Matilde, unofficial leader of the town’s prostitutes, was the most attractive woman in Cambridge, as far as Bartholomew was concerned. Possessing a natural beauty that needed no potions or pastes to enhance it, her hair always shone with health and her face was pure and unblemished, like an alabaster saint’s. Men had been complaining for years now that they had been unable to secure her personal services, and it appeared that she had abandoned her life of merry pleasure among those wealthy enough to afford her, to devote her time to the town’s women – prostitutes or downtrodden, homeless or afraid.
That morning, she wore her best blue cloak, which caught the mysterious colours in her eyes and made them even more arresting than usual. Her dress was cut close in the latest fashion, revealing her slender, lithe body, and the way Harysone was ogling her with his moist, glittering eyes made the physician want to march down the aisle and punch him.
But Bartholomew was not Matilde’s only friend present that morning. The physician saw Harysone crane backward, then forward, then fold his arms with a sullen expression. Several of Matilde’s ‘Frail Sisters’ had clustered around, shielding her from Harysone’s lascivious gaze. Moments later a couple of their menfolk began to jostle the unwelcome visitor. Finding himself crowded between a rough bargeman and a burly carpenter, Harysone took a step towards the porch. Carpenter and bargeman followed, until Harysone had been neatly herded to the door. Yolande de Blaston, the carpenter’s wife, just happened to open it and, with a nudge from one of her sturdy elbows, Harysone was gone.
‘Good,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘Now I can concentrate on my prayers.’
Bartholomew said nothing, although he felt enormous relief that Matilde had been rescued from the man’s open lust. He glanced at her, and saw that she was wholly unaware of the service that had just been performed on her behalf; her attention was fixed devoutly on the altar.
Eventually, it was time for Michael’s choir to make its appearance. Bartholomew knew that the monk had been practising with his motley collection of singers for weeks, and that improvement had occurred with frustrating slowness. Most enrolled only because Michaelhouse provided free ale and bread after services, and the applicants’ musical ability was never considered. Despite his bluster and sharp tongue, Michael was a compassionate man, who declined to refuse membership to the desperate souls for whom choir was the only way of ensuring a regular meal. Consequently, it was the largest body of singers in Cambridge, and had a reputation for volume.
It comprised men and boys from the poorest houses in the town, with a smattering of scholars to justify its name of the Michaelhouse Choir. The tenors included Dunstan and Athelbald, Bartholomew’s riverside patients, although Dunstan was too ill to be present that day. Among the basses were Isnard the bargeman and Robert de Blaston the carpenter, who had removed Harysone from the church.
While Kenyngham and Suttone muttered sacred words and moved sacred vessels, Michael’s choir took deep breaths to provide a little entertainment for the watching scholars and townsfolk. As they girded themselves up for music, a murmur of nervous apprehension rippled through the congregation.
Before people could think of leaving, Michael raised his arms and the sound began. A boy’s voice broke the silence, singing the vox principalis high and clear, so that the notes soaring around the rafters seemed to come from the throat of an angel. The boy was joined by a vox organalis, and the voices fluted and wrapped around each other, producing a harmony that was exquisite. The congregation exchanged glances of startled pleasure, and Bartholomew saw Michael look pleased with himself. The two singers were Clippesby and the Franciscan novice Ulfrid, and Bartholomew felt a surge of pride that Michaelhouse should possess such talent.
But then the solos ended, and it was time for the chorus. It began with the basses, a grumbling mass of indistinguishable words, which comprised several notes produced simultaneously, although Bartholomew was fairly certain there was only supposed to be one. The tenors joined in, although they stopped after a few moments when frantic signalling from Michael indicated they were early. Conversely, the children did not start singing at all, and he was obliged to sing their part himself until they realised they had missed their cue. To make up for their tardiness, they sang more quickly, and had soon outstripped the basses and were surging ahead.
The piece moved into a crescendo when the voices suddenly and unexpectedly came together, and the singers felt they were on familiar ground. Michael waved his arms furiously in an attempt to make them sing more softly, but the choir were having none of that. They knew their words and their notes, and they were determined that everyone should hear them. The sound was deafening, and the friars celebrating the mass grew distracted and flustered. Kenyngham poured wine into the wrong vessel, and Suttone knocked a paten off the altar, sending it clattering across the flagstones – except, of course, that the choir drowned any sound it might have made.
Langelee swung a censor rather more vigorously than was necessary, directing clouds of throat-searing incense in the choir’s direction in an attempt to silence at least some of them. It did not work, although Bartholomew noticed that the scholars from Ovyng, who were standing uncomfortably close to the choir and were in the line of Langelee’s fire, were tugging at hoods and coughing. Father Ailred’s face was almost purple as he struggled not to choke, while Godric had the folds of his cowl pressed to his face.
But it was over at last – and rather abruptly, as though the singers had suddenly run out of energy – and the church was flooded with a blessed silence. There were sighs of relief all around, and the mass continued. Bartholomew saw tears running down Ailred’s face, but suspected that these were caused by incense-induced coughing, rather than emotion. Godric gazed up at the rafters with his mouth open, although whether he was inspecting the greenery or was dazed from the singing, Bartholomew could not tell. Meanwhile, their students, neatly tonsured and clean for the occasion, stood in a line. All appeared to be healthy and well rested, and it did not seem as if any harboured a guilty conscience over the violent death of Norbert.
When Kenyngham and Suttone had completed the mass, the scholars formed their processions again and made their way back to their colleges and hostels. Michaelhouse went first, followed by Physwick, Ovyng, Garrett and St Catherine’s hostels. It was an impressive sight, with black-, blue- and red-robed scholars walking through the falling snow, led by acolytes and crucifers.
The choir had been promised food and a penny for their labours, and Langelee was gracious as he handed out coins, congratulating various members on their performances. Many of the town children were there, too, since it was a tradition that Michaelhouse provided them with bread on Christmas morning. Bartholomew leaned against the servants’ screen at the back of the hall and watched with satisfaction the sight of the needy eating their fill at the College’s expense.
Once the choir had dined and been sent on their way with Langelee’s diplomatic praise still ringing in their ears, the scholars attended the Mass of the Divine Word, which was the longest of the three Christmas Day offices, and the most peaceful. When it was over, and the scholars were once again marching through the snow, Langelee broke ranks and dropped back to walk with Bartholomew.
‘I keep forgetting something I must tell you.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the tone of the Master’s voice. He was sure whatever Langelee had to say was not something he would want to hear.
‘The feast this afternoon,’ said Langelee. ‘You know it is our custom to invite guests from the parish to help us celebrate?’