talented sewing, but it was nowhere near large enough around.
Tetford took it back with an unkind snigger. ‘Rosanna will think I am playing a game with her when I say it needs to be made bigger still. Or would you rather I abstained from her company, and you can be installed as it is? It makes you look fat, so I would not recommend it.’
‘It will take more than a morning away from women to save your sinful soul,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am not fat, I have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’
‘Massive ones,’ agreed Bartholomew obligingly. ‘Will the alb be ready in time for the ceremony? There is only a week to go.’
‘It will be tight – and I do not mean the alb,’ said Tetford. ‘Christ in Heaven!’
Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode away with the robe over his arm. Bartholomew turned quickly, and saw Ravenser and John Suttone coming towards them. Although he was obviously inebriated, Ravenser had still remembered to arm himself, and he fingered his dagger as he nodded a cool greeting to the scholars.
‘My Vicar Choral seems nervous of you, Ravenser,’ remarked Michael. ‘I told him to disarm, but I can see from here that he is wearing a sword under his habit.’
‘He should be nervous,’ said Ravenser, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Tetford hurrying away. He began to follow, drawing his sword as he did so and calling over his shoulder, ‘There are rules in the Cathedral Close, and he broke them.’
‘What rules?’ asked Michael of John, watching Tetford break into a run. Ravenser lumbered after him, but it was not long before he gave up the chase, putting his hand to his head as if the exercise had been too much for the delicate state of his health. ‘Would they be the monastic ones of chastity, obedience, humility and poverty?’
‘Tetford has certainly broken those,’ replied John, watching his colleagues’ antics in distaste. ‘And you can add theft, fornication and insolence, too. But in this instance I think Ravenser refers to who has rights to a certain lady. It is anathema to me, of course. I do not indulge in licentious behaviour.’
‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Would you like me to tell our friend Suttone about his cousin’s virtuous character? He is looking for a new Vicar Choral, now his original choice is murdered.’
John regarded him icily. ‘I am naturally virtuous. It is not something I enact simply because there is a post of Vicar Choral on offer. Good morning, Brother.’
‘Poor Dean Bresley,’ said Bartholomew, while John stalked away, head in the air. ‘If all his clergy are like the ones we have met, his life must be like a foretaste of Hell.’
‘Speaking of Hell, here comes the bishop. Or is it the stone imp from the Angel Choir?’
‘Brother Michael,’ said Gynewell, skipping towards them. His curly hair gleamed in the dull morning light, and so did his eyes. ‘Have you found Aylmer’s killer yet? The dean said you questioned some of the Vicars Choral after High Mass.’
‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘However, my task has not been made easier by the fact that you were not entirely open with me. It would have been helpful to know that Aylmer was a member of the Commonalty and that he was friends with unsavoury men like Adam Miller.’
Gynewell was rueful. ‘I see you have questions, but this is not the place to talk. Come to my house, and we shall discuss it there.’
The Bishop’s Palace was a sumptuous set of buildings that stood in the shadow of the cathedral. It boasted a stately hall with a great vaulted undercroft, which was the prelate’s private residence, while a range to the west held rooms for the clerks and officials who managed his diocese. The complex stood on a series of terraces that afforded fine views of the city, while the cathedral loomed protectively behind. The palace was made from honey-coloured stone, and its thick walls and sturdy gates suggested its builders had an eye to security, as well as to beauty and comfort. It formed a stark contrast to the shabby poverty of the town that huddled outside its well-tended grounds.
‘A tavern would have been more convenient, My Lord,’ said Michael irritably, as he followed Gynewell down a narrow path with steep stairs that provided a shortcut between palace and minster. The dampness of the fog made it slippery, and it was not an easy descent. ‘I understand the Close is rather well supplied with them.’
‘I am a bishop,’ said Gynewell archly. ‘I do not frequent alehouses – and especially not the Tavern in the Close, which is more brothel than hostelry.’
Once they reached the bottom, he led the way to a fine hall. At the far end was a massive hearth, in which a fire blazed so fiercely that it was difficult to approach. The window shutters were closed against the winter cold, and flames sent shadows dancing around the room, giving the impression that some of the figures in the wall-tapestries were alive and moving. None of the hangings depicted religious scenes, and some were openly pagan. Bartholomew glanced at the diminutive bishop uneasily, then realised he was allowing himself to be influenced by Cynric’s prejudices.