When they had finished admiring the exterior, they entered the building through a gate near the south transept, and were immediately assailed by the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, along with the musty smell of damp: somewhere, a roof was leaking. Bartholomew gazed at the ceiling high above, a celebration of colour and carvings. The vaulted nave drew the eye to the chancel screen, which was a joyful jumble of gold, red and blue, and everywhere the stone eyes of saints and angels watched the people who came to pray, do business, chat to the priests or shelter from the cold weather. Michael led the way towards the central crossing, his footsteps echoing in the great vastness of empty space.
‘I always feel so tiny in places like this,’ he whisper ed. He was not easily awed, but Lincoln’s grandeur had impressed him. ‘They tell me I can enjoy as many Lombard slices as I like, because however large I grow, I will always be insignificant.’
‘Go and stand next to a beehive then,’ suggested Bartholomew practically. ‘That should curb any abnormal desires to eat enough to fill a cathedral.’
‘You have no sense of the magnificent,’ said Michael irritably. ‘This is a building fit for God, and I am honoured to be one of its canons.’
‘It is splendid,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Especially those two rose windows.’
‘Bishop Gynewell told me they are meant to represent eyes. The Bishop’s Eye faces south, inviting in the Holy Spirit, while the Dean’s Eye looks north and shuts out the Devil.’
‘You had better not mention that to Cynric, or he will turn it all around and have the bishop ushering in Satan. He has taken a dislike to Gynewell.’
‘Cynric is a superstitious fool, and so are we for letting him talk us out of a sojourn at the Bishop’s Palace. It would be far safer – no one has been stabbed in Gynewell’s guest-hall. God’s blessings, madam. I hope the saints were not too distressed over your late arrival this morning?’
Bartholomew turned to see Dame Eleanor standing nearby, and noted the way her eyes twinkled with amusement at the monk’s mild irreverence. ‘They seem to have survived the inconvenience, thank you. I have just finished my devotions at the Head Shrine and am about to tend Little Hugh.’
‘I am ashamed to confess that I have been too busy to inspect these famous sites so far,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps you might show us now? Can we accompany you to Little Hugh?’
Obligingly, Eleanor took them to the South Choir Aisle. Several pilgrims knelt next to a large stone sarcophagus, and the floor around it was carpeted with leaves and dried flowers. It comprised two sections: a sealed tomb-base, containing Little Hugh’s bones, and an ornately carved canopy above. The canopy was topped by a wooden statue of a child bearing the marks of crucifixion; the relevant parts were picked out in red paint, and were graphic enough to make Bartholomew wince. Pilgrims had left gifts of jewels, coins and prayers scribbled on scraps of parchment; they had been shoved through the canopy’s carved tracery, and could be seen piled untidily within.
‘I sweep up every day,’ whispered Dame Eleanor, gesturing to the vegetation-strewn floor. ‘But I have not had time to do it this morning, hence the mess. Meanwhile, the priests are supposed to collect the written prayers from inside the shrine, because they are the only ones allowed to touch them. They read them aloud, then burn them on the altar, to send them heavenward. All the other oblations go straight to the treasurer, who is trying to raise enough money to repair the roof in the north transept.’
‘What is that?’ asked Michael, pointing to a pottery flask that stood just behind the statue. ‘Do pilgrims leave offerings of wine for the boy, then?’
Eleanor passed it to him. ‘Holy water, Brother. The bishop gives me a jug of it each week. Some I sprinkle on the shrines I have undertaken to serve, some I dab on particularly needy pilgrims, and some I sip when I feel the need for God’s strength inside me. I am nearing seventy years of age, and attribute my good health to the saints and holy water. Will you make a petition to Little Hugh?’
Bartholomew backed away. There was something about the tomb that he did not like, and he was uncomfortable with the notion that the child’s ‘crucifixion’ had been used to justify a massacre of innocent Jews. ‘I would rather see the other shrine,’ he said evasively, trying not to hurt her feelings. ‘Bishop Hugh’s.’
