Christiana folded her hands in her sleeves. ‘I heard the uproar when Father Simon found the body. My first instinct was to assume Simon had killed him – he is a rough sort of fellow for a priest – but he says he was in the chapel when Aylmer was killed, so I suppose he must be innocent.’
‘Who else do you think might have been responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I could list dozens of men who wanted Aylmer dead, but those with the strongest motive are at the cathedral. They did not want him as a Vicar Choral, and there were fierce arguments in Chapter meetings about it. Here is Sabina, back already. I must leave you, gentlemen.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, disappointed.
She touched his wrist with her fingertips. ‘I have religious duties to attend. I may not have taken holy orders yet, but I still set myself daily chores. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’
When she had gone, Michael gazed at the hand she had brushed, then raised it to his cheek.
When the Gilbertines’ bells clanged to life at five o’clock the following morning, Bartholomew pulled the blanket over his head in a futile attempt to muffle the racket. During a brief interlude, when the ringers took a break, the chamber was filled with Michael’s nagging voice, ordering Cynric to kindle a lamp so he could read his psalter. From his bed, Suttone declared that rowdy bells would bring the next wave of plague, while de Wetherset and Simon seemed to be embroiled in a private battle to see who could issue the most fervent prayers. Going back to sleep was clearly going to be impossible, so Bartholomew forced himself up, exchanging a weary grin with Cynric at his colleagues’ antics.
When the crashing clappers were finally stilled, the Michaelhouse men, with de Wetherset and Simon at their heels, left the guest-hall and crossed the yard, Simon heading for the chapel and the others for the gate. Michael had been serious when he had declared a preference for prime at the minster, while Bartholomew wanted to visit Mayor Spayne as soon as it was light, hoping to catch him before he went out to work.
‘Where are you going?’ cried Hamo, breaking into a run to intercept them. Whatton was behind him. ‘You cannot leave! It is Saturday, and we always have extended singing on Saturdays.’
‘In that case I am definitely going to the cathedral,’ muttered Michael. He cocked his head. ‘Lord! I can hear the racket from here, and all the chapel doors and windows are closed.’
‘And only half the brothers and nuns have arrived so far,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The others are still walking from their dormitories, and have yet to add their voices to the cacophony.’
‘What is that cracking sound?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. Cynric drew his dagger.
‘It is the clapping psalm,’ explained Simon, beginning to slap his own hands together. Hamo and Whatton joined in, and Bartholomew edged away uneasily when Simon began to warble at the top of his voice: ‘O clap your hands together, all ye people; O sing unto God with the voice of melody!’
‘That is the spirit,’ cried Prior Roger, as he emerged from his house. He carried his rattle, and gave it a few experimental shakes. ‘We shall praise the Lord with music and a great multitude of sound! Where are you going, Brother? The chapel is in this direction.’
‘We shall walk in silence,’ declared de Wetherset, after he, Bartholomew and Michael, with Cynric trailing behind, had managed to persuade Hamo to open the gate and let them out. Suttone had been less convincing with his excuses, so was condemned to remain. ‘We have had a narrow escape and should give quiet thanks. What will Roger think of next? Speaking in tongues?’ He shuddered.
The cathedral was a solid, black mass on the skyline, although delicate needles of yellow showed where candles had been lit in some of the windows. A cockerel crowed in the garden of one house they passed, and people were beginning to stir, despite the fact that it was still dark; when dawn came late, some duties needed to be performed by lamplight. The air was warmer than it had been the previous day, and there was a hazy drizzle in the air. It was melting some of the ice, and the scholars took care to walk in the middle of the road, to avoid being hit by falling icicles.
They arrived at the Close, where they were admitted by a sleepy lay-brother. They made their way to the minster, and stepped into the vastness of the nave. The scent of incense and damp wafted around them, and old leaves whispered across the stone floor in the draught from the door. As canons-elect, Michael and de Wetherset were expected to celebrate the divine office with the bishop at the High Altar, while Bartholomew went to listen from the Head Shrine, and Cynric expressed a desire to compare the carving of the imp with its episcopal original. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, and the building was a haven of silence and peace.
