than usual. Do we have enough to
feed them all?’
‘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
tuumSion
, 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 avail: 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
feed them all?’
‘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
tuumSion
, 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 avail: 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
Similar Books
