The Bishop’s Palace was a sumptuous set of buildings that stood in the shadow of the cathedral. It boasted a stately hall with a great vaulted undercroft, which was the prelate’s private residence, while a range to the west held rooms for the clerks and officials who managed his diocese. The complex stood on a series of terraces that afforded fine views of the city, while the cathedral loomed protectively behind. The palace was made from honey-coloured stone, and its thick walls and sturdy gates suggested its builders had an eye to security, as well as to beauty and comfort. It formed a stark contrast to the shabby poverty of the town that huddled outside its well-tended grounds.
‘A tavern would have been more convenient, My Lord,’ said Michael irritably, as he followed Gynewell down a narrow path with steep stairs that provided a shortcut between palace and minster. The dampness of the fog made it slippery, and it was not an easy descent. ‘I understand the Close is rather well supplied with them.’
‘I am a bishop,’ said Gynewell archly. ‘I do not frequent alehouses – and especially not the Tavern in the Close, which is more brothel than hostelry.’
Once they reached the bottom, he led the way to a fine hall. At the far end was a massive hearth, in which a fire blazed so fiercely that it was difficult to approach. The window shutters were closed against the winter cold, and flames sent shadows dancing around the room, giving the impression that some of the figures in the wall-tapestries were alive and moving. None of the hangings depicted religious scenes, and some were openly pagan. Bartholomew glanced at the diminutive bishop uneasily, then realised he was allowing himself to be influenced by Cynric’s prejudices.
Gynewell headed straight for the fire, where he climbed into a throne that was placed directly in front of it, waving his guests to a bench on one side. Both bench and chair were well supplied with cushions, all of them red. The bishop leaned down and took a bell in both hands, giving it a vigorous shake that made Bartholomew afraid he might burst into song, like the Gilbertines. After a moment, the door opened, and young Hugh marched in.
‘Yes, My Lord?’ the lad piped, doffing his hat.
‘It is your turn for bishop-duty, is it?’ asked Gynewell amiably, raising one of his short legs to cross over the other as he basked in the heat. Bartholomew wondered how he could stand it. ‘Or have you been assigned an additional spell of servitude for some act of mischief?’
‘Dean Bresley was cross because I accidentally dropped Master Bautre’s music in the stoup,’ said Hugh. ‘And the ink ran, so he cannot read it, which means we cannot practise the Te Deum today.’
‘I understand there is an archery practice this afternoon at the butts,’ said Gynewell with a grave expression. ‘You will have to go there, instead of singing Bautre’s latest composition.’
‘What a pity,’ said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. ‘What would you like me to fetch you, sir?’
‘Some wine – hot, of course. And a few of those red cakes the baker delivered yesterday. Oh, and bring my pitchfork, will you?’
Hugh left obediently, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop with renewed unease. ‘Pitchfork?’
Gynewell leaned forward to prod the fire into even greater fury, then sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Red cakes are best served toasted. Bishop de Lisle knows my liking for them, and he once gave me a miniature pitchfork, just for that purpose.’
When Hugh returned, heavily laden with a tray of wine and nasty-looking pastries, Gynewell showed off his ‘pitchfork’. It was the length of a man’s arm, and beautifully crafted to mimic the double-tined tools used for moving hay. Its handle was bound in crimson leather, to prevent the user from burning himself, and Bartholomew suspected de Lisle had considered the gift an excellent joke.
They had done no more than be served a cup of scalding wine, so liberally laced with spices that it turned Bartholomew’s mouth numb, when there was a tap on the door. It was the dean. He sidled in as though he was about to burgle the place, eyes darting everywhere. He jumped guiltily when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.
‘Come in, Bresley,’ said Gynewell genially, waving the dean to the bench and presenting him with a cup of wine. Bartholomew saw it was a wooden vessel, rather than one of the set of silver goblets with which he and Michael had been provided. ‘You know you are always welcome.’
‘I am not sure I want to be welcome in this company,’ muttered the dean unhappily. ‘Tetford has just informed me that Brother Michael plans to hold a wild celebration in his tavern the night before his installation. He said Christiana de Hauville has been invited, because the good Brother has developed an improper liking for her. However, Lady Christiana is a woman, so should not be in the Close after dark. It is not right.’
Michael regarded him in open-mouthed shock, while Gynewell speared a pastry with his fork and began to cook it.
