St Hugh of Lincoln had not died a grisly death, like so many others who had been canonised, but he had been a good man, whose honour and integrity had been a bright blaze in a dark world. His massive tomb stood near the High Altar, but his cranium had been separately interred in the Angel Choir – a peaceful area east of the sanctuary, which Hugh had built himself. The Head Shrine was a grand affair surrounded by rough wooden railings, to keep eager pilgrims at bay. It comprised a large, solid plinth topped by a richly decorated chest that held the skull itself. The chest was fitted with handles, so the relic could be removed from its base, and carried about in religious processions. Pilgrims clustered around it. Some knelt quietly, others issued demands for cures, and others still thrust hands and arms through its stone pillars in an attempt to get as close to the saint’s mortal remains as possible. Many had lit candles, and the Angel Choir was full of their wavering light, which turned honey-coloured stone to gold. Several clerics were present, both at the Head Shrine and the nearby Visceral Shrine of Queen Eleanor. Among them was Archdeacon Ravenser, the bishop’s debauched scribe. He was in the process of removing a thick white candle from his sleeve, which he then passed to a Vicar Choral in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilled of pickpockets. After a moment, he produced a second one, and then a third, all of which were lit and set in pride of place on the altar dedicated to St Hugh. Michael frowned before disappearing for a few moments. When he returned, his expression was stern.
‘The High Altar seems to be missing three of its best candles,’ he said sharply, having slipped up behind Ravenser without being heard. The archdeacon jumped in shock at the voice so close to his left ear. ‘I wonder why.’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Ravenser, quickly regaining his composure. ‘John Suttone is in charge of the High Altar this week. I expect he forgot to collect them from the sacristy. Right, Claypole?’
His friend, a toothy fellow who wore a sword openly with his religious vestments, nodded. ‘We are only the poor souls detailed to look after St Hugh’s head – in a corner of the cathedral so draughty that the Host blows all around the altar.’
‘It is a grim part of the building,’ agreed Ravenser, rubbing red eyes and looking as though he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘That old lady in the Gilbertine habit who escorted you here – Dame Eleanor – says the wind is St Hugh’s spirit, chilling all those with evil hearts. She says it never cuts through her, implying she has a pure one, I suppose.’
‘Well, she does,’ said Claypole. ‘And that is why it is unreasonable for her to expect us to follow her example. We are mere mortals, and her standards are impossibly high.’
‘You do not look as though you try very hard,’ said Michael, looking them up and down.
Before either could reply, the choir started to sing, and the voices of boys soared through the chancel, complimented by the lower drone of Vicars Choral and canons. Bartholomew glanced up at the carvings of angels high above, and his imagination led him to wonder whether it was celestial voices that rang so beautifully along the ancient stones.
‘The dean is not warbling, thank God,’ said Claypole, cocking his head to one side. He grinned at Michael. ‘We can tell, because none of the glass is vibrating in its frames.’
‘The dean sings like an old tom cat,’ laughed Ravenser.
‘But you must excuse us. It is time to say prayers for the canons who died in the plague – which was all except two, Brother.’
He walked away and Claypole followed, leaving Bartholomew staring after them uneasily. Ravenser’s words had sounded vaguely like a threat. Michael was not paying any attention to the archdeacon and his crony, however; he was listening to the music.
‘It makes me see what a long way from perfection I am with my own efforts at Michaelhouse,’ he said wistfully. ‘My choir will never sing like that.’
‘These are professionals,’ Bartholomew pointed out, not liking to admit the monk was right: the Michaelhouse chorus could rival the Gilbertines for enthusiasm, but without the benefit of any redeeming talent. ‘Do not underestimate yourself, Brother; you have performed little short of a miracle already.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out suddenly to grab someone in the process of darting behind a pillar, apparently as part of a game of hide-and-seek. His captive wore the blue gown of a chorister, which, added to his mop of golden curls, gave him a cherubic appearance.
‘Where does Mayor Spayne live?’ asked the monk mildly, lifting the boy so his feet dangled in thin air. Michael was a strong man, and held the struggling lad as though he was as light as a kitten.
‘Oh,’ said the chorister sheepishly, recognising him and promptly abandoning his startled bid for freedom. ‘Did I point you in the wrong direction, sir?’
‘You did,’ said Michael evenly. ‘Now why would you do that?’
