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squeezed himself into the solar gamely. He aimed for Langelee, and gripped the Master’s arm in comradely affection. His sword and short cloak said he was a knight, and he carried himself with confidence and dignity. He was in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and a weather-beaten face that might have been austere, were it not for his ready smile.
    ‘Scholarship suits you, Langelee,’ he said warmly. ‘You look younger than you ever did here.’
    ‘This is Sir William Longton,’ said Langelee to his colleagues. He grinned at the knight. ‘It is hard to believe that twelve years have passed since Zouche took us to put an end to the Scots’ unrest at Neville’s Cross. It feels like yesterday.’
    Sir William sighed. ‘It does. Thoresby is an excellent archbishop, who has given up all his royal appointments to concentrate on running his diocese, but I
liked
Zouche.’
    ‘I liked him, too,’ said Alice. ‘He did not appreciate music, but he was a fine figure of a man.’
    ‘He did nothing untoward, Mother,’ said Isabella, aware of the conclusions that Bartholomew, Michael and Radeford were drawing from this particular remark. ‘He was not that sort of person.’
    ‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He was decent and practical – not irritatingly devout, like many clerics, but a man for the people. I shall visit his chantry chapel later, and pray for his soul.’
    ‘I only wish you could,’ said Sir William sadly. ‘But unfortunately, it is not finished.’
    Langelee frowned. ‘Not finished? But that is impossible! It was started long before he died, and by the time I left, it was half done. He left ample money—’
    ‘It ran out,’ interposed Dalfeld, all smug malice. ‘He should have provided more.’
    ‘Ran out?’ exploded Langelee. ‘But he left a fortune – enough to pay for a shrine twice over. He told me so himself.’
    ‘As he told you he left Huntington to Michaelhouse?’ asked Dalfeld snidely.
    Langelee rounded on Anketil. ‘You are his executor – appointed to see his last wishes carried out. Why is his chapel not ready after nearly six years?’
    Anketil raised his hands placatingly. ‘Masons are costly, and so is stone. We all thought what he left would be more than sufficient, but we were wrong.’
    ‘Then why does the minster not pay?’ demanded Langelee.
    ‘Because it is about to begin remodelling the choir, and there are no funds to spare,’ explained Multone. He brightened. ‘Have you seen the plans? They are pleasingly ambitious, and—’
    ‘He was good to you, Anketil,’ shouted Langelee angrily. ‘He defended Holy Trinity against those spying accusations, and he helped you secure lucrative benefactions.’ He whirled around to include Dalfeld in his tirade. ‘And he was generous to you, too. He introduced you to wealthy clients and he left you property. Is this how you repay him? By failing to complete his chantry?’
    ‘It is not my concern,’ stated Dalfeld indignantly. ‘
I
was not one of his executors.’
    ‘But you were his lawyer!’ yelled Langelee, unappeased. ‘He trusted you – both of you.’
    Anketil flinched. ‘I know, and I would have done what he asked, had it been in my power. But the money is gone. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise, but …’
    ‘I agree with Master Langelee,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘My poor uncle’s bones still lie in the minster’s nave, whereas he expected to be in his tomb by now, one with an altar, so that prayers can be said to speed his soul out of Purgatory.’
    ‘Yes,’ nodded Langelee in a strained voice. ‘It was important to him.’
    ‘When I make money from my theological treatises, I shall donate every penny to his chapel,’ vowed Isabella. She smiled wanly at Langelee. ‘His
real
friends will see his wishes granted.’
    Dalfeld, making no effort to disguise the fact that he was bored with the discussion, turned to Multone. ‘Give me your blessing, Father, and then I shall be about my own