When he reached the tomb of Little Hugh, he saw Christiana there, lighting a candle. He hung back, loath to disturb her, and watched as she stepped up to the statue and grabbed the flask of holy water that stood behind it. Furtively, she removed a second jar from under her cloak, and emptied its contents inside the first, replacing both vessels smartly when voices echoed along the aisle. Bartholomew ducked behind a pillar as Claypole, John Suttone and Ravenser approached; Christiana dropped quickly to her knees and put her hands together. The three priests loitered in a way that indicated they wanted her attention, shuffling and coughing until she had no choice but to look around. When she did, they vied for her attention like besotted schoolboys.
‘Please,’ she said gently, resting her hand on Ravenser’s arm and smiling sweetly at Claypole and John. ‘I want to pray, and I cannot do it while you three fuss and fidget behind me.’
‘Perhaps we can help,’ offered Claypole, unwilling to be dismissed. ‘We are priests, after all.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you might. I would like to light another candle for my mother, and I would like a wreath of leaves to place on Little Hugh’s statue. The old one is sadly wilted. Would you be kind enough to fetch them for me?’
They shot away to do her bidding, but then she became aware that yet another person was lingering in the shadows. She sighed, and there was a weary expression on her face.
‘Do I have to devise errands for you, too, so I can pray uninterrupted?’
‘Is that what you are doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or are you here to exchange Dame Eleanor’s holy water for something else?’
She grimaced in annoyance. ‘You saw me, did you? Damn! I add wine to her water occasionally, because I have learned that it eases the ache in her legs brought on by the cold. She does not know, and I would rather you did not tell her. She believes a small miracle takes place when it happens – that Little Hugh is watching over her – and I would not like her to think otherwise. Look.’
She handed the jug to him, and while he thought Dame Eleanor would probably disapprove of being deceived, he supposed it was being done with the best of intentions. He tasted the contents, and was not surprised the old lady enjoyed it: Christiana had been generous in her mixing, and there was far more wine than water. It was good quality claret, too, and he supposed it might well help to keep the aches of a cold winter morning at bay.
‘It is very strong,’ he observed. ‘Does she ever fall asleep halfway through the morning?’
Christiana looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, she does, but that is just her age. Is it not?’
‘Reduce the amount,’ he advised. ‘Excesses of wine are unhealthy too early in the day.’
Her face burned red with mortification. ‘I am not doing her any harm, am I?’
‘Not if you practise moderation. Indeed, you may be doing some good.’
She smiled, relieved. ‘Dame Eleanor is the best of friends to me. I was lonely and frightened after my mother died, but she was kind and patient, and taught me to take pleasure in serving the saints in this magnificent cathedral. I do not think I would have survived without her.’
Bartholomew backed away. ‘Then I will leave you in peace.’
The physician continued his circuit of the minster. When he reached the nave, he saw Tetford hurrying towards the chancel, rubbing his eyes as though he had overslept. He was carrying the alb he was supposed to be altering for Michael. Ravenser approached him, fingering his dagger. Tetford’s hand dropped to his own belt, then scrabbled about in alarm when he realised he had forgotten to arm himself. Ravenser whispered something and, with a heavy sigh of resignation, Tetford produced a thick beeswax candle from the satchel he carried over his shoulder. Ravenser snatched it from him and darted towards Christiana, not seeing the obscene gesture Tetford made at his retreating back. Eventually, Bartholomew’s wandering brought him to the Angel Choir again, where he had started. It was possible to see through the carved screen to the sanctuary beyond, and he found Cynric there, looking from Bishop Gynewell to the stone imp in its lofty niche.
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew, before the Welshman could whip himself into too much of a frenzy. ‘Some of the angels have faces similar to living people, too.’
‘But angels are heavenly beings,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘And Gynewell is one of Satan’s imps. Just look at him! His horns are particularly noticeable today.’
Bartholomew wanted to contradict him, but Cynric was right. The bishop had evidently risen in a hurry, and had raked his fingers through his hair to ‘tidy’ it. As a result, the twisted curls at the sides of his head looked very much like horns in the unsteady light of the candles, and the way he hopped about behind the altar did little to enhance a sense of episcopal dignity, either.
‘If Gynewell is a demon, he will evaporate in a puff of smoke when he touches the Host,’ he said.
