The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 8

The next day was windy, and rattling window shutters woke Michael long before dawn. He tossed and turned for a while, then noticed Cynric sitting by the hearth, prodding life into the dying embers of the fire. He went to sit next to him, stretching chilled hands towards the feeble glow. They were not alone for long. The gathering gale disturbed Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone, too. They clustered around the blaze, talking in low voices, so as not to disturb Bartholomew, although Michael knew it would take more than wind and a discussion to rouse his friend. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and very little woke him once he was asleep – the notable exception being the Gilbertines’ bells.

‘You really heard nothing of our fracas?’ asked Michael, recalling the racket they had made.

‘You know how loudly they sing here,’ replied Suttone. ‘It is enough to wake the dead, and I heard nothing else at all. The only reason Cynric did was because he was in the kitchen.’

‘I was one of the warblers,’ said Simon. ‘So I heard nothing but my own sweet music.’

De Wetherset was thoughtful. ‘Now I see how easy it must have been to dispatch Aylmer. When he was stabbed, he probably uttered no more than a startled gasp, which would have been inaudible to anyone except his killer.’

‘Someone wants my investigation to fail,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps Spayne dislikes us looking for Matilde.’ He did not mention his suspicions about Miller, because that would entail discussing the Shirlok trial, and the physician’s wariness of de Wetherset was beginning to rub off on him.

‘Mayor Spayne would never hire killers,’ declared Simon. ‘He is not that kind of man.’

‘Then what about you, Father?’ asked Michael. ‘Since Aylmer’s death is intricately associated with your Hugh Chalice, you have a very good reason for not wanting the matter probed too deeply.’

Simon glared at him, offended by the bald accusation. ‘I told you: I was at my devotions, both when Aylmer died and when you were attacked last night. I am involved in neither incident.’

‘Lincoln is home to dozens of unemployed weavers who are desperate for money,’ Michael went on. ‘I imagine it would be easy to find someone willing to kill in exchange for a good supper.’

Simon regarded him coldly. ‘I imagine so, but that assumes I am afraid of what your investigation might reveal, and I am not. The Hugh Chalice is genuine, and if you say it is not, you will be wrong.’

‘Michael will not denounce the Hugh Chalice,’ said Suttone confidently. ‘It is real, so there cannot be any evidence to the contrary.’

‘How do you know it is real?’ asked Michael, startled by the conviction in his colleague’s voice.

‘Gynewell told me, and he is a friend of the family. He would never be deceived by a false relic.’

‘This particular cup has undergone some very sinister travels,’ said Michael, deciding not to address Suttone’s peculiar rationale. ‘Ever since it was stolen twenty years ago.’

‘Perhaps, but its movements cannot be relevant to its sanctity,’ argued Suttone. ‘The bishop and Simon are right: it does have an aura. I feel in my heart that it is the genuine article.’

‘People said the same thing about the Cambridge relic – the one dubbed the Hand of Justice,’ said Michael. ‘And I learned then that men’s beliefs are something quite different from the truth.’

‘You should see to your friend,’ said de Wetherset, after a few moments during which the debate became quite heated. ‘You are virtually yelling and still he sleeps.’

Concerned, Michael went to the physician’s bed and touched his shoulder. When nothing happened, he prodded him hard with a forefinger, relieved when he stirred and sat up.

‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael. ‘I was just making sure you have not been poisoned. There seems to be a lot of it about these days.’

‘Poisoned with what? We have had nothing to eat or drink since we left the Bishop’s Palace.’

‘Ignore me, Matt. My nerves are all afire this morning. Lord! There go the Gilbertines’ bells. I am tempted to ask Cynric to steal their clappers. That would stop them in their tracks.’

Michael was unwilling to leave the convent before it was light, so was obliged to attend prime in St Katherine’s Chapel. Bartholomew stood at the back until he was sure Prior Roger had noted his presence, then slipped away to read in the refectory instead. After a breakfast in which the Michaelhouse men were served smoked pork and boiled eggs but everyone else had oatmeal pottage, he and Michael went to look at the chalice again. Michael stared at it for a long time, shaking his head.

‘I am not the best of monks, but I should be able to tell a brazen fraud from something sacred. I suspect I could gaze at this thing until Judgement Day and be none the wiser. What do you think?’

Bartholomew inspected it closely. ‘St Hugh died about a hundred and fifty years ago; this cup is thin, battered and tarnished, and might well be that old.’

‘Is that a yes or a no to its authenticity?’

‘It is an “I have no idea”. I do not feel the urge to fall to my knees, but I do not want to pick it up and toss it out of the window, either.’

‘St Hugh really did own a chalice with a carving of the Baby Jesus on it – it was recorded by his chronicler. So perhaps we should give it the benefit of the doubt.’

‘You did not come, Michael,’ came a soft voice from behind them. The monk jumped in alarm and spun around. ‘You said we should meet last night after vespers. I waited an hour, but you never came.’

Christiana looked especially lovely that morning, her cheeks pale in the flickering light of the candles. She wore a cote-hardie of gentian blue, which almost exactly matched the colour of her eyes. Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered whether she had abandoned the Gilbertine habit she usually favoured in order to remind Michael that she had not yet taken monastic vows, and all they entailed.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘It slipped my mind.’

Her expression was incredulous, and Bartholomew saw she found it hard to believe that she could ‘slip’ anyone’s mind. He imagined it would be a stunning blow to her ego. ‘You forgot about me?’

‘Not forgot,’ hedged Michael uncomfortably. ‘My attention was snagged by another matter. Someone tried to kill me last night.’

Her jaw dropped in shock. ‘I heard a commotion, but no one told me what it was about.’

She gasped in horror when Michael told her what had happened and she learned how close the attack had come to succeeding. With a sense of unease, Bartholomew saw she had definitely developed a soft spot for the fat Benedictine.

‘This is terrible!’ she cried, aghast. ‘You must hurry to the Shrine of Little Hugh immediately, and ask him to watch over you. I shall do the same. And tell the bishop to appoint someone else to do his dirty work. Giving him answers about Aylmer’s death cannot be worth your life.’

‘No,’ agreed the monk. ‘However, I shall be on my guard now, and will not be easy to dispatch. Of course, it may not have been me these villains wanted.’

Christiana regarded Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Why should you be a target?’

‘Spayne knows he would like to find Matilde,’ explained Michael, keeping his suspicions about Miller to himself, ‘but he refused to help, even though he may have some idea as to where she might have gone. Perhaps he decided that killing Matt was the best way to ensure the hunt for her ends.’

‘That does not sound like Spayne,’ said Christiana. Her expression became wistful. ‘Dear Matilde. I shall never forget her kindness to me when my mother died. Perhaps it was my grief that prompted her to persecute poor Ursula so vigorously. I never did tell her my contention that my mother determined her own destiny. I intended to, but she was gone before I had the chance.’

‘Have you given any more thought to where Matilde might be?’ asked Bartholomew after a short silence, during which the cathedral bells began to chime in the distance. ‘I would be grateful for even the smallest piece of information. And so would Michael,’ he added as an afterthought.

She frowned thoughtfully. ‘She must be very important to you.’

‘To both of us,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘She is a good friend, and all we want is to be sure she is safe.’

‘Then Dame Eleanor and I will make a list of all the places she ever mentioned,’ said Christiana with sudden determination. ‘We are no Mayor Spayne. We will help you find her.’ Bartholomew smiled gratefully, promptly revising his unflattering opinion of her. ‘Thank you.’

Her own smile faltered as she returned her gaze to the monk. ‘Your story of dangerous felons attacking you with knives will play on my mind all day, Brother. Were you hurt?’

‘Yes.’ Michael held up his hands, swollen from their battle with nettles. ‘I was badly stung.’

‘And you have given him nothing to alleviate the pain?’ cried Christiana, turning on Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were a physician!’

‘I found him a dock leaf,’ he said defensively.

‘ It was rough – and so is he when he wields them,’ explained Michael to Christiana, in a voice that came very close to a whimper. ‘And I had suffered enough.’

‘There is a balm in the hospital,’ said Christiana kindly. ‘I have used it on nettle rashes myself. Come with me, dear Brother, and we shall soon have you feeling better. Dame Eleanor will be there, so do not worry about propriety.’

‘I shall not,’ promised Michael.

‘What is in this poultice?’ asked Bartholomew, starting to follow.

‘Dock leaves,’ replied Christiana, with a wry grin. ‘But a gently applied paste is far more soothing than being rubbed with foliage. I will show you, if you like.’

‘You need not come, Matt,’ said Michael airily. ‘I shall be perfectly happy with Lady Christiana.’

‘I am sure you will,’ murmured Bartholomew, watching them walk away together.

With Michael ensconced with Christiana, and the hospital doors firmly closed against any would-be intruders – even Cynric could not hear what was going on inside, and he was a far more experienced eavesdropper than Bartholomew would ever be – the physician found himself at a loose end. He did not want to visit Spayne again, despite the open invitation, since he suspected he would never have what he really wanted from the man. It was not his duty to investigate the death of Aylmer, and he had no idea how to move forward on it anyway. And the other murders were none of his affair – he did not think anyone would thank him for meddling, and, given the events in the garden the previous night, he was inclined to stay away from the whole business. He was restless, even so, feeling as if he should be doing something, and his sense of unease was exacerbated by the growing agitation among Lincoln’s citizenry. The talk in the convent, by the tradesmen who came to deliver victuals, and by the people who passed the gate outside, was full of the brewing crisis between Guild and Commonalty.

‘I thought we would be riding to Matilde by now, having new clues as to her whereabouts,’ said Cynric, standing next to him at the guest-hall’s window and staring across the yard. ‘I shall enjoy watching Brother Michael canonised, but it is not what I was expecting to be doing next Sunday.’

‘Not canonised, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. He shivered. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the sky at a vigorous lick, and the wind roared through the trees. It was going to snow again, and there would be a blizzard. ‘He is not a saint yet. And he never will be, if he allows himself to be seduced by Lady Christiana.’

‘She is not seducing him!’ exclaimed Cynric, shocked. ‘What a thing to say! He is a monk and she is a widow. They would never engage in lewd behaviour.’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the Welshman was apt to be prim. ‘I wonder if Spayne would be more forthcoming if he knew my real reason for trying to find Matilde.’

‘I imagine that would make him even less helpful. Brother Michael thinks he might have guessed anyway, which is why he is being stubborn – if he cannot have her, then neither will you. I could visit his house and have a poke around if you like. He might have written down her whereabouts, lest he forgot.’

‘I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing one commits to parchment. Besides, it is not a good idea to burgle the houses of wealthy merchants, Cynric. People are hanged for that sort of thing.’

‘Like Shirlok was, twenty years ago in Cambridge,’ said Cynric, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I heard Miller talking about it in the Angel tavern yesterday. I told you I was going to listen to a few–’

‘You eavesdropped on Miller?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘That was rash! The man is dangerous.’

‘You took me to Poitiers,’ said Cynric wryly. ‘Is Miller more dangerous than that?’

‘He was talking about Shirlok, you say?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to admit that the book-bearer had a point. He supposed Langar recognising him in the cathedral had prompted a discussion of the old case, which made him uncomfortable, since it meant they had been bothered by it. Perhaps Michael was right, and the Commonalty had decided to prevent the matter from being raised again, so had tried to dispatch the man who might do it.

Cynric nodded. ‘They were recalling how fast they had left Cambridge after the trial. Lora Boyner was bemoaning the abandonment of expensive brewing equipment, and Miller kept telling his cronies – Langar, Chapman, Surgeon Bunoun and others – how he hates being reminded of the whole affair.’

Bartholomew frowned, puzzled. ‘They were acquitted, so there was no need for them to go. Do you remember what I told you about Shirlok? That he was still alive after his hanging?’

‘Of course. It is a splendid tale, and I often tell it at Christmas. It scares the wife, see. But you are not the only one who knows he still lives. So do the Commonalty. Or some of them, at least.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because of what I heard in the Angel. They were mulling over the whole affair, from the moment they learned that Shirlok intended to betray them, to their arrival in Lincoln a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them see Shirlok after his execution?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the man would have been a fool to make himself known to them – but that did not mean he had not done it.

‘Langar has a lawyer friend who claimed to have seen Shirlok racing along the north road after his hanging, so Langar knows the man was not properly dispatched. He was telling the others – who do not believe this tale – that Shirlok might come to Lincoln one day and make a nuisance of himself.’

‘Not if he has any sense. They will kill him.’

‘Sabina agreed with Langar, although it pained her to take his side.’

‘Sabina? She told us she was trying to distance herself from her old associates. Why would she be with them in a tavern?’

‘From her sullen manner, I suspect she was ordered to join them. After Sabina had been dismissed, Langar told his cronies that she might invite Shirlok to Lincoln. She has turned against her old friends, he says, and he believes she might use Shirlok to damage them. He really hates her.’

‘She is not very keen on him, either,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how both had leapt at the opportunity to defame the other. ‘Of course, Shirlok’s resurrection was twenty years ago, and a lot can happen in that time. He might have died of natural causes – or the plague.’

‘But he might not. He might be in Lincoln, avenging himself. First Nicholas Herl, then Aylmer.’

‘Why? All they did was deny his accusations. It was the court that sentenced him to hang. And, even if Shirlok does believe Miller is responsible for his “death”, he will not have waited two decades to make his feelings known. Also, it seems to me that Miller and company are the ones with the grudge: they were the ones who were named as accomplices.’

‘Langar thinks Shirlok will come to Lincoln because of the Hugh Chalice,’ said Cynric, dismissing the physician’s reasoning with a wave of his hand. ‘He thinks Sabina procured it to entice him here.’

‘I doubt it. If anyone made the chalice reappear, it is Chapman. However, I suppose we should not overlook the fact that Sabina’s lover Aylmer was holding it when he died.’

‘Or that Aylmer was accused of stealing it from Flaxfleete a month ago. I do not want to stay indoors all day. Shall we see if we can find out a bit more about this Hugh Chalice? It is obviously relevant to Aylmer’s murder, and anything we learn might help Brother Michael.’

Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of a morning inside either, even though it was starting to snow, and supposed he might as well put his time to good use. He reached for his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. ‘Where do you suggest we start?’

‘With a visit to Miller’s house,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘He asked Brother Michael to keep him informed about the investigation. We shall go and tell him a few lies – and pry at the same time.’

Bartholomew removed the cloak and sat down. ‘That would be wildly dangerous. Besides, Miller asked Michael to tell him about the enquiry, not us, and he is not interested in details, anyway. All he wants is the identity of the culprit, so he can kill him. He made no secret of his objective.’

Cynric, however, was not easily dissuaded from a course of action, once he had decided on it. ‘You can distract Miller with witty conversation, while I have a look in some of his rooms.’

‘No!’ insisted Bartholomew, appalled by the notion of doing something so reckless. ‘What would happen if he caught you? And what if he is the one who tried to kill us last night? It would be like walking into the lion’s den.’

‘Brother Michael cannot leave Lincoln until he has solved this case, and I think Lady Christiana might distract him. She is lonely and sad, and he is a kind man who finds it hard to refuse a damsel in distress. If you do not help him, he may be here until summer.’

‘He will not leave at all, if we disappear and he feels obliged to locate our bodies. Or if he accuses Miller of murdering us and ends up choking on poisoned wine himself.’

‘Miller will not harm you if you visit his house with a few friends,’ said Cynric, thinking fast. ‘Ask Suttone and de Wetherset to go with you. He can hardly dispatch three scholars with no one noticing. And if he does, I can always tell Brother Michael where to start hunting for corpses.’

‘That is reassuring, Cynric. And what shall I tell Suttone and de Wetherset when they ask why we are all going to the home of the man who may have tried to kill me last night?’

‘You will think of something,’ said Cynric comfortably. ‘You physicians are very resourceful.’

Bartholomew was not an easy liar, and could think of no reason at all why de Wetherset and Suttone should accompany him to Miller’s house. Eventually, it occurred to him that he could offer Miller a free horoscope, as an act of goodwill to a man who was generous to Lincoln’s poor, and claim he needed de Wetherset and Suttone to help him with the calculations. It was a ruse he imagined de Wetherset would see through in an instant, but as it happened, he was not obliged to use it: when he went to find them, he discovered they had gone out. Cynric was disgusted, and grumbled until Bartholomew suggested visiting the cathedral and talking to the Vicars Choral about Tetford instead. He also wanted to return the scroll he had borrowed from the library.

They walked through Wigford and crossed the High Bridge, struggling against a fierce wind that swept into their faces. People clutched billowing clothes, and hats were blown away, forcing owners to scamper after them. One was Dame Eleanor, who was obliged to trot most of the way down the hill before she managed to retrieve her hood, then was faced with the prospect of climbing up it again.

‘I thought you were with Christiana and Michael in the hospital,’ said Bartholomew uneasily.

Surprise winked in her hazel eyes. ‘She told me you would be with them! Clever Christiana! I think she has taken a liking to Brother Michael.’

‘And he has one for her,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound concerned.

‘Do not worry,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘They know what they are doing, and it gives me pleasure to see colour in her cheeks at last. She smiles too seldom these days.’

‘She is unhappy? I thought she liked her life here.’

‘A convent is no place for a spirited woman. And she is worried that the King will foist an unlovable husband on her. There is only so long His Majesty will leave a valuable heiress unclaimed. Look at what happened to her mother.’

‘She was betrothed to Kelby.’

‘He was more influential six years ago than he is now, and he inveigled himself an interview with the King. Then he said that if he could marry Christiana, he would give His Majesty half the dowry. Christiana did not love Kelby, and her daughter saw how miserable the situation made her.’

‘She carried his child,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Kelby had staked his claim early.

Dame Eleanor’s expression was pained. ‘Actually, she let him take her, because she was already pregnant with the child of the man she really loved. She endured Kelby to protect the fellow.’

‘She had a lover?’ he blurted, startled.

Her expression was bleak. ‘I am a nun, who has sworn vows of chastity, but I could not find it in my heart to condemn her for daring to claim a little happiness, and neither should you.’

Bartholomew wondered who it was, but it was hardly a question he could ask, and he had no reason for wanting to know, other than curiosity. ‘Your Christiana says she will take the veil if the King forces her into a match she does not want,’ he said instead.

‘She might, but only as a last resort. There are other options yet.’

Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘She is not thinking that Michael might…?’

‘There is a difference between distilling pleasure from a man’s company and falling in love. I do not see your fat friend as her beau idéal, and I am sure his honour will remain intact.’

‘Let us hope hers does, too,’ muttered Bartholomew disloyally.

Eleanor smiled as someone approached, pulling a cap from his fair curls. ‘Good morning, Hugh.’

Hugh effected a courtly bow, then spoiled the effect with a cheeky grin. ‘I am going to collect devil’s cakes for Bishop Gynewell,’ he chirped.

‘Devil’s cakes?’ echoed Cynric, shooting Bartholomew a pointed look.

‘Monday is devil’s cake day at the palace,’ explained Hugh, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Can I fetch some for you, My Lady?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘They are far too spicy for my old teeth. Put your cap on, Hugh. There is snow in the air, and you might take a chill.’

Obediently, the lad jammed the hat on his head. ‘Father Simon gave me an apple this morning for delivering a prayer to St Hugh. He is so busy with preparations for his installation that he forgot to leave it, and he asked me to do it instead.’ There was a sly gleam in his eye that did not go unnoticed by the observant Eleanor.

‘You mean the written prayer he inserts into the Head Shrine at the beginning of every week?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And where did you leave it?’

Hugh’s face was the picture of innocence. ‘He just said with St Hugh.’

‘You are a wicked boy,’ said Eleanor sternly, although there was no real sting in her voice. Hugh looked suitably chastened, though. ‘You know perfectly well which shrine he meant, and I can see from your face that you gave his prayer to Little Hugh instead. You must put it right immediately.’

Hugh sighed, caught out. ‘All right. I will do it after I have collected the bishop’s pastries.’

He skipped away, although not towards the bakery: the freedom of an errand was too good an opportunity to squander, and he was clearly intent on enjoying it to the full.

‘Christiana tells me you are concerned about Matilde,’ said Eleanor, when he had gone. ‘Apparently, she left Cambridge too suddenly, and you would like to ensure she is safe and happy.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It seems she left Lincoln suddenly, too.’

‘Yes, just after Christiana’s mother died. She thought Ursula had prescribed the wrong potion deliberately, although she had no proof. My Christiana believes her mother swallowed the cuckoo-pint to avoid marrying Kelby. Then, the day after Christiana’s funeral, Spayne proposed to Matilde.’

‘That does not sound like good timing.’

‘Yes and no. He felt her slipping away from him, and wanted to arrest the process. She did not love him, though, for all his good looks and riches. Other women cannot imagine why she refused such a man, but Matilde is a lady for whom a handsome face and untold wealth mean very little.’

‘Why did she not love him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the same might apply to him. He had assumed she was fond of him, but she had never told him so, just as he had never told her. And while he could not offer ‘untold wealth’, the gold he had been awarded for his actions at Poitiers meant he was no longer poor, and he had assumed a degree of financial security might make a difference to her decision. But perhaps it would not.

‘She did not know why. It was just one of those things.’

‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

‘Christiana is preparing a list and I shall give her my ideas. You can have it when it is complete.’

‘Why not tell me now?’

She regarded him astutely. ‘Is there some urgency in this quest, then? There is more to your search than just ensuring she is well?’

‘No, My Lady,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could think of a good way to answer for himself. ‘It is just that the roads are getting bad for travel, and we want to be on our way as soon as we can.’

‘You will not leave before Michael’s installation, though, and we shall have our list to you before then,’ said Eleanor.

Bartholomew was not sure whether Cynric had been fully believed, so he changed the subject before she could ask him anything else. ‘You were about to walk up the hill. Is there something I can do for you, to save you the journey?’

‘I need to see Ravenser or John Suttone, who are duty librarians this week. I must return the book they loaned me, because someone else wants to read it.’

‘I can do that.’

She relinquished a slim volume, which she had kept protected under her cloak. ‘Do not give it to the dean, though. He may offer to see it back on its shelf, but you must hand it to Ravenser or John.’

‘Why not the dean?’

She regarded him oddly. ‘Because he is forgetful,’ she replied after a moment.

With the natural curiosity of the scholar for any book, he unfolded the cloth in which it was wrapped. ‘Hildegard of Bingen – her mystical visions. And there is an appended chapter by Trotula. I have always admired Trotula.’

She was surprised. ‘There are not many physicians who regard her a worthy authority, and I am inclined to think they are right. That particular epistle contains her thoughts on childbirth, and I found it confusing and contradictory. It is obvious she was no scholar, not like Hildegard.’

‘Why are you interested in childbirth?’

‘I am not, but the scribe who copied the Hildegard found himself with a few empty pages at the end of the tome, so he added the Trotula to use them up. It is a common practice in scriptoria, as you know. So, when I finished the Hildegard, I discovered a short essay all about how some plants can be used to a mother’s advantage, but how misuse can kill. There is one particularly horrible herb called wake-robin, which Trotula said brings fits and death. It did not make for pleasant reading.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Wake-robin can also expel the afterbirth in cases where it sticks. Midwives use a little at a time, over a period of hours. However, I am seldom required to prescribe it.’

And he was even less likely to be asked now Matilde had gone, he realised with a pang. She had often summoned him to help ailing prostitutes with labour problems, but they were unlikely to come of their own volition. Such matters were the domain of midwives, who were jealous of their territory.

Eleanor shuddered. ‘What a dreadful responsibility these women bear. Some must kill by accident, despite their very best intentions.’

‘Not with wake-robin. Good midwives know how much to use and when to stop. Motherwort is another example. A little settles the womb, but too much brings on a lethargy that–’

Eleanor stopped him hastily. ‘Enough, Doctor, please! I have no stomach for your trade, which is why I prefer to pray for the sick than to tend them physically. Are you sure you do not mind walking up the hill on my behalf?’

‘I have to return a scroll to the library anyway. And Cynric is always eager for an opportunity that might end in an encounter with Bishop Gynewell.’

Cynric’s sense of humour did not stretch to irony, and he was bemused by Bartholomew’s comment. He spent most of the journey up the hill regaling the physician with reasons why it was wise to avoid Gynewell, a feeling that seemed to have intensified as he had learned more about him. Hugh’s mention of devil’s cakes had been carefully analysed, and Cynric had convinced himself that the baker had summoned culinary assistance from Hell, to create fare suitable for a demonic palate. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, recalling how Matilde had smiled at Cynric’s fixations and prejudices. She would certainly have derived plenty of amusement from his theories regarding the hapless prelate.

They reached the cathedral, where they walked through its echoing expanse, looking for the duty librarians. However, Ravenser and John were nowhere to be found, and the Vicars Choral supervising the pilgrims at the Head Shrine and Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb said they had not seen them all day. Cynric crossed himself, as he gazed up at the carved imp.

‘Do you think it chose that spot, so it has a good view of these regal entrails?’ he asked. ‘Everyone knows demons are interested in guts, and that imp is perfectly positioned to devour Queen Eleanor’s when they rise up on Judgement Day. She will not be able to stop him, not while the rest of her is in London. By the time she gets here, it will be too late.’

Bartholomew fought the urge to laugh, and led the way down the South Choir Aisle, past Little Hugh. Unusually, the child’s tomb was devoid of petitioners, so he stopped to look at it. Through the delicate tracery in its side, he could see the gifts that had been inserted – coins, prayers on pieces of parchment, jewellery, and flowers that had withered. Few were near the edges, and he supposed that either pilgrims made sure their offerings were shoved well into the middle, or people – hopefully cathedral officials – had removed the more readily accessible items for safekeeping.

He saw a new piece of white parchment, and supposed it was the one Hugh had put there. Cynric noticed it, too, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he had drawn his dagger and speared it out.

‘I doubt that cheeky lad will bother. Make sure it is the right one, and I will put it in its proper place. Both saints will be pleased, and we need their good graces with that bishop on the loose.’

‘I cannot read a man’s private petitions,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Only a priest can do that.’

Cynric sighed. ‘I shall do it, then, although it will take me a while. Despite your teaching, I am still slow at Latin.’ He jumped out of the way when Bartholomew made a grab for it. ‘Fortunately, Simon has big writing. It is just a list of names, though. Look.’

‘No!’ Bartholomew lunged a second time, but was no match for the agile Welshman.

Cynric frowned in concentration. ‘Simon asks the saint to remember him at his canonisation. Then he asks for a blessing on someone called pater et mater mea, mortuum’

‘His parents,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dead parents. Stop it, Cynric. This is highly unethical.’

‘Then there is a bit I damaged with the tip of my dagger. It says ami … Christi … possibly with another mortuum. Hah! It must say Christiana amantes, mortuum. That means his dead lover, Christiana. So, now we know the real father of the older Christiana’s child.’

Bartholomew’s jaw dropped at the liberal translation. ‘Rubbish, Cynric! It could mean all manner of things, including amicus Christi – Christ is dear to me. And the declension of amator–’

Cynric was not interested in grammatical niceties. ‘Next, his sorora – sisters! – again with a mortuum, and a frater called Adam Molendinarius, with no mortuum. That must be his brother …’ He stopped backing away abruptly, allowing Bartholomew to snatch the parchment from his unresisting hand. The physician folded it quickly and posted it back inside the tomb, giving it a hard shove that saw it well beyond the reach of men with knives. He suspected Cynric was right, and young Hugh would not bother to rectify his mischief, but better the prayer lay in the wrong shrine than left in a place where it could be retrieved and pored over by nosy visitors.

‘His brother,’ said Cynric softly. ‘His brother, Adam Molendinarius.’

‘The miller,’ translated Bartholomew. ‘Adam the miller.’

‘Adam Miller,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Simon is Adam Miller’s brother.’

‘It is a common name, Cynric, and a common occupation. Although … ’

‘Although Miller had a brother who stood accused with him at the Cambridge court,’ finished Cynric. ‘He was acquitted with the others. Michael told me. I am sure his name was Simon.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They look nothing alike, and how can you believe a priest and a fellow like Miller are related? Besides, Miller told us himself that his brother is dead – died in prison.’

‘Probably a lie,’ said Cynric, happy to dismiss facts that did not fit his theory. ‘Simon told you he came to Lincoln two decades ago. That means he and Miller fled Cambridge together and came here to rebuild their lives. And Simon – oddly for a religious man – elects to side against the cathedral and with Miller, whom he says is misunderstood and the subject of unkind rumours. I am right here, boy.’

‘What if you are?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘A lot,’ declared Cynric. ‘Or they would not have gone to such pains to conceal it.’

Bartholomew and Cynric argued about Simon’s possible family ties and past lovers until they reached the room that housed the cathedral’s books, when Cynric fell sullenly silent. The library was open, but neither Ravenser nor John were in it. Bartholomew was tempted to leave scroll and book on one of the desks, but he was bound by his promise to deliver the Hildegard into their hands and no on else’s. Claypole occupied the large table in the centre of the room, in earnest conversation with several friends. He stopped talking when Bartholomew tapped on the door, annoyed by the interruption. The physician noticed he had exchanged his sword for a dagger, and supposed Tetford’s death must have reduced the need for a larger weapons.

‘Try their houses,’ he replied curtly, when Bartholomew asked politely for the duty-librarians’ whereabouts. He looked as though he had taken a leaf out of Ravenser’s book, because he was pale and heavy-eyed, as though he had had one too many cups of wine the previous night. ‘They live in Vicars’ Court.’

‘I am sorry Tetford is dead,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat provocatively. It had occurred to him that Claypole’s obviously delicate health might have been a result of him celebrating the event. Claypole made a moue of impatience when a burly canon called John de Stretle stood to speak. ‘Thank you,’ Stretle said. ‘We are sorry, too.’

‘Very,’ said Claypole insincerely. He lowered his head and pointedly started to whisper again. Bartholomew heard the name ‘Bautre’, and when ‘inept’ followed it, he supposed he was plotting against the man who had been promoted to the post that had been his.

‘We shall miss his running of the Tavern in the Close,’ added Stretle, ignoring Claypole and continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘Although he did inform us yesterday that he planned to shut it. His uncle, Bishop de Lisle, offered some sort of financial incentive for a year of seemly behaviour, but Tetford would eventually have found a way to have the reward and live his life as he pleased. He was a clever fellow, and liked his fun. It is a damned shame he is dead.’

Another fat canon grimaced. ‘I was shocked when he announced his resignation. I felt like shoving a knife in him myself! Life in the Close will not be the same without his genius for entertainment.’

Others nodded heartfelt agreement, and Bartholomew saw it was the loss of lively evenings they mourned, not the man who had provided them.

‘I doubt Ravenser will be a worthy successor,’ predicted Stretle gloomily. ‘John Suttone would have been better, and it is a pity he declined our offer. I thought I made a convincing case, too.’

‘You did,’ said the fat canon. ‘However, while he would have managed the books with consummate skill, he would have imposed too many restrictions for our liking, especially concerning women–’

His words were lost amid a sudden hammering. Claypole had an inkwell, and was banging it on a wall to regain their attention. ‘We came to talk about Bautre, not the damned alehouse. Now, where were we?’

Bartholomew left, trying to mask his distaste for the men and their plotting. He started to feel sorry for Michael, having connections to such a place, before he realised the monk would revel in the intrigues and double-dealing, and might even make them worse. He and Cynric walked around the outside of the cathedral, then followed a paved lane south until they reached the quiet yard known as Vicars’ Court. Ravenser and John were standing in the middle of it, yelling at each other. They stopped when Bartholomew approached. John was stiff and angry, but Ravenser shot the physician a grin that suggested he was glad of the interruption.

‘Dame Eleanor would like to return this,’ said Bartholomew, handing over the book.

‘Good,’ said John, taking it. ‘Father Simon has requested it from tomorrow, as material for his inaugural sermon on the Choirs of Angels.’

‘God’s blood!’ muttered Ravenser. He reeked of wine, despite the early hour. ‘That promises to be tedious. I have read some of Hildegard’s ramblings myself, and they are all but incomprehensible.’

‘It is not worth perusing, then?’ asked John, turning it over in his hands. ‘I thought I might look at it tonight, since the Aristotle is out with the dean, and Gynewell has Dante’s Inferno.’

‘You let the dean have a book?’ asked Ravenser, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’

‘He asked for it,’ said John defensively. ‘And I did tell Gynewell.’

‘Well, if Gynewell knows … ’ Ravenser turned to Bartholomew. ‘We were sorry about Tetford.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you did not like him.’

‘True, but I did not want him dead.’

‘He had closed his tavern and sold his stock,’ said John. ‘I think he was serious about wanting to be a decent Vicar Choral, although the others were sceptical.’

‘Who will benefit from his death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You, John? It means Michael is now looking for a replacement deputy, as well as Suttone.’

John grimaced. ‘I would like to be promoted, but not at the cost of my life. And the deputies appointed by you Michaelhouse men seem to meet untimely ends.’

‘And I will not benefit, because I am an archdeacon, so senior to a Vicar Choral already,’ added Ravenser. ‘Obviously, neither of us killed Tetford.’

‘I hear you plan to take over his tavern, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that was an extremely good motive for murder. By all accounts, it was a lucrative and popular enterprise.

The archdeacon nodded, pleased. ‘The canons asked John to do it, but when he declined, I put myself forward. If Tetford were alive, he would want me to take up where he had left off.’

‘He would not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of you.’

‘We had a recent – and temporary – misunderstanding over a lady called Rosanna,’ said Ravenser stiffly. ‘But we were friends before she booked us both on the same night and he refused to bow to my seniority, and we would have been friends again, once our tempers had cooled.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Anyway, I have laid in a stock of the Gilbertines’ famous rabbit pies and rehired our favourite serving wenches,’ Ravenser went on. ‘I shall open tonight.’

‘You should experience the Tavern in the Close for yourself,’ said John, although there was a gleam of spite in his eye as he spoke – he had not extended the invitation because he was being nice. ‘Bring your friend the monk. You will have an interesting evening, I promise.’

‘Do come,’ said Ravenser, graciously including Cynric in the invitation, too. ‘The ale arrived an hour ago. It is from Lora Boyner, who produces the sweetest brew in the city. And Kelby has donated three kegs of good claret for the occasion.’

‘The last time I saw someone drink wine provided by Kelby, it was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Poor Flaxfleete,’ said Ravenser insincerely. ‘Come at five o’clock tonight. You will have to knock, since the Close is locked at dusk, but John will wait for you, and let you in.’

‘I will take you up on your offer,’ said Cynric keenly. ‘I like good ale as much as the next man.’

Bartholomew did not reply, but he was tempted to go, just to see what happened when the prudish Welshman learned he had agreed to spend an evening in a brothel.

The market area called the Pultria was always busy on Mondays, and the steep street was a stark contrast to its silence of the previous day. It was full of people, despite the snow that was now falling in earnest, and traders used bells, rattles and voices to attract customers to buy their wares. Bakers’ boys with trays of pastries weaved among the crowds, although the fragrant scent of their goods was lost among the more powerful reek of chickens and geese. Women from the outlying villages sat in huddled heaps on the ground with winter-brown vegetables displayed in front of them, and carts vied for space with the animals that were being taken to the slaughterhouses.

Most of the people who thronged the stalls were poor. Some knew the traders, and addressed them by name, pleading for credit, but others were labourers from the farms and estates outside the city, or vagrants attracted by the prospect of Miller’s Market. Many of the locals had a pinched, dull look about them, and Bartholomew heard one trying to sell a blacksmith his oldest child.

Cynric liked markets, even ones that sold chiefly birds and eggs, and the physician trailed after him for want of anything better to do. He heard people talking enthusiastically about Miller’s fair, and rather less keenly about the installation. A few folk claimed they would absent themselves from the fair because it would take place on a Sabbath, and Bartholomew supposed they were guildsmen – or in the employ of them – taking a stand against the Commonalty. One person particularly vocal in denouncing Miller’s event was Kelby. He was with his friend Dalderby, who wore a massive bandage around his upper arm: Surgeon Bunoun was obviously of the belief that a patient liked something to show for his sufferings, and that the size of the dressing was directly proportional to the sophistication – and expense – of the treatment.

‘Sunday trading is a sin,’ announced Kelby. ‘And anyone who attends Miller’s Market will be damned in the eyes of God.’

Bartholomew watched uneasily as Ursula de Spayne overheard and stalked towards him. Around them, the clatter of voices stopped as people waited to see what would happen.

‘You can go to Hell for hypocrisy, too,’ she declared. ‘You were trading last Sunday yourself. I saw you. You sold Dalderby three ells of cloth at the butts.’

‘That was an arrangement between friends,’ said Dalderby. ‘It was not trading.’

‘You can go to Hell for lying, too,’ retorted Ursula. Her brother suddenly became aware that she was the centre of attention, and hurried to her side.

‘And you will burn for murder, madam,’ retorted Kelby, pointing a finger that shook with rage. ‘You had one death on your conscience with your careless use of cures, and now you have another. Poor Flaxfleete, murdered with poisoned wine.’

‘Please, Kelby,’ said Spayne quietly. ‘This is no place for such a debate. Come to a tavern with us. I will buy ale, and we can discuss this like civilised–’

‘So she can poison me, too?’ demanded Kelby. ‘No, thank you!’

‘I have poisoned no one,’ snarled Ursula. ‘However, I heard Flaxfleete’s death served a very useful purpose. It balanced out Aylmer and Nicholas Herl – both members of the Commonality.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Kelby furiously. ‘That I murdered Flaxfleete, to disguise the fact that I also killed Herl and Aylmer? You have taken too many of your own potions, woman, because you are mad if you think I would harm a much-loved friend.’

‘God will know,’ said Ursula smugly. ‘And He will punish accordingly.’

‘Come, sister,’ said Spayne. His face was taut with suppressed anger, although whether with Ursula or his rivals was impossible to say. He grabbed her arm and pulled; he was a strong man, and she could not resist him for long – at least, not without an undignified scuffle. She was livid as he hauled her away.

Meanwhile, Kelby spluttered with impotent fury. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he had guessed what Ursula’s barbed comments had meant very quickly. Bartholomew himself had not understood her oblique insinuation immediately, and he wondered whether there was a good reason why Kelby had. He glanced at Dalderby, and saw him regarding his colleague with a troubled expression, as though the physician was not the only one asking the question.

Bartholomew left the Pultria, and went to the nearby Church of St Cuthbert, where he spent an hour standing at the back of the nave, mulling over what he had learned. He realised he had nothing solid to tell Michael, only more supposition and theories. He shivered in the damp chill, and emerged to find snow falling thickly. It coated the streets in a fluffy white carpet, which was soon churned to slushy black ruts by carts, hoofs and feet. Cynric had finished exploring the market, and was waiting for him, so they walked down the hill together. Spayne emerged from his house as they passed. His expression was grim, and Bartholomew supposed he had ordered his argumentative sibling to stay indoors. If so, it was good advice: the air of menace that had seethed when her accusations were levelled was tangible, and he sensed a violent encounter between Guild and Commonalty was looming fast.

Bartholomew smiled as Spayne greeted him. For good measure, he reached out and gripped the man’s arm, to assess whether there was a bruise that might make him wince, but Spayne returned the gesture with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Bartholomew was not surprised: he had never shared Michael’s conviction that Spayne would have attacked him.

‘This snow,’ said Spayne unhappily, glancing up to where the flakes were large grey puffs against the brightness of the sky. ‘It is doing my roof no good at all. If I did not know better, I would say Kelby had asked the bishop to conjure up some foul weather.’

‘But you do know better,’ said Bartholomew. Spayne started to walk down the hill, and the physician fell into step with him, Cynric at his side. ‘Gynewell remains aloof from this feud.’

‘Actually, I meant that Gynewell would never petition the Devil for snow, because he hates the cold. If sweltering heat was afflicting us, I would have no doubt that he had been using his powers.’

‘What powers?’ asked Cynric immediately.

‘I had an unpleasant experience last night,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Spayne might be about to fuel the flames of Cynric’s superstition. ‘Felons attacked Michael and me in the Gilbertines’ orchard.’

‘The orchard?’ asked Spayne, startled. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Trying to reach the guest-hall,’ supplied Cynric, his tone verging on the accusatory. ‘The porter had been drugged, obviously to make sure they were obliged to go round the back, where someone was waiting to dispatch them.’

Bartholomew watched Spayne intently, but the man revealed nothing other than shock that such an incident should have occurred in the first place.

‘It is not the first time decent folk have suffered the depredations of villains recently,’ said Spayne worriedly. ‘Miller’s Market has encouraged some very rough men to visit our town. Last night, an alehouse quarrel ended in violence, and Chapman was badly injured.’

‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Injured where?’

Spayne regarded him oddly. ‘Outside the Angel.’ He pointed to a sign depicting a debauched-looking cherub, which seemed to be the only thing in the city not coated with snow.

‘I mean where on his body?’

Spayne gave a grin that smacked of relief. ‘Of course, you have a professional interest in these matters. He was stabbed in the arm.’

‘The arm,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully.

‘Surgeon Bunoun fears for his life,’ Spayne went on.

‘Then perhaps Miller might appreciate a second opinion,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding eager agreement at his side. ‘It sounds as though you were a witness to this attack.’

‘I was elsewhere when it happened, but I saw folk milling around as I came home – the Angel is between where I was conducting my business and my house. Miller wants revenge, but I think I have convinced him to reflect on the matter before doing anything rash.’

‘Revenge? Was it an attack on the Commonalty, then? You implied it was a tavern brawl.’

‘It was, but Miller still wants someone to pay. Unfortunately, that is the way of things in this city.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’

Spayne grimaced. ‘It is more than sorry – it is tragic. Lincoln is a lovely place, and I hate to see it torn apart by petty rivalries and jealousies. Look around you – indigent weavers who cannot feed their families; the Fossedike full of silt; beautiful buildings crumbling from neglect. If we were to put our energies into solving those problems, Lincoln would be great again.’

‘It does look as though it has fallen on hard times,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘I am sorry I cannot help you find Matilde,’ said Spayne suddenly. ‘I wish I could, but they are her secrets and it would be improper for me to betray her confidences. If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you herself. I know this is not what you want to hear.’

‘Very well ’

‘Do not be angry. I prayed to St Hugh last night, and asked for his guidance. No great insight came, but then I realised that was his answer: I should not intervene one way or the other.’

‘Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor are preparing me a list,’ said Bartholomew, rather defiantly.

Spayne smiled. ‘Good. I hope they tell you all I know and more. Then you will have what you want, and I shall have a clear conscience. It is the best of all solutions.’

They talked a while longer, and Bartholomew found Spayne hard to dislike. He wondered what it was about him that Michael had taken exception to, and was seriously considering his offer of a cup of wine when Cynric prodded him, to remind him of his duties to the monk and his investigation.

‘Visit me soon, and I shall show you a scroll I bought recently,’ said Spayne, disappointed by the refusal. ‘It is by the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meryonnes, and sheds a good deal of light on the mysteries of Blood Relics, which we discussed on Saturday. I would like your opinion.’

‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘Do not wait too long,’ said Spayne. ‘The only member of the Commonality with the wits to debate such a subject is Langar, but now his lover, Nicholas Herl, is dead, he has lost his zest for life. But, if you will not debate Blood Relics with me now, I should be about my business.’

‘What business?’ asked Cynric nosily.

‘Mercantile affairs. It is dull stuff, and you would not be interested. Good morning, Doctor.’

‘What I find interesting is for me to decide,’ said Cynric, after Spayne had gone. ‘Not him. And I certainly would be intrigued to know why he was passing the Angel last night. You have to go by there if you are walking between the Gilbertine orchard and his house.’

‘And if you are walking between his house and a good many other places,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Both are on the main street. Besides, it sounds as though Chapman has suffered a wound that may have been caused by a sword. We should speak to him before accusing Spayne of foul play.’

Cynric turned around and strode up the hill again, obviously disgusted that the strenuous detour had provided no clear evidence of the mayor’s guilt. ‘You were attacked by four assailants, and Chapman is only one man. And Spayne is furtive – not telling us where he was last night. I know folk say he is decent, but he has thrown in his lot with some very dubious characters.’

‘You dislike him because you think he should help me, but it is unfair to hold a grudge against a man who is acting as his conscience dictates.’

‘I do not think so,’ declared Cynric. ‘Look! Here come Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon, fresh from being measured for new vestments. It is a good opportunity to ask Simon about his lovers and brothers.’

‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew, ‘because then he will know we have read his private prayer.’

‘He should not have left it in a public place, then.’

‘He did not leave it in a public place, Cynric.’

Cynric waved an airy hand, and the physician knew he would ask his questions if the occasion arose. ‘Chapman’s wound is an excellent excuse to visit Adam Molendinarius, frater,’ he said with a predatory smile. ‘And Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone will be our protection.’

Dean Bresley was with the three canons-elect. All four were in earnest conversation, and Bartholomew heard the dean clank as he walked, as if metal objects had been shoved down the lining of his cloak. The others seemed too intent on their discussion to notice.

‘Think of an excuse to take the dean, too,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I heard he favours the Commonalty. You will be safer when you visit Miller if Bresley is with you.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, losing his nerve. ‘I cannot do it. We do not know who attacked us last night, and de Wetherset is a complex man, well skilled in intrigue. He might have tried to rid himself of us, for reasons we do not yet understand.’

‘De Wetherset?’ asked Cynric doubtfully. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He lies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We caught him out over Simon’s alibi, and I do not like his old association with Miller and his cronies. It is odd that he was a juror when they were acquitted, and all just happen to be in Lincoln now. And speaking of that trial, it is stupid to go to Miller’s house. I am sure Langar did not believe me when I said I did not remember it.’

‘They will not harm you in broad daylight,’ argued Cynric. ‘And I will be close. So will de Wetherset, Suttone, and Dean Bresley, if you tell them to accompany you.’

‘I have decided to follow Simon’s example, and present the cathedral with a gift at my installation,’ announced Suttone to Bartholomew, as their paths converged. ‘But what should it be? Simon and the dean suggest an altar frontal.’

‘A relic is better,’ declared de Wetherset in his dogmatic manner. ‘An altar frontal will require a chest for storage and women to repair it when moths attack. These cost money. On the other hand, a relic will bring funds to the cathedral, because they attract pilgrims. Perhaps Simon will introduce you to the relic-seller who sold him the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Yes,’ said Suttone eagerly. ‘An item as significant as the Hugh Chalice would be a perfect gift.’

‘I cannot,’ said Simon shortly. ‘He has left Lincoln, and will never return.’

‘You seem very certain of his plans,’ said Bartholomew, astonished by the brazen lie.

‘I am,’ said Simon curtly. ‘He has gone to … to Jerusalem, where he will retire. But the local relic-seller is Walter Chapman. He may have items to offer, although I have been informed that his wares are not always genuine, so you will have to be careful.’

‘I can tell the difference between something sacred and something fraudulent,’ boasted de Wetherset. ‘Take us to him, Simon, and I shall give Suttone the benefit of my unique skills.’

‘That may be difficult,’ said Dean Bresley. ‘The poor man was stabbed in a brawl outside the Swan tavern last night, and he is very ill.’

‘The Swan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it happened outside the Angel.’

‘The Swan,’ repeated Bresley firmly. ‘I was a witness to some of the violence myself.’

‘Spayne said it was the Angel,’ breathed Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘He lied to you.’

‘It may have been a slip of the tongue,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘Taverns are turbulent places,’ the dean was saying, while Cynric looked manifestly unconvinced by the physician’s explanation. ‘Surgeon Bunoun thinks Chapman might die.’

‘If that is so, then discussing sacred objects will be good for his soul,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘And he may even donate something to the cathedral. Then Suttone will not have to part with his silver, but can still bask in the credit of arranging a gift.’

‘That would defeat the purpose,’ said Suttone. He reconsidered as avarice got the better of him. ‘Although I imagine the cathedral will not mind who pays, as long as it receives something valuable.’

‘True,’ said the dean. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you, and point out that gifting a relic to St Hugh may effect a miraculous cure.’

‘Come with us, Bartholomew,’ ordered de Wetherset. ‘You can tell him he is in danger of death, which will make him listen to us more readily.’ He held up his hand when the physician demurred. ‘It is not dishonest. It is for the good of the cathedral, so the end justifies the means.’

‘If you go, Father Simon, you will be able to pay your respects to your brother,’ said Cynric with a guileless grin that made him look slightly deranged. Bartholomew closed his eyes.

Simon stared at the book-bearer. ‘What?’

‘Your brother,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Adam Miller. I see the family resemblance now.’

There was an uneasiness in Simon’s eyes that was apparent to even the least astute of observers. ‘Rubbish! I barely know anyone from the Commonalty, and they are certainly not kin.’

‘You know Chapman well enough to have bought the Hugh Chalice from him,’ said Bartholomew. He disliked being told brazen lies – it suggested Simon thought him gullible and stupid.

Simon was outraged. ‘I have already told you who sold it to me – someone who is no longer here.’

‘My colleague does not believe you, Simon,’ said Suttone, glancing at the physician. ‘But that is easily remedied. Swear on the Hugh Chalice that Chapman did not sell it to you. He will believe you then.’

‘You can swear that you and Miller are not kin at the same time,’ added Cynric opportunistically.

‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Simon. ‘I do not have to prove myself to anyone.’

‘You can do it without harm, Simon,’ said Bresley, although his tone was more unhappy than malicious. ‘It is not the real one, so you can safely prevaricate and not be struck down.’

‘It is real!’ shouted Simon angrily. ‘Chapman told me … ’ He faltered. ‘Damn!’

‘Damn, indeed,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Why did you lie?’

‘Because of Chapman’s reputation,’ said Simon wearily. ‘I knew the Hugh Chalice was real as soon as I saw it, but I also knew that no one else would think so, if word spread that it had come from him. So I invented a different relic-seller, to avoid such an outcome. I did what I thought was best.’

‘We shall discuss the ethics of this tonight, by the fire,’ said de Wetherset loftily, beginning to walk northward. ‘First, however, we should see Miller. Do not dally, Bartholomew; we need your services.’

He strode away before the physician could tell him that frightening patients with gloomy prognoses went against all the oaths he had sworn at his graduations, but Cynric pointed out that they had needed an excuse to visit Chapman anyway, and pulled him after the portly ex-Chancellor. Bartholomew was surprised when Simon came too. The priest shrugged when he saw the physician’s bemusement.

‘Now you know the truth, it does not matter whether Chapman tells you he sold me the Hugh Chalice or not. And I am a cleric – if he is dying, he may require my services. He and Miller live in the parish of Newport, you see, and its vicar is Flaxfleete’s cousin. He may decline to give Chapman absolution, although I have never had anything against the Commonalty.’

‘And we know why,’ said Cynric pointedly. ‘What about Lady Christiana the elder?’

Simon looked at him askance. ‘I have no idea what she thought of the Commonalty. What a bizarre thing to ask.’

‘You knew her, then,’ pressed Cynric. Bartholomew cringed at the bluntness of the interrogation.

‘Of course. Why do you want to know?’

‘Is the Swan tavern noted for brawls?’ blurted Bartholomew. Cynric glared at him.

‘It is a respectable place,’ said Simon, still regarding Cynric with a puzzled frown. ‘Miller and his friends went there last night, probably because they did not feel like sliding down the icy hill to the Angel, where they usually drink. Quarrel usually manages to keep everything in order, though.’

‘He failed last night,’ said Bartholomew.

Simon nodded. ‘So it would seem.’