‘Belle will sit still, if that is what you would like,’ said Rosanna patiently, her eyes as old as the hills. ‘Have no fear, Father. She will be very gentle with you.’
‘Later, perhaps,’ said Michael, smothering a smile. ‘We would like to enjoy our ale first.’
‘Very well,’ said Rosanna. ‘Call us when you are ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ asked de Wetherset when she had gone. ‘This is a curious institution. I do not think I will be coming here very often, once I am a canon.’
‘I might,’ said Suttone perkily. ‘It is a charming place.’
The evening wore on, and de Wetherset remained bemused by Ravenser’s House of Pleasure. Most patrons were priests, although there was a smattering of secular clerks and servants. The atmosphere was raucous and dissipated, and even Cynric declared it too noisy. It was hot, too, which de Wetherset said explained why so many serving wenches were half naked. Cynric watched in shock, until one tried to sit on his lap, at which point he excused himself and scuttled outside, muttering something about his wife. Meanwhile, some of the men divested themselves of cloaks, tunics and even shifts.
‘I would never have agreed to Tetford’s nomination had I known he managed a place like this,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, over the din of a drinking game taking place between Claypole and one of the Poor Clerks. ‘There are limits, and this is well past them. Part of my reason for coming here tonight was so I could see if anyone caught my eye as a potential replacement for Tetford, but I do not think I want to hire a Vicar Choral who enjoys this sort of entertainment.’
‘Do you think Bishop de Lisle knows what Tetford was like?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I sincerely doubt it. If the establishment was discreet, he might have turned a blind eye, but this is brazen, to say the least. I hate to say it, but Tetford’s death has spared me a good deal of trouble.’
‘Here comes Ravenser,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is no longer wearing his sword.’
‘Good evening,’ said Ravenser jovially. ‘I am pleased you could come. I was afraid you might not, and tonight promises to be an excellent evening. Just wait until the amusements really begin.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘This is more than enough for me already.’
‘Is it like this every night?’ asked de Wetherset, wonderingly.
‘I hope so,’ whispered Suttone, red-faced from ale and enjoying himself thoroughly.
Ravenser smiled. ‘The Guild sent us a donation of wine when they learned I was to take over. Kelby wanted us to drink to Flaxfleete’s memory.’
‘I had forgotten the Guild provides the minster with money for its vices,’ said Michael.
‘The Guild is good to us,’ said Ravenser, ignoring the censure in his tone. ‘I hope the deaths of Flaxfleete and Dalderby do not upset the balance, and make it weaker than the Commonalty. I wonder if that was why someone tried to kill Chapman – to maintain the equilibrium.’
‘Someone was determined he should die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was attacked with a sword, then provided with a poisonous salve. He is lucky to be alive.’
Ravenser excused himself when a roar of approval indicated that Claypole had won the round, and the scholars were left alone again. A woman called Jane of Newport insinuated herself next to de Wetherset, and her sister Agnes squeezed between Bartholomew and Michael. Suttone was dismayed, until Belle sat on his knee, claiming there was no room on the bench.
‘Ladies, please,’ objected de Wetherset plaintively. ‘We are trying to discuss theology.’
‘Is that so, Father?’ said Jane, her voice low and husky. ‘Then do not mind us.’
‘Claypole is in good spirits,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching the priest challenge another Poor Clerk to out-drink him. ‘I wondered earlier whether he might be pleased by Tetford’s death.’
‘I saw him escort Christiana to the Swan for a cup of wine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She was not overly enthusiastic, but he was delighted. I imagine his success in spending an hour alone with her is the cause of his ebullience tonight. It is a pity she cannot see him now – depraved and reeling.’
‘Is that Hugh?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to where someone was struggling to broach a barrel of ale. ‘He seems to be everywhere – acting as a lantern-bearer, running errands for Gynewell.’
‘It is because he is always in trouble,’ said Agnes. ‘He cannot resist playing pranks on his elders, and is always being ordered to pay fines. He needs every penny he can earn.’
It was not long before Hugh came to seek them out. His eyes were heavy and his hair tousled, as if he had been dozing somewhere when he should have been serving the tavern’s thirsty patrons. He grinned cheekily at Michael. ‘Can I conduct you to any merchants’ houses, Brother?’
‘You should be asleep,’ admonished Michael. ‘You have to rise early to sing tomorrow.’
‘Ravenser said he will let me off prime the mornings after I work here,’ said Hugh. ‘I suppose he will make a decent inn-master, but I really wanted John to get the post.’
‘I doubt John would have enjoyed playing the role of taverner,’ said Suttone.
Hugh wrinkled his nose. ‘Probably not, but I would have liked him to do it, because then he would have given me the best jobs. He says it is a duty to look after one’s family.’
Suttone raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but Hugh did not seem to realise that the remark had been a barb directed at his cousin. ‘Then when he is a canon, he can be as nepotistic as he pleases.’
The scholars’ conversation had become desultory once the women had draped themselves around their table. Suttone tried to begin a debate about the causes of the plague, but Jane said the disease had left her with vile memories, and asked him to desist. Then de Wetherset said he would like to propound the notion of creatio ex nihilo, which he claimed was always a good topic to break the ice, and he and Michael managed a spirited argument until Agnes said she was bored and left. When Belle and Jane attempted to do the same, it was Suttone who persuaded them to stay.
‘Here is Bresley,’ said Michael, as the door opened and the dean walked in. Several men’s hands dropped to their purses, and Ravenser went to a pot, where coins had been left for the women, and locked it in a cupboard. ‘He will have something to say about all this racket.’
Instead of bringing the carousing to an end, Bresley strolled to a bench and sat, snapping his fingers at Hugh to bring him some wine. Agnes went to stand behind him, but he made no effort to move away when she flopped an arm across his shoulder. He rummaged under his robes and his hand emerged with something gold. His actions were odd enough to encourage Bartholomew to watch him.
Michael tried to peer around Jane, who was intent on crawling into his lap; the monk seemed powerless to resist her relentless advance. ‘Can you see what he is doing?’
‘He has just put something under Agnes’s skirts,’ replied Bartholomew. He laughed when Michael blushed modestly. ‘Something metal.’
‘We should leave,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘Simon was right: we should not be here. And I am surprised the dean dares show his face, given that he wants the place closed down. He is–’
‘Madam!’ shrieked de Wetherset suddenly, leaping to his feet. His face had flushed scarlet, and he was shaking. ‘Madam!’
‘What?’ demanded Belle irritably.
‘Your hand! It wandered a second time! The first I understand was an error, but to do it twice …!’
Belle frowned, puzzled. ‘Rosanna told me to make sure you were happy.’
‘I was happy,’ yelled de Wetherset, ‘until you … I shall not stay here to be molested. I am leaving!’
‘What about my payment?’ demanded Belle. Other women began to mutter ominously.
‘Payment for what?’ asked de Wetherset, amazed. ‘Ravenser said the food and ale was from him.’
‘We should all be going home,’ said Michael hastily, pressing a coin into Belle’s hand.