Tetford gestured to a nearby tomb, over which several garments had been slung. ‘It is my responsibility to find you something suitable and arrange for any necessary alterations. I was expecting someone smaller, however, and I am not sure we have anything big enough for you.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is your Chapter composed of insignificant men with no stature, then?’
‘It is not your height that is the problem,’ explained Tetford bluntly. ‘It is your width. Try on this alb, Brother. It is the largest we have.’
Glowering indignantly, Michael stepped forward and allowed Tetford to put the garment over his head. Albs were ankle-length robes with wide sleeves, but the one Tetford gave Michael barely reached his knees and was embarrassingly snug. Bartholomew looked away, not wanting to be seen laughing.
‘I cannot wear this,’ objected Michael, aghast. ‘It would not be big enough for Little Hugh!’
‘It is tight,’ agreed Tetford. He was thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. ‘I know a lady who is very skilled with a needle. She might be able to take a few strips from an old altar frontal, and make this longer and wider. She is rather good, and no one will notice her repairs, especially if we all drink to your health the evening before the installation. No one notices much after a night in my tavern.’
Michael glared at him. ‘If this is just an excuse to visit women with my blessing, I shall not be pleased. You may see her – although not at night, obviously – but I shall expect to be presented with an alb that fits. What about my almuce? Canons are supposed to wear fur-lined almuces.’
Tetford rubbed his chin as he considered the garment that covered a priest’s shoulders. ‘I had better discuss that with Rosanna, too.’ He held up a green item with gold trimmings. ‘However, you will like this. It is the special cope of Deuxevers cloth.’
Michael slipped into it, and was relieved when it fitted. ‘At last! I was beginning to think I might have to go through the ceremony stark naked.’
‘I found it in a chest belonging to a canon who died several years ago. It was in the attic of my alehouse, so do not be too damning about such places. If I had not been an innkeeper, I would not have found the box, and you might well have gone to the Stall of South Scarle in a state of nature.’
‘Who was this canon?’ asked Michael. ‘I shall say a mass for him tomorrow.’
‘I doubt even your prayers will save Hodelston from the fires of Hell,’ said Tetford cheerfully. ‘He was a dreadful fellow, well past redemption.’
Michael hauled the garment from his shoulders and hurled it away. ‘Hodelston? He died during the Death! And you hand me his cope to wear? Matt!’
‘You cannot catch the plague from clothes after all these years,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true. ‘And I was under the impression that Hodelston did not die from the pestilence anyway.’
‘He was probably poisoned,’ agreed Tetford, picking up the cope and thrusting it into the monk’s reluctant hands. ‘And you are not in a position to be choosy, Brother, so just be grateful we have found something that fits. Well, we are finished just in time, because Miller is coming this way and he is making gestures that suggest he wants to talk to you.’
‘Perhaps he is, but I do not care to meet him,’ said Michael, beginning to move in the opposite direction.
Tetford grabbed his arm. ‘I am fond of my uncle, so I shall give his spy some good advice: do not run, because Miller will assume you are afraid of him. And he has a nasty habit of extorting money from timid people. Master Miller! Good morning.’
‘Maybe it is,’ replied the man who had approached them. He sounded cagey. ‘Or maybe it isn’t. It depends.’ He leaned to one side and spat on the cathedral’s fine stone floor.
Instinctively, Bartholomew went to stand next to Michael, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Adam Miller was squat and heavy, like a bull, and the three people at his heels carried enough weapons to equip the English army. Bartholomew recognised all four, although they were older than when he had last seen them. Miller had suffered most from the ravages of time. His skin had turned leathery and he had lost all his teeth except four yellow lower incisors; what little hair that remained was white.
Behind him stood the man Shirlok had named as Walter Chapman, a skinny fellow in his red hose, who looked just as disreputable as he had in Cambridge two decades before. Bartholomew wondered what Simon had been thinking of, to buy a relic from someone like Chapman, since everything about him screamed that he lived on the wrong side of the law – just like Miller, in fact.
