‘It was not you I meant to annoy,’ said the boy, hanging quite comfortably at the end of Michael’s outstretched arm. ‘It was Flaxfleete. I do not like him, even though he is a member of the Guild and they give us marchpanes on the first Sunday of every month.’
‘Was a member,’ corrected Michael. ‘He is dead, so will not be dispensing sweetmeats again.’
The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘Truly? Was he so angry with you for calling at the wrong house, that he challenged you to a fight? With swords? Or perhaps one of those new ribaulds they are using in the French wars? I would like to see men do battle with a pair of those!’ He jerked in the air as he made several violently descriptive gestures with his hands. Michael set him back on his feet.
‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘I am a monk, so I do not carry arms.’
The boy shot him a look that told him to try his claims on someone more gullible. ‘Our canons and Vicars Choral are also men of God, but they would never think of leaving home without a weapon. I am going to have a sword when I am fourteen.’
‘You do not intend to take holy orders, then?’ asked Michael, amused.
The boy shot him another withering look. ‘I am going to be a philosopher. Dame Eleanor tells me I have sharp wits, and will do well at a university.’
‘And how will owning a sword help you with your studies?’
The boy smiled cheerfully. ‘I will be able to defend my arguments better if I have a sharp blade.’
‘You will do well at a university,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think some of my students feel the same way.’
‘Tell me why you have taken a dislike to Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘And why you send innocent victims to his door, just to annoy him.’
The boy shrugged, unabashed. ‘I liked Aylmer, because he let me pick cherries from his trees last year. Flaxfleete hated Aylmer, so I hated Flaxfleete. Besides, Flaxfleete only became a priest because he thought he might hang for arson otherwise. He was a snivelling coward, not a true man at all.’
‘Why did Flaxfleete hate Aylmer?’
The boy shrugged again. ‘Probably because Aylmer was Miller’s friend, and Flaxfleete is Kelby’s. Adults take their squabbles very seriously, although they should just challenge each other to a duel and have done with it. That is what I would do.’
‘What is your name?’ asked Michael, watching him parry and thrust with an imaginary weapon.
‘Hugh Suttone.’ He pointed to the High Altar, where John Suttone – the cleric they had seen at Kelby’s celebration – was sweeping the floor. ‘That is my brother. He is the Clerk who Rouses the People, and this week he is in charge of the High Altar.’ There was pride in his voice.
‘We are friends of your cousin,’ said Michael. ‘The one who is to be installed as a canon.’
‘Thomas,’ said Hugh, with clear disdain. ‘My brother was offended when Thomas picked Aylmer to be his Vicar Choral. He said it should have been him. Do you think Thomas will choose John now Aylmer is dead? We were talking about it this morning, and John said the situation was looking a bit more hopeful.’
Michael tapped him gently under the chin. ‘Possibly, but you should not say this to anyone else. You may make people think John killed Aylmer, just to get his appointment.’
‘He did not, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought the same thing, you see, so I asked him, but he said he has killed no one. He never lies, so he is definitely innocent. Excuse me, Brother. The dean is coming, and I do not want him to lecture me about running in church when I am supposed to be singing.’
He was gone in a flash, leaving Michael quaking with astonished laughter. ‘I should hire him to help me with my investigation. There is something to be said for blunt questions.’
‘Yes, but perhaps not that blunt, Brother.’
Deans were the men who headed a cathedral’s hierarchy, and the office was thus an important one. Lincoln’s was a short man with a perfectly round head, which was bald with the exception of a thin fringe around the sides and back. His eyes were oddly small for the size of his face, which made him appear furtive. A strange clanking sound emanated from his robes as he walked, and Bartholomew saw Hugh dart from the shadows to grab a coin that appeared to have rolled from the dean’s person. He expected the boy to keep it, and was surprised when he trotted to the Head Shrine and dropped it through the railings. Dame Eleanor saw the gesture, too, and patted his shoulder encouragingly.
Three waddling canons intercepted the dean before he could reach Michael and Bartholomew, and the intense, whispered discussion that followed looked as though it might continue for some time, so the two scholars took the opportunity to visit the High Altar while they waited for it to finish, admiring the glitter of gold from a vantage point near Little Hugh’s shrine. When he spotted them, John Suttone came to pass the time of day.
