‘I will manage,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if you donate the three pennies you earned from inspecting Drax.’
‘But I need that for medicine,’ objected Bartholomew in dismay.
‘Food is more important than remedies,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Did you hear that the price of grain has risen again? A loaf of bread now costs more than a labourer can earn in a day.’
It was a dismal state of affairs, and Bartholomew wondered how many more of the poor would starve before winter relinquished its icy hold.
‘Celia Drax is here,’ remarked Thelnetham, surveying the congregation critically. ‘It did not take her long to recover from the news that her husband was murdered.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But she said she finds consolation in religion.’
Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘Yffi is here, too. Incidentally, I still think he is involved in what happened to Drax. I will interview him again tomorrow, and have the truth. I would have done it today, but the wretched man did not appear for work this morning.’
‘But he has taken all the tiles off the roof!’ exclaimed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘If it rains, we shall have water cascading–’
‘Believe me, I know,’ interrupted Michael. ‘My ceiling currently comprises a sheet nailed to the rafters. I almost froze to death last night. But we shall discuss this later – the rite is starting.’
Michaelhouse was good at ceremonies, because so many of its Fellows were in religious Orders. Thelnetham presided, ably assisted by Clippesby and Suttone, all attired in their best habits. Father William, in his grubby robes, was relegated to the role of crucifer, while Michael was in charge of music. Bartholomew, Langelee and Ayera were only obliged to stand in the chancel in their scarlet gowns, and watch.
Thelnetham began by blessing a large number of beeswax candles, which, Bartholomew recalled, had been donated by Drax. Then, after sprinkling them with incense, he lit them, and the choir swung into action. Bartholomew knew it was the Nunc Dimittis, because that was always chanted at this point, although it was unrecognisable as such. He exchanged an amused grin with Ayera, then struggled for a suitably reverent expression when Michael glanced in his direction.
It was difficult to remain sombre, though, when Emma and her household were open-mouthed in astonishment at the cacophony – with the exception of Heslarton, who was nodding in time to the rhythm, such as it was. As the volume grew, despite Michael’s frantic arm-waving to indicate this was not what he wanted, their incredulity intensified, and Bartholomew was aware that both Langelee and Ayera were shaking with laughter next to him.
Thelnetham processed slowly down the aisle when the choir began to wail the antiphon Adorna thalamum tuum Sion, followed by every Michaelhouse scholar, each carrying one of the candles. Deynman opened the door, and the procession moved into the cemetery, the scholars shielding the lights with their hands to prevent them from blowing out. The daylight was fading as the short winter afternoon drew to a close, so the candles were bright in the gloom. Similar services were being held in every other church in the town, and the beautifully harmonic voices of St Mary the Great were carried on the wind, melodic and mystical in the dying day.
Unfortunately, the Michaelhouse Choir heard them, and this was not to be borne. There were some glares of indignation, and Isnard raised his arm to indicate the matter was to be rectified. Michael tried to stop them, but to no avaiclass="underline" a challenge had been perceived, and it was going to be answered. The tenors launched into the Nunc Dimittis again, but the basses preferred an Ave Maria, while the higher parts flitted from piece to piece as and when the fancy took them.
Isnard’s conducting grew more urgent, and the volume rose further still. The racket brought the High Street to a standstill, as carts careened into each other. Several dogs started to howl, although they could not be heard over the din, and neither could the whinnies of frightened horses.
Thelnetham stepped up the pace of the ceremony, eager to be back inside so the clamour could be brought to an end. The Fellows hurried to keep up with him, while the students at the very end of the line were obliged to break into a run. Several were helpless with laughter, and by the time Thelnetham had circumnavigated the churchyard and was heading back up the aisle, his procession was in shambles.
He blessed the image of the Holy Child that Suttone was holding, then read the canticle Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel before the choir could sing that, too. But there was one more musical interlude to be performed, and scholars and congregation alike were relieved when Michael shot his singers a glance that told them they had better not join in, and chanted the Inviolata himself.
Bartholomew closed his eyes as the monk’s rich baritone filled the church, enjoying the way it echoed around the stones. When the last notes had faded away and he opened his eyes again, it was to find the church filled with flickering gold light. Then it was plunged into darkness as the scholars blew out their candles. The ritual of Purification was over.
‘I have heard worse,’ said Bartholomew consolingly, as he walked home next to Michael. The High Street was still in chaos, with two broken wagons and a man wailing over the fact that his sheep had been frightened into a stampede. ‘They were not as bad today as they were at Christmas.’
‘They were louder, though,’ said Michael. He grinned, a little wickedly. ‘How many other foundations do you think we managed to disrupt this time? At Christmas, we received complaints from five, but I think we may have surpassed ourselves this afternoon.’
‘It would not surprise me to learn that they disrupted the Pope in Avignon. Can you not tell them that producing that sort of din is bad for the ears? It hurt mine, and I was some distance away. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be among them.’
Michael’s expression was pained. ‘I do tell them, but my advice is forgotten once they are in public. You should have heard them practise the Ave Maria last week. It was beautiful – moving.’
Bartholomew seriously doubted it, but said nothing. He could hear the sounds of merriment behind him, as the singers, delighted with the impact they had made, shared the bread and ale Michael had provided. He was glad they would have at least one good meal that day, and began to look forward to the feast, aware that it was some time since he had eaten well, too.
But he was to be disappointed, because when he arrived at Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting with a message. The singing had aggravated Emma’s toothache, and she wanted him to visit immediately, to see what might be done about it.
‘You will have to go,’ said Langelee, overhearing. ‘I appreciate that your inclination will be to ignore the summons and enjoy the feast, but you must put duty first.’
‘I never ignore summonses from patients,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Even when I know that patient will continue to be unwell until she agrees to have her tooth removed.’
‘Well, do what you can for her,’ instructed Langelee. ‘I know you disapprove of me accepting her charity, but I did what had to be done, and you must make the best of it.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Have you found out who killed Drax yet? He was a benefactor, too, and I do not want it said that helping Michaelhouse is dangerous.’
‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But tomorrow I shall learn from Yffi whether he created a diversion so the body could be dumped here – and if he did, I shall have the name of the killer.’
‘And if he did not?’ asked Langelee.
‘Then I shall have another word with Celia. I sense there is a lot more to be gleaned from her.’