It was too early for pilgrims, so the Head Shrine was quieter than it had been the day before, and only three people were present. The sword-wearing priest, Claypole, was asleep, wedged into an alcove with his long legs stretched comfortably before him. Meanwhile, the dissipated Archdeacon Ravenser moved lethargically among the candles, trimming wicks and scraping spilled wax from the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and his complexion yellow, as if he had enjoyed another riotous night with too much wine. Dame Eleanor was kneeling in front of the shrine itself.
‘She has been here all night,’ whispered Ravenser, as Bartholomew approached. ‘Keeping vigil for the Feast of St Lucy, which is today as you will know. I cannot imagine how she stands it. She must be an angel, because I do not think any mere mortal could bear the tedium. Give me a tavern any day.’
Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that the old lady looked a good deal more pert and fit after her night of prayer than Ravenser did after whatever he had been doing. Dame Eleanor saw the two men looking at her, and beckoned them forward. Unwilling to be included in what might transpire to be an invitation to some lengthy prayers, Ravenser hastily busied himself with his candles.
‘Listen to the choir chant the responses,’ said Dame Eleanor softly, when Bartholomew went to stand next to her. ‘Can you imagine anything more beautiful?’
‘It is certainly more tuneful than Prior Roger and his ear-splitting ensemble.’
She frowned when she became aware of Claypole’s lounging posture. ‘That wicked young man is asleep again, and I have woken him twice this morning already! If he went to bed earlier, he might stay awake for the duties he is paid to fulfil. He is lucky Ravenser is of a mind to be diligent this morning.’
‘Is Ravenser not usually diligent, then?’ ‘I think he prefers non-secular activities to religious ones, although he has been working very hard this morning. I can only assume it is penance for some sin committed during his latest revelries.’
Bartholomew suspected that Ravenser was simply trying to make a good impression on a woman generally regarded as a saint in the making. With practised movements, the archdeacon laid out the vessels for mass, slapping his hand down sharply when a sudden draught caught the Host and flipped it into the air. He placed a paten across it, so it would not happen again. Dame Eleanor returned to her prayers, while Bartholomew let the choir’s singing envelop him. He could hear Michael’s baritone among the lower parts, and de Wetherset’s creaking tenor. Then there was another voice, this one discordant and jarring. Claypole woke with a start.
‘The dean,’ Bartholomew heard him mumble to Ravenser, ‘sings like a scalded cat.’
Eleanor shot them an admonishing look when they started to guffaw, causing Ravenser to complete his duties and leave hastily. Claypole, meanwhile, heaved himself upright and rubbed his eyes. When a burly canon sauntered past, Claypole went to talk to him, and Bartholomew noticed that while Ravenser’s weapon had been mostly concealed under his robes, Claypole wore his sword brazenly, and did not care who saw the unusual addition to a priestly habit. Claypole and the canon leaned non-chalantly against a nearby wall, and Bartholomew assumed, from their vaguely obscene gestures, that the discussion had little to do with religion.
‘Christiana is their only hope,’ said Eleanor, following the direction of his gaze. ‘When she is here, they at least try to act like men of God.’
‘They seem a quarrelsome rabble,’ said Bartholomew. The old lady winced. ‘They should be ashamed of themselves. And they will regret their wicked ways when the plague comes again, and those with black souls face God’s judgement. Your friend Master Suttone told me last night that the worst sinners will be struck first.’
She went back to her prayers, so Bartholomew left her and began to wander around the cathedral. The milder weather had not yet percolated inside the building, and it was bitterly cold. He wondered how an elderly woman like Dame Eleanor coped with the chill. Still listening to the music, he passed the spot where Cynric was inspecting Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb, and aimed for the South Choir Aisle, walking briskly in an attempt to warm himself up. Dawn was breaking, but the first glimmerings of light had not yet touched the shadowy corridor, and the only light was from a single brazier.
