He moved away, but was intercepted by Ravenser, who was weaving up the nave in a manner that suggested he was drunk. He leaned heavily on Claypole, and laughed raucously at some joke of his own making. A woman joined them, and Ravenser whispered something that made her slap him.
It was some time before Michael emerged from the chancel. His face was bleak. ‘The dean has just given me a complete catalogue of offences committed by Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks. It seems I am about to be installed in a den of vice. And speaking of vice, here is my deputy.’
‘Your alb, Brother,’ said Tetford cheerfully, flinging a garment at Michael in such a way that it landed on his head. ‘Rosanna could not believe the dimensions I gave her, and is keen to meet you for herself. I intend to introduce you.’
‘No, you will not,’ said Michael, hauling the vestment from his face. ‘I am not some prize bull, to be produced on demand for the entertainment of women of easy virtue. And you agreed to give them up, if you recall. Or had you forgotten my threat to dismiss any assistant whose character is tainted?’
Tetford snorted his disdain. ‘Which saint will you hire, then, Brother? Dame Eleanor? She is the only one around here who reaches your lofty standards. What do you think of the alb?’
Michael glared at him, but declined to waste his breath with further recriminations. Bartholomew stepped forward and helped him hoist the garment over his shoulders. The length was good, and the seam was barely visible thanks to some talented sewing, but it was nowhere near large enough around.
Tetford took it back with an unkind snigger. ‘Rosanna will think I am playing a game with her when I say it needs to be made bigger still. Or would you rather I abstained from her company, and you can be installed as it is? It makes you look fat, so I would not recommend it.’
‘It will take more than a morning away from women to save your sinful soul,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am not fat, I have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’
‘Massive ones,’ agreed Bartholomew obligingly. ‘Will the alb be ready in time for the ceremony? There is only a week to go.’
‘It will be tight – and I do not mean the alb,’ said Tetford. ‘Christ in Heaven!’
Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode away with the robe over his arm. Bartholomew turned quickly, and saw Ravenser and John Suttone coming towards them. Although he was obviously inebriated, Ravenser had still remembered to arm himself, and he fingered his dagger as he nodded a cool greeting to the scholars.
‘My Vicar Choral seems nervous of you, Ravenser,’ remarked Michael. ‘I told him to disarm, but I can see from here that he is wearing a sword under his habit.’
‘He should be nervous,’ said Ravenser, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Tetford hurrying away. He began to follow, drawing his sword as he did so and calling over his shoulder, ‘There are rules in the Cathedral Close, and he broke them.’
‘What rules?’ asked Michael of John, watching Tetford break into a run. Ravenser lumbered after him, but it was not long before he gave up the chase, putting his hand to his head as if the exercise had been too much for the delicate state of his health. ‘Would they be the monastic ones of chastity, obedience, humility and poverty?’
‘Tetford has certainly broken those,’ replied John, watching his colleagues’ antics in distaste. ‘And you can add theft, fornication and insolence, too. But in this instance I think Ravenser refers to who has rights to a certain lady. It is anathema to me, of course. I do not indulge in licentious behaviour.’
‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Would you like me to tell our friend Suttone about his cousin’s virtuous character? He is looking for a new Vicar Choral, now his original choice is murdered.’
John regarded him icily. ‘I am naturally virtuous. It is not something I enact simply because there is a post of Vicar Choral on offer. Good morning, Brother.’
‘Poor Dean Bresley,’ said Bartholomew, while John stalked away, head in the air. ‘If all his clergy are like the ones we have met, his life must be like a foretaste of Hell.’
‘Speaking of Hell, here comes the bishop. Or is it the stone imp from the Angel Choir?’
‘Brother Michael,’ said Gynewell, skipping towards them. His curly hair gleamed in the dull morning light, and so did his eyes. ‘Have you found Aylmer’s killer yet? The dean said you questioned some of the Vicars Choral after High Mass.’
‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘However, my task has not been made easier by the fact that you were not entirely open with me. It would have been helpful to know that Aylmer was a member of the Commonalty and that he was friends with unsavoury men like Adam Miller.’
Gynewell was rueful. ‘I see you have questions, but this is not the place to talk. Come to my house, and we shall discuss it there.’
