The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 9

The suburb of Newport comprised a ribbon of houses that stretched along the main road north, two churches and a convent of Austin friars. Like much of Lincoln, Newport was poor, and Bartholomew supposed its inhabitants were mostly farmers and their servants and unemployed weavers. There was only one building of note, a handsome edifice surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. De Wetherset opened a gate, marched through the grounds, and tapped on the door.

‘Several of the Commonalty, including Chapman, live here with Miller,’ he explained. ‘And Lora Boyner’s brewery is near the stream over there. She claims the secret of her ale is that she uses water that has not yet flowed through the city.’

Bartholomew saw a neat, squat shed at the end of the garden. A horse was hitched to a cart, which was being loaded with barrels, and Lora was issuing orders to a pair of sweating apprentices. One keg was abandoned near the gate, and Lora and her people studiously looked the other way when a gaggle of women approached and began to roll it towards the nearest hovel. The weavers were proud, and Bartholomew was surprised the belligerent Lora should be sympathetic to their sensitivities.

‘Lord!’ said Suttone, gazing at Miller’s home in awe. ‘This is a mansion! Its owner must do very well at his trade – whatever it is. Is he a miller? There is a wheat-sheaf carved on his lintel.’

‘I do not think so,’ said the dean. He frowned. ‘Actually, I am not sure what he does.’

De Wetherset was better informed. ‘He is in the export-import business, although that cannot be easy with the Fossedike silting up. It means he sells things to people. In fact, if you express a desire to purchase anything, Miller is the man to get it for you. He has some very good contacts.’

‘Father Simon?’ asked Cynric innocently. ‘Can you be more specific about Adam Molendinarius’s work?’

Simon scowled. ‘I know nothing about his dealings. Why would I?’

The door was answered before Cynric could reply. A manservant conducted them to a solar, but insisted on remaining with them while a maid went to fetch Miller. It was an odd way to treat guests, but when Bartholomew looked behind him and realised Cynric had disappeared, he supposed Miller was right to be wary of men he did not know. He sincerely hoped the book-bearer would be careful, and refused to dwell on what might happen – to them both – if Cynric were caught snooping.

Within a few moments, Miller and Langar arrived. Both looked tired and pale, and Miller was oddly subdued. His voice was husky when he spoke, as though he had been shouting. Bartholomew looked at the daggers they carried in their belts and tried to ascertain whether they were the ones drawn against him and Michael the night before. There were no obvious signs that they had been used in a fracas, but he suspected that even if there were, Miller and Langar would claim they had resulted from the skirmish in the Swan tavern.

‘Surgeon Bunoun says Chapman will die,’ said Miller, when Suttone had explained why they had come. ‘So he cannot show you his relics.’

‘Does he need a priest?’ asked Simon.

Miller smiled at him, revealing his four teeth. ‘Not yet, although it is good of you to come.’

‘Then perhaps I can help,’ said Bartholomew, when de Wetherset shoved him forward with such force that he staggered. He had been watching the dean inspect a tray on which stood four gold goblets and a matching jug. ‘I have some experience with wounds.’

‘Recent experience,’ added Suttone helpfully. ‘He was at Poitiers, and his book-bearer says he treated many men with terrible injuries. He even managed to save a couple.’

‘Did you?’ asked Langar warily. ‘You did not offer to help when Dalderby was shot.’

‘Your surgeon was already there,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It would have been impolite to interfere.’

‘You are interfering now,’ Langar pointed out, not unreasonably.

‘He is here to provide a second opinion,’ said de Wetherset smoothly. ‘That is not interference.’

Miller regarded Bartholomew appraisingly, then blew his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come upstairs, then. I will take you, and Langar can stay here with the others. We never leave visitors alone, because–’

‘It would be rude,’ finished Langar loudly.

‘Right,’ said Miller with a tired sigh. ‘That is the reason. Not because we have anything to hide in our cellars. They are all empty, and we do not keep any goods of dubious origin in them.’

‘You should rest, Miller,’ said Langar sharply. ‘You were up all night with Chapman, and the lack of sleep has blunted your wits.’

‘Can we look at Chapman’s relics while we wait for Bartholomew?’ asked de Wetherset, while Miller stoically waved his lawyer’s concerns away. ‘Since we are here anyway?’

‘Lora will bring them,’ said Miller. ‘Come with me, physician.’

Bartholomew knew he would be a fool to let Miller separate him from the others, but could think of no way to avoid it without arousing suspicion. He followed him up a narrow staircase to the upper floor, feeling increasingly nervous with each step.

‘Father Simon tells me you and he arrived in Lincoln at the same time,’ he said, to break a silence that was both oppressive and unnerving. ‘About twenty years ago.’

It was a blunder of enormous proportion, and Bartholomew was heartily ashamed of himself for mentioning a date that held a far more meaningful significance for Miller than anything connected to Simon. Miller stopped abruptly and turned slowly to face him. Bartholomew felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the man regarded him with considerable malevolence.

‘What do you know about what happened twenty years ago?’ he asked, removing a dagger from his belt and using it to pick one of his teeth.

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘I am just repeating what Simon said. It is called the art of conversation, Master Miller – two men exchanging meaningless pleasantries as a way to pass their time together.’

‘Manners,’ said Miller with a disparaging snort. ‘Langar is always telling me I need to acquire some, but all they do is make a man something he is not. If I want to spit over my own table at dinner, why should I not do it? If I want to blow my nose and the tablecloth is available, why not use it? And what is wrong with drinking my pottage noisily? Dogs do it, and there is nothing wrong with dogs.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

‘Father Simon and I did arrive here within a few weeks of each other,’ said Miller, replacing his dagger in its sheath as some of the anger left him. ‘But we did not come together. I left Cambridge because I am a sensitive man, and I did not like what was being said about me after my acquittal. He came because he had been offered the post of parish priest at Holy Cross Church, Wigford.’

‘Someone told me you were brothers,’ said Bartholomew, attempting a smile.

‘Well, we are not,’ said Miller firmly. ‘Do you want to see Chapman, or would you rather stand on the stairs and hone your “art of conversation” on me?’

Half expecting Miller to whip around and stab him, Bartholomew followed him up the rest of the stairs, along a corridor and into a pleasant chamber with real glass in the windows. A fire blazed in the hearth, and someone had set bowls of herbs on shelves, so the room was sweetly scented. Chapman lay on a fur-strewn bed, his arm heavily bandaged. He grimaced when he recognised the physician.

‘Go away. I told you all I know about the Hugh Chalice. It is genuine, and I bought it in Huntingdon. And if you accuse me of foul dealings again, you will have Miller to answer to.’

‘You questioned him about the cup?’ asked Miller suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Curiosity,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had not let Cynric talk him into undertaking something so manifestly stupid. ‘I wanted to hear for myself how Chapman came by such an important relic.’

‘It was more than curiosity,’ countered Chapman pettishly. ‘You grabbed me by the throat and your fat friend lobbed rocks at me. It was not a pleasant encounter.’

‘You were holding a dagger at the time,’ retorted Bartholomew. He saw Miller’s face assume its dangerous expression again, and started to clutch at straws. ‘And we are friends of Master Thomas Suttone, kin to the great Suttone clan. He would have been vexed had we allowed you to stab us.’

‘Of course! You know the Suttones,’ said Miller in understanding. ‘It slipped my mind. Obviously, we would not want to offend them by knifing their acquaintances. At least, not unless it is absolutely necessary. Lie still, Chapman. Let him inspect you.’

Bartholomew sat next to the relic-seller and carefully removed the bandage, which was tight enough to have turned his fingers purple. It concealed a wound that was jagged, raw and already reddening from infection. When he looked closer, he saw specks of rust, and was able to conclude that it had not been the clean blade of his own sword that had caused the injury. Ergo, it had not been Chapman who had fought him in the orchard. The relic-seller chattered frantically as he worked, evidently to quell his nervousness at the treatment he was about to receive, and Bartholomew learned that the tavern brawl had occurred shortly before he and Michael had been attacked in the Gilbertine Priory.

‘I was busy at the time,’ said Miller cagily, just when Bartholomew had decided the Commonalty was innocent. ‘And I came back to find him like this. Surgeon Bunoun has done his best, but he says there is no hope. It does not look very serious to me, and we have had worse in the past, but Bunoun knows his business. If he says a wound will fester, it nearly always does.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Bunoun had seen more than his share of sepsis, if he was given to stitching up dirty wounds. ‘Is Bunoun the only medic to tend him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Miller, ‘although a crone came and presented us with a healing balm. Chapman is well liked, you see, and she wanted to help. Bunoun said it would make no difference one way or the other, but we slapped some on anyway. She was trying to be kind.’

‘You could not be more wrong,’ said Bartholomew, fetching water from the pot over the fire and beginning to bathe the wound. ‘I can smell henbane in this salve, and that is poisonous.’

‘Poisonous?’ echoed Miller in shock, while Chapman lay back and groaned.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Will you send for more hot water and a clean cloth? This cut needs to be irrigated thoroughly and its edges resewn.’

‘You will stitch me again?’ asked Chapman, appalled. ‘But it was agony the first time.’

Bartholomew was not surprised: Bunoun’s handiwork was crude to say the least. ‘What did the “crone” look like?’ he asked, when Miller had finished issuing orders to a maid.

‘Old,’ replied Miller, after a moment of serious thought. ‘She was crouch-backed and her face was covered by her cloak. She was just a crone.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, sure a man in the devious-sounding ‘export-import business’ would know about disguises. ‘Tell me what happened in the Swan,’ he said to Chapman, when Miller did not seem able to provide a better description. ‘Who attacked you?’

‘A man,’ replied Chapman indignantly. ‘I went outside to relieve myself, and he was waiting for me. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was something about him that made me think it was Dalderby.’

‘How can that be possible?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was injured by an arrow, and is in no state to fight anyone.’

‘He has recovered,’ said Miller, in a voice that made it clear he wished he had not. ‘Langar should not have encouraged Bunoun to save him.’

‘Langar is losing his touch,’ agreed Chapman. ‘He is full of bad advice these days. We were right to keep from him the business of … but we should not discuss this in front of strangers.’

‘I was attacked last night, too,’ said Bartholomew, speaking to fill an uncomfortable silence.

‘Then you are lucky you did not end up like poor Chapman,’ said Miller. His expression was impossible to read. ‘Lincoln can be a dangerous city.’

Bartholomew turned his full attention to his patient, and asked Miller to see what had happened to the hot water. When Miller opened the door to bellow down to the kitchen, Bartholomew glimpsed a shadow in the corridor, and knew it was Cynric. His uneasiness intensified: they were playing a reckless game. He could hear de Wetherset and Langar arguing furiously, and hoped the row would not erupt into violence. Uncomfortable and unhappy, he pushed up Chapman’s sleeve to inspect the wound more closely and gaped when he saw a blue mark on the man’s shoulder. It was a chalice.

‘What is that?’ he blurted, before it occurred to him that he should have pretended not to notice.

‘Something personal,’ replied Chapman suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ hedged Bartholomew, trying to smile and failing miserably.

Miller stepped forward, and Bartholomew tensed, expecting to feel powerful hands lock around his throat or hear the sound of a dagger being drawn. His hand dropped to his own knife.

‘Oh, that,’ said Miller, when he saw what they were talking about. ‘I have often wondered how you came by that. Aylmer and Nicholas Herl had similar marks. I always thought they looked like cups.’

‘Yes, symbols of good living,’ said Chapman with a weak grin. ‘Claret, you know.’

‘Flaxfleete had one, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the bull by the horns. ‘Is it a sign of alliance?’

Miller made a guttural hissing sound that Bartholomew assumed was a laugh. ‘Flaxfleete hated the Commonalty – Chapman, Aylmer and Herl included. He would never have made an alliance with them, nor they with him. Eh, Chapman?’

‘Of course not,’ said Chapman shiftily. ‘As I said, it is just something to express my fondness for wine. But I do not want to think about wine now, not when I feel so ill. Please stay with me, Miller.’

‘If you insist,’ said Miller reluctantly. He plumped himself down on the bed, and took the relic-seller’s fluttering hand. ‘Although I do not like surgeons and the grisly things they do to living flesh.’

‘I am not a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’

‘University trained,’ explained Chapman, when Miller seemed unaware of the difference. ‘Surgeons just cut things off. Bunoun wanted to remove my arm last night, remember? You objected.’

‘I was afraid he would make a mess on the rugs – the new ones, from Greece. But get on with whatever you plan to do, physician, or my resolve will fail.’ Miller hawked and spat, making Bartholomew itch to point out that phlegm on his prize carpets was just as unappealing as gore.

Bartholomew unpicked the crude stitches, cleaned the wound, and sewed it shut in a way that left the lower part open for natural suppuration, following the accepted procedure adopted by all good medics. Each stage was accompanied by agonised shrieks from his patient, but it was Miller who grew steadily more pale, so much so that Bartholomew was afraid he might faint.

‘Thank you,’ said Chapman when all was finished, remarkably pert after the racket he had made. ‘You did not hurt me nearly as much Bunoun did. We should reward him handsomely for that, Miller.’

‘It sounded as though he was killing you,’ said Miller, putting a hand over his mouth as though he might be sick. Bartholomew passed him a bowl. ‘What do you want me to give him?’

‘A relic,’ replied Chapman. ‘A bone, perhaps.’

‘That is not necessary,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Given Chapman’s reputation, the gift would almost certainly be a fake, but Bartholomew did not want the responsibility regardless.

‘A man not desperate for a fee,’ mused Miller suspiciously. ‘You are an odd sort.’

‘Give him one … no two of those white pearls,’ said Chapman, determined Bartholomew should not leave empty-handed. ‘The ones that belonged to the Virgin Mary.’

‘The Virgin wore pearls?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously.

‘Just on Sundays,’ said Chapman. He settled down in his bed. ‘If I live, I will give you two more.’

‘And if he dies, I will bury them with you,’ growled Miller, eyeing Bartholomew malevolently.

In Miller’s solar downstairs, a vicious argument was in full swing. Suttone thought a reliquary containing Joseph’s teeth was a suitable gift, while de Wetherset believed the cathedral would prefer a paten. Langar had taken Suttone’s side, and de Wetherset archly demanded what a lawyer could know about the needs of a holy minster. When Bartholomew looked at the dean, to see where he stood on the debate, he could not help but notice that there were no longer four gold goblets on the tray with the jug: there were three.

‘That consultation sounded painful,’ said de Wetherset, interrupting Suttone to address the physician. Having his own say then changing the subject before anyone could take issue was an annoying habit that Bartholomew remembered from Cambridge. ‘Have you killed the poor fellow?’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Master Miller will be vexed if so.’

‘I will be more than vexed,’ grunted Miller. ‘I will ki–’

‘He will pray to Little Hugh,’ interrupted Langar. ‘And if Chapman dies, and the physician follows him to his grave, do not come here looking for explanations. It will be what the saint has ordained.’

‘If Chapman does die, it will not be Bartholomew’s fault,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘He is a talented physician, but there is only so much he can do once a patient’s humours are in disarray.’

Bartholomew was pleasantly surprised by the vote of confidence, especially since de Wetherset had never been one of his patients. He turned to Miller and Langar. ‘Do not give Chapman anything brought by well-wishers. I will return tomorrow and change the dressing. Keep him warm and quiet, and let him drink as much as he wants – ale, though, not wine. Wine would not be good for him.’

Langar nodded. ‘We can do that. What are his chances of life?’

‘Fairly good, if you follow my instructions,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. He saw a flicker of movement in the passage outside the hall, and supposed it was Cynric again. He wished the book-bearer would hurry up and leave, and found his stomach churning in nervous apprehension.

‘Here are your white pearls,’ said Miller, going to a box on the table and picking out the two smallest. Bartholomew recalled that Sheriff Lungspee had received white pearls from Miller, too, as a bribe to see some member of the Commonalty acquitted of a crime he had almost certainly committed.

‘Has Brother Michael found Aylmer’s killer yet?’ asked Langar.

Bartholomew dropped one of the pearls on the floor, to give Cynric more time to escape while he recovered it. ‘I am afraid you will have to ask him. How about you? Have you discovered what happened to Herl?’

Langar smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression, and reminded Bartholomew of the lizards he had seen in southern France. ‘You helped, when you inspected his body for that woman–’

‘Sabina,’ supplied Miller helpfully, bending to retrieve the gem from a gap in the floorboards and hand it back. ‘His wife.’

Langar glowered at the hated name. ‘–and ascertained that he had been poisoned. It is odd that Flaxfleete died of the same thing. That woman said it is all to do with Summer Madness.’

‘Perhaps it is set to return,’ said Suttone, rubbing his hands rather gleefully. ‘Like the plague.’

‘Flaxfleete did not have Summer Madness when he set Spayne’s property alight,’ said Miller. ‘So, Ursula was right to poison him in revenge. Do you think she killed Dalderby, too?’

‘Ursula has not killed anyone,’ said Langar warningly.

‘So you say,’ retorted Miller. ‘Remember, though, that Dalderby was going around telling folk it was Thoresby who shot him, when he promised on his deathbed at the butts to forget their quarrel. She did not like that.’

‘Dalderby is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The arrow wound in his arm was not fatal.’

‘He died this morning,’ explained Langar. ‘Although I heard it was not his wound that killed him.’

‘Perhaps Ursula knows it was Dalderby who stabbed Chapman last night,’ said Miller flatly. ‘And the outrage was too much for her. It is certainly too much for me.’

Bartholomew could see Cynric lounging safely against the house across the street, and was desperate to be away from Miller. His thoughts churned in confusion. Who and what had killed Dalderby? Should he inspect the body, and try to find out? It might be pertinent if he had died from ingesting the same poison that had killed Flaxfleete and Herl, and that had been offered to Michael.

‘I am needed back at the cathedral,’ said Simon importantly. ‘And we should let Master Miller be about his business. What will it be, Suttone? Teeth or paten?’

‘Teeth,’ said Suttone, ignoring de Wetherset’s sigh that his opinion had been disregarded.

They took their leave of Miller. The dean disappeared on an errand of his own, and Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon followed the physician back towards the city.

‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ said Bartholomew to de Wetherset as they went.

De Wetherset clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are welcome. I am sure you will remember my loyalty when I resume my duties as Chancellor at Cambridge.’

‘When might that be?’ asked Suttone in alarm. ‘I intend to hold that post myself.’

‘I have not decided,’ said de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So, the field is yours until I do. I may even vote for you – on the understanding that you vote for me when I make my bid for power, of course.’

They began to discuss strategies, all of which acknowledged the possibility that Michael might stand himself. Bartholomew suspected neither would succeed if the clever monk was a contender.

‘Lord!’ he muttered, when Cynric came to walk next to him. ‘That was unpleasant. I was afraid for you, worried what these garrulous scholars might be saying to Langar, and nervous of harming Chapman. You should have heard him scream.’

‘I did,’ said Cynric dryly. ‘And so did every other soul in Lincoln, I imagine.’

‘Did you discover anything useful?’ asked Bartholomew. Now the ordeal was over, his legs felt rubbery, and he hoped it had not all been in vain.

Cynric grimaced. ‘There was a cellar, but it had a lock I could not pick. It is an odd room to secure, because most folk keep their valuables under the floorboards in their bedchambers. Burglaries tend to occur at night, see, and folk like to have their goods with them when they are asleep.’

Bartholomew recalled Miller’s unconvincing claim that his basement was empty, and supposed he really did keep ‘goods of dubious origin’ in them. ‘It is probably just as well you did not search it. You would almost certainly have found it stuffed to the gills with illegal imports, and perhaps even stolen property. We do not want to carry that sort of knowledge around with us.’

Cynric shrugged. ‘Perhaps. It was galling to meet a door and not be able to get past it, though.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely comfortable with this particular skill of Cynric’s. ‘Was there anything else?’

Cynric shrugged. ‘Just this.’

He pulled something from under his cloak, and held it so only Bartholomew could see. It was a silver chalice, battered and dented, and identical to the one in the Gilbertines’ chapel.

When Bartholomew, Cynric and the others reached the Pultria, the city felt unusually subdued for a weekday. The snow had stopped, but the sky was a dirty yellow-grey, suggesting there was more to come. Dusk would settle early, and Bartholomew was determined to be back inside the Gilbertine Priory before more would-be assassins could use the cover of darkness to strike at him.

‘Miller denied being kin to Simon when I asked,’ he said to his book-bearer. ‘I am inclined to believe him, because there is no reason for either of them to lie.’

‘There is,’ argued Cynric. ‘If you were a priest, would you admit that your brother is the biggest scoundrel in the city? And Simon has been a humble vicar for two decades, yet he can afford to buy relics and give them away. The reason he can do this is because his brother gives him money.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘Possibly, but–’

‘There is a funeral procession,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘That explains why the Pultria is so quiet.’

‘Flaxfleete’s,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Kelby carry the candle at the head of the cortege. Behind him, two guildsmen tolled hand-bells, and there were several cathedral dignitaries among the mourners. On top of the coffin was a large jewel-studded box.

‘Do you see Kelby’s candle?’ whispered Cynric, pinching Bartholomew’s arm. ‘It is not lit!’

‘It has blown out,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is windy this afternoon.’

‘No, it is because he had a hand in his friend’s murder and God extinguished it,’ averred Cynric. ‘God does not like hypocrisy at funerals. I heard Langar tell Miller what happened to Flaxfleete yesterday: Kelby is so scared that Miller might kill him to even the score for Herl and Aylmer that he killed Flaxfleete himself, to make amends. A sacrifice.’

‘Langar must have been listening to Ursula,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is what she thinks.’

‘See that nice box on the coffin?’ asked Cynric. ‘That is the new reliquary for the Hugh Chalice. Flaxfleete was going to present it at the installation on Sunday. Quarrel at the Swan told me. It is being displayed now, so folk will know who donated it when Simon makes his presentation of the cup. It is the Guild’s way of making sure they get credit, see.’

A number of people had gathered to watch the sombre ceremony. Among them were Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana, who were in the unlikely company of Sheriff Lungspee. Bartholomew went to stand with them, Cynric at his heels, looking around for Michael as he did so. The monk was nowhere to be seen and, uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether he was sleeping off his exertions.

‘A sorry business,’ said Dame Eleanor quietly. ‘Flaxfleete was too young to be taken to God.’

‘We worked on your list today,’ said Christiana, more interested in talking to the physician than watching the dismal spectacle of a casket borne through the wintry streets. ‘Michael asked us to.’

Dame Eleanor smiled fondly, while Bartholomew pondered the familiar use of the monk’s name. ‘When you find her, you can tell her she will always be welcome to live in Lincoln.’

‘And us helping you will show Spayne that not everyone is mean,’ said Christiana. She tossed her head in a way that showed her long neck to its best advantage. Lungspee leered his admiration, and so did several men in the funeral procession. Christiana noticed, and a smile of satisfaction flitted across her lovely face.

‘Look at this silver bracelet,’ said Lungspee, tearing his eyes away from her as he proffered the bauble for everyone to see. ‘Dalderby gave it to me last night, because he said he might need my help over accusations pertaining to the stabbing of Chapman. It probably means he did it. It is a good thing he passed it to me when he did, because he died this morning.’

Eleanor was shocked. ‘Are you saying you accepted a bribe? Or did I misunderstand?’

‘You misunderstood,’ said Lungspee glibly. ‘I never accept bribes. That would be illegal. This is not an inducement: it is a token of brotherly esteem.’

‘What happened to Dalderby?’ asked Bartholomew, before she could quiz him further. Squeamishly, he did not want to see what would happen when the saintly old lady learned of the sheriff’s fondness for having the wheels of justice oiled.

‘He suffered a hard blow to the head,’ replied Lungspee, raking dirty fingers through his long hair. ‘It occurred outside Spayne’s house. He managed to stagger to Kelby, but said nothing before he died. It is a pity, since his death and Flaxfleete’s mean a shift in the balance of power.’

‘This horrible feud!’ said Dame Eleanor with considerable feeling. ‘I am heartily sick of it!’

‘I shall do my best to avert a crisis,’ said Lungspee, although he did not sound very keen. ‘However, my sergeants have not been paid for two months, and they are becoming slow to follow orders.’

‘I assume you intend to investigate Dalderby’s murder, Sheriff,’ said Dame Eleanor coolly. ‘Or do you intend to pretend it did not happen?’

Lungspee grimaced. ‘He almost certainly stabbed Chapman, so the culprit will be a member of the Commonalty or their supporters. I will ask a few questions, but I doubt I will ever learn the truth.’

‘Were there any other wounds on him?’ asked Bartholomew. If the fellow had been sufficiently recovered from his shooting to bribe sheriffs and ambush relic-sellers, then he was fit enough to stand in a dark garden and loose arrows at monks and physicians.

‘I did not look,’ said Lungspee. ‘There was no need, not having seen the crack in his skull. Why?’

‘He is a physician,’ explained Eleanor. ‘They are trained to ask odd questions. But it is nearing dusk, and I should return to my shrines for vespers. Will you escort me, Christiana?’

Before she left, Christiana showed Bartholomew and Cynric a small wooden carving of a soldier. ‘I bought this for young Hugh today, and I cannot wait to give it to him. He will adore it, and it always gives me pleasure to see gifts so happily accepted.’

‘Father Simon wrote some loving words to your mother today, lady,’ said Cynric before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘In a prayer.’

Christiana was surprised and touched. ‘How kind. He always was fond of her.’

‘I am sure of it,’ said Cynric blandly. ‘Very fond, I should think.’

It was dark by the time Bartholomew left the Pultria. He could have forced his way through the crowds that had gathered to watch Flaxfleete’s cortege, but the news of Dalderby’s murder had unsettled him, and he did not want to draw attention to himself. He decided it was safer to maintain a low profile.

‘Quite right,’ said de Wetherset, when he voiced his concern. ‘The city is often uneasy, but I detect something especially nasty in the air today. The deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer, Herl and now Dalderby have caused ripples that force men to take sides, even those who would prefer to remain neutral.’

Suttone agreed. ‘And it would not do for us to make a bid for escape in the middle of a funeral, anyway. It will look as though we do not care about the soul of the deceased.’

‘The crowds will be gone in an hour, and we can walk back to the convent together,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I doubt anyone will attack five of us, especially if one is a Suttone.’

‘You are making the situation sound worse than it is,’ objected Simon. ‘It is uneasy, not perilous.’

‘Matthew and Cynric would not agree,’ said Suttone. ‘Look what happened to them.’

So, it was well past four o’clock before de Wetherset declared the throng thin enough to allow them to leave. A spiteful wind brought heavy clouds from the north; they blocked out the moon and any light there might have been from the stars. There was a metallic scent in the air, and Bartholomew knew it would snow again that night. It was bitterly cold, and his thick winter cloak was doing little to keep him warm. He felt sorry for the beggars, who were gathering in doorways and the shelter of walls, certain some would freeze to death before dawn.

‘There is Michael,’ said Suttone, pointing down the hill. The monk had hired a boy to light his way with a lantern, although the lad was moving rather too quickly, and had to be called back every few moments. Bartholomew saw it was Hugh, making money after dark with what appeared to be one of the minster’s ceremonial lamps.

‘Gynewell came to see me this afternoon,’ said Michael breathlessly, when their paths converged. ‘I have been ordered to look into Tetford’s death now, as well as Aylmer’s. He could have saved himself the journey: I feel honour-bound to look into it, anyway, as Tetford was my deputy. Furthermore, Bishop de Lisle is sure to want to know who killed his nephew, especially since Tetford came to me last night and claimed he was about to turn over a new leaf.’

Simon laughed derisively. ‘And you believed him? Really, Brother!’

‘I did believe him,’ said Michael. ‘I questioned his colleagues today, and he did close his tavern and sell his wine. His good intentions may not have lasted, but he was in earnest yesterday.’

‘Did you ever visit his alehouse?’ asked Simon. ‘If so, you will know it was a lucrative business. He would have had to be very serious about reforming to give that up. I doubt he had it in him.’

‘I shall not argue,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, I will make sure Bishop de Lisle knows that his nephew’s last moments were full of noble sentiments.’

‘However, these noble sentiments were expressed while he was giving you a poison-filled wineskin,’ said Bartholomew, so only the monk could hear.

‘And it is equally possible that the contents were intended for him,’ Michael muttered back. ‘Whatever the truth, I intend to find it, no matter where it leads.’

‘Archdeacon Ravenser has the tavern now,’ said Cynric. ‘He invited us to visit it tonight, Brother. Perhaps we should go, so you can see it for yourself. We should be safe enough. After all, what harm can befall us in the Cathedral Close?’

‘I shall accompany you,’ said de Wetherset, while Bartholomew regarded the book-bearer askance: some of their best suspects for the previous night’s attack were officers in the minster. ‘I have never been in the Tavern in the Close, and I do not want my future colleagues to consider me aloof.’

‘You have lived in Lincoln for years,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘Surely you have been to this alehouse before? It is very … well known.’

‘I have not,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘Such places nearly always smell of wet dog, an odour I find inordinately distasteful. However, I shall put up with the unpleasantness this evening, just so I can say I have been, should anyone ever ask.’

‘Then I will come, too,’ announced Suttone. ‘What is good enough for an ex-Chancellor is good enough for one of his successors.’

‘They have no idea what they are letting themselves in for,’ said Simon, watching Suttone and de Wetherset began to retrace their steps. ‘Shall we tell them?’

‘Wild, is it?’ asked Cynric keenly. ‘I like a tavern where a man can tell whatever tales he pleases.’

‘You could say it was wild,’ said Simon, regarding him wryly. ‘I do not want to be caught there by Gynewell, though. He does not approve of it. I am going home.’

‘You will walk to the Gilbertine convent alone?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In the dark?’

‘Yes, and the sooner the better. I can feel snow in the air already.’

‘Be careful, then,’ warned Michael. ‘Do not forget what happened to us last night. We still have no idea who was responsible.’

‘My chief suspect is Spayne,’ murmured Cynric softly to Bartholomew.

Simon had sharper ears than the book-bearer had expected, and he heard the comment. ‘I sincerely doubt it. He has never done that sort of thing before, and he has had plenty of provocation.’

‘From whom?’ asked Michael.

‘Langar is not always a reasonable or pleasant ally, and their rival Kelby can be nasty. I would be astonished if Spayne would attack you two after a few days, but has put up with them for years.’

‘I do not think Spayne is responsible, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I grabbed his arm today, and there is no evidence of a bruise.’

‘However, he admitted he was abroad last night, and refused to say where,’ said Cynric, giving Michael a meaningful look. He and the monk were united as far as Spayne was concerned.

‘He did say: he was at business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was returning home when he saw the chaos surrounding Chapman’s stabbing.’

‘Outside the Angel, he said,’ elaborated Cynric, still looking at Michael. ‘However, Chapman was wounded outside the Swan. Spayne lied.’

Simon was dismissive. ‘There will be a rational explanation. Spayne said the Angel, but meant the Swan. The Angel is where the Commonalty usually drink, so it is an understandable slip.’

‘Perhaps Spayne was not the swordsman you wounded, Matt,’ said Michael, not sure what to believe, ‘but he might have been one of the three others.’

‘He would have been a far more formidable opponent than any of them.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Simon, ‘although that is not to say I think he is guilty. Spayne is not like you – the sons of wealthy landowners. He was an oblate at an abbey from the age of five. While you two were playing with wooden swords and learning how to ride, he was singing psalms. He later declined to take holy orders, and opted for a career in wool instead.’

‘That explains his interest in Blood Relics,’ said Bartholomew.

‘The point I am making is that Spayne is unfamiliar with any kind of weapon,’ said Simon. ‘Lord, it is cold out here! The sooner I am home by the fire, the better. Do not stay out too late, not with a blizzard coming.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘So, Spayne is in the clear. It was not he who attacked us, as I have been saying all along. He does not know how.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Michael. ‘Simon’s testimony suggests to me that Spayne might well have staged a feeble attack, then fled in terror when he realised he was out of his depth. But we will not agree, so we shall waste no more time debating. Let us go to this tavern, and see what the minster priests can tell us about Aylmer and Tetford.’

John was waiting to let the scholars in through the Close gate, stamping his feet to stay warm. Ravenser’s tavern was larger than Bartholomew had expected, even bigger than the Swan. Lights burned within, visible under badly fitting window shutters, and there was loud, thumping music that included a flute and drum. Shouts and cheers accompanied the instruments, and it was a lot more rowdy than anything he had seen in the city. John excused himself before they entered.

‘You will not join us for a drink, cousin?’ asked Suttone. ‘It will give us a chance to talk.’

John’s tone was cool. ‘A canon-elect can have nothing to say to a Poor Clerk with no prospects.’

‘Talk to me instead, then,’ suggested Michael. ‘You can tell me about Aylmer and Tetford.’

John’s expression was prim. ‘Willingly, Brother, but not in there. I take no strong drink, and I am scrupulously celibate. Good night – and if you want me, I shall be praying at the High Altar.’

‘Sanctimonious prig,’ muttered Suttone, watching him strut towards the cathedral. ‘He always was that way, which has never endeared him to me. I prefer his younger brother, Hugh.’

‘What do you think of Father Simon?’ Bartholomew asked of de Wetherset, as they scraped mud, ice and ordure from their feet outside the alehouse door.

De Wetherset shrugged. ‘He never misses an office, so will make a good canon. Can we discuss this inside? It is freezing out here. Ah, here is a charming young maid to take our cloaks. How kind. A warm welcome makes such a difference. And I cannot smell wet dog, either. Thank you, child.’

‘That is all right, Father,’ said the woman with a sultry smile. ‘Welcome to Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, which is the new name for the Tavern in the Close. I am Belle. What can I do for you?’

‘I would like some ale, Belle,’ said de Wetherset, rubbing his hands as he looked around him. ‘Spiced, if you please, although not to the extent that you might flavour it for Bishop Gynewell.’

‘The bishop will never come here,’ said Belle ruefully. ‘However, Ravenser said we must do anything he asks, if he ever does put in an appearance, even if it involves his pitchfork. Gynewell wants this alehouse closed, you see, and us ladies thrown on the streets with nowhere to go.’

‘Do not worry,’ said de Wetherset kindly. ‘There is always a demand for the labour of virtuous maidens.’

She shot him a bemused glance, then led them to a table near one of the room’s two fires. The wood was well worn, and full of the kind of dents that said a good deal of jug-bashing had taken place on it. They sat and Belle fetched ale. She tripped as she approached, slopping some on Cynric’s sleeve, and when she placed the other goblets on the table, she did so clumsily enough to spill more.

‘Perhaps she would be unemployed if Gynewell suppresses this place,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘I do not like to be rude, but she is not very good at serving drinks.’

‘I suspect her talents lie in other areas,’ said Michael. He ordered food, and when the rabbit pie arrived, she slapped it down in a way that splattered Suttone’s habit with gravy. He tutted in annoyance, but did not make the kind of fuss he would have done had an ugly boy been the culprit. When she wiped his lap with a cloth, taking rather longer than necessary, he forgave her completely.

‘She is very obliging,’ said de Wetherset to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is why she is so popular. Lots of Vicars Choral are calling to her, trying to attract her attention.’

‘Good evening, sirs,’ said another woman. The front of her dress was indecently low, and it became more so as she leaned across the table to refill their cups. Bartholomew saw de Wetherset’s jaw drop. She ran her eyes across the gathering like a butcher looking for prime cuts, and her insolent gaze fell on Michael. ‘Oh, my! You are a large man. Tetford was right.’

‘Rosanna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The seamstress who adjusted Michael’s ceremonial alb?’

‘The very same,’ she crooned, her eyes fixed on the monk. ‘Now I see why Tetford insisted it should be so massive. Yours is an impressive figure, Brother.’

Michael preened himself. ‘Some of my colleagues say I am fat.’

‘Then they do not know what they are talking about. However, I imagine you have some very big bones.’

Bartholomew laughed, although Michael did not see anything amusing in the comment. ‘Tetford fought Ravenser over a misunderstanding involving you,’ said the monk.

She grinned mischievously. ‘A mistake was made in booking arrangements. Tetford was nasty about it, and I am pleased we now work for Ravenser. He will be a far nicer master.’

‘You did not like Tetford, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He was miserly and spiteful. Ravenser may seem wild, but he has a good heart. I think the tavern will do very well under him. For a few ghastly hours, we thought it might go to John Suttone.’

‘John?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘He is not the kind of man who would run a … ’ He waved his hand, not sure what to call it.

‘He is good at administration, and the canons asked if he would consider taking on the responsibility. He would have bowed to the bishop’s demands for moderation, though, and that would have been tedious. Now, whose company would you like? There is Belle from Wigford, and Jane and Agnes from Newport. And, since there are four of you, I shall make sure I am to hand, too.’

‘To hand for what?’ asked de Wetherset, bewildered. ‘We have come for a drink.’

‘Of course you have, Father. Now, you sit quietly and I will send Belle over. I think you have already taken a liking to her, and she certainly has to you. Look! She is waving.’

‘I do not want the company of women,’ objected de Wetherset, puzzled. ‘I encountered a new argument pertaining to Blood Relics today, and I intend to practise it on my colleagues here. A lady would be bored with such an erudite discourse, and her restless shuffling might distract them.’

‘Belle will sit still, if that is what you would like,’ said Rosanna patiently, her eyes as old as the hills. ‘Have no fear, Father. She will be very gentle with you.’

‘Later, perhaps,’ said Michael, smothering a smile. ‘We would like to enjoy our ale first.’

‘Very well,’ said Rosanna. ‘Call us when you are ready.’

‘Ready for what?’ asked de Wetherset when she had gone. ‘This is a curious institution. I do not think I will be coming here very often, once I am a canon.’

‘I might,’ said Suttone perkily. ‘It is a charming place.’

The evening wore on, and de Wetherset remained bemused by Ravenser’s House of Pleasure. Most patrons were priests, although there was a smattering of secular clerks and servants. The atmosphere was raucous and dissipated, and even Cynric declared it too noisy. It was hot, too, which de Wetherset said explained why so many serving wenches were half naked. Cynric watched in shock, until one tried to sit on his lap, at which point he excused himself and scuttled outside, muttering something about his wife. Meanwhile, some of the men divested themselves of cloaks, tunics and even shifts.

‘I would never have agreed to Tetford’s nomination had I known he managed a place like this,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, over the din of a drinking game taking place between Claypole and one of the Poor Clerks. ‘There are limits, and this is well past them. Part of my reason for coming here tonight was so I could see if anyone caught my eye as a potential replacement for Tetford, but I do not think I want to hire a Vicar Choral who enjoys this sort of entertainment.’

‘Do you think Bishop de Lisle knows what Tetford was like?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I sincerely doubt it. If the establishment was discreet, he might have turned a blind eye, but this is brazen, to say the least. I hate to say it, but Tetford’s death has spared me a good deal of trouble.’

‘Here comes Ravenser,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is no longer wearing his sword.’

‘Good evening,’ said Ravenser jovially. ‘I am pleased you could come. I was afraid you might not, and tonight promises to be an excellent evening. Just wait until the amusements really begin.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘This is more than enough for me already.’

‘Is it like this every night?’ asked de Wetherset, wonderingly.

‘I hope so,’ whispered Suttone, red-faced from ale and enjoying himself thoroughly.

Ravenser smiled. ‘The Guild sent us a donation of wine when they learned I was to take over. Kelby wanted us to drink to Flaxfleete’s memory.’

‘I had forgotten the Guild provides the minster with money for its vices,’ said Michael.

‘The Guild is good to us,’ said Ravenser, ignoring the censure in his tone. ‘I hope the deaths of Flaxfleete and Dalderby do not upset the balance, and make it weaker than the Commonalty. I wonder if that was why someone tried to kill Chapman – to maintain the equilibrium.’

‘Someone was determined he should die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was attacked with a sword, then provided with a poisonous salve. He is lucky to be alive.’

Ravenser excused himself when a roar of approval indicated that Claypole had won the round, and the scholars were left alone again. A woman called Jane of Newport insinuated herself next to de Wetherset, and her sister Agnes squeezed between Bartholomew and Michael. Suttone was dismayed, until Belle sat on his knee, claiming there was no room on the bench.

‘Ladies, please,’ objected de Wetherset plaintively. ‘We are trying to discuss theology.’

‘Is that so, Father?’ said Jane, her voice low and husky. ‘Then do not mind us.’

‘Claypole is in good spirits,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching the priest challenge another Poor Clerk to out-drink him. ‘I wondered earlier whether he might be pleased by Tetford’s death.’

‘I saw him escort Christiana to the Swan for a cup of wine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She was not overly enthusiastic, but he was delighted. I imagine his success in spending an hour alone with her is the cause of his ebullience tonight. It is a pity she cannot see him now – depraved and reeling.’

‘Is that Hugh?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to where someone was struggling to broach a barrel of ale. ‘He seems to be everywhere – acting as a lantern-bearer, running errands for Gynewell.’

‘It is because he is always in trouble,’ said Agnes. ‘He cannot resist playing pranks on his elders, and is always being ordered to pay fines. He needs every penny he can earn.’

It was not long before Hugh came to seek them out. His eyes were heavy and his hair tousled, as if he had been dozing somewhere when he should have been serving the tavern’s thirsty patrons. He grinned cheekily at Michael. ‘Can I conduct you to any merchants’ houses, Brother?’

‘You should be asleep,’ admonished Michael. ‘You have to rise early to sing tomorrow.’

‘Ravenser said he will let me off prime the mornings after I work here,’ said Hugh. ‘I suppose he will make a decent inn-master, but I really wanted John to get the post.’

‘I doubt John would have enjoyed playing the role of taverner,’ said Suttone.

Hugh wrinkled his nose. ‘Probably not, but I would have liked him to do it, because then he would have given me the best jobs. He says it is a duty to look after one’s family.’

Suttone raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but Hugh did not seem to realise that the remark had been a barb directed at his cousin. ‘Then when he is a canon, he can be as nepotistic as he pleases.’

The scholars’ conversation had become desultory once the women had draped themselves around their table. Suttone tried to begin a debate about the causes of the plague, but Jane said the disease had left her with vile memories, and asked him to desist. Then de Wetherset said he would like to propound the notion of creatio ex nihilo, which he claimed was always a good topic to break the ice, and he and Michael managed a spirited argument until Agnes said she was bored and left. When Belle and Jane attempted to do the same, it was Suttone who persuaded them to stay.

‘Here is Bresley,’ said Michael, as the door opened and the dean walked in. Several men’s hands dropped to their purses, and Ravenser went to a pot, where coins had been left for the women, and locked it in a cupboard. ‘He will have something to say about all this racket.’

Instead of bringing the carousing to an end, Bresley strolled to a bench and sat, snapping his fingers at Hugh to bring him some wine. Agnes went to stand behind him, but he made no effort to move away when she flopped an arm across his shoulder. He rummaged under his robes and his hand emerged with something gold. His actions were odd enough to encourage Bartholomew to watch him.

Michael tried to peer around Jane, who was intent on crawling into his lap; the monk seemed powerless to resist her relentless advance. ‘Can you see what he is doing?’

‘He has just put something under Agnes’s skirts,’ replied Bartholomew. He laughed when Michael blushed modestly. ‘Something metal.’

‘We should leave,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘Simon was right: we should not be here. And I am surprised the dean dares show his face, given that he wants the place closed down. He is–’

‘Madam!’ shrieked de Wetherset suddenly, leaping to his feet. His face had flushed scarlet, and he was shaking. ‘Madam!’

‘What?’ demanded Belle irritably.

‘Your hand! It wandered a second time! The first I understand was an error, but to do it twice …!’

Belle frowned, puzzled. ‘Rosanna told me to make sure you were happy.’

‘I was happy,’ yelled de Wetherset, ‘until you … I shall not stay here to be molested. I am leaving!’

‘What about my payment?’ demanded Belle. Other women began to mutter ominously.

‘Payment for what?’ asked de Wetherset, amazed. ‘Ravenser said the food and ale was from him.’

‘We should all be going home,’ said Michael hastily, pressing a coin into Belle’s hand.

Bartholomew led the still-spluttering de Wetherset outside to where Cynric was waiting, his face a cool mask of disapproval.

‘You lingered a long time,’ he said, accusingly. ‘I expected you to follow my example sooner.’

‘She … she touched me,’ stammered de Wetherset, outraged. ‘And I am absolutely certain it was deliberate. She must have been trying to seduce me!’

‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to lovely women, then?’ asked Suttone sullenly. He had not been touched and seduced enough.

‘Of course I am!’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘Powerful men are irresistible to people of either sex, but that is no excuse for her to make herself familiar with my person. We are in the sacred confines of a Cathedral Close! I certainly shall not visit that den of iniquity again.’

Agnes had followed them outside. ‘Ravenser said you forgot this,’ she said, passing the cloak de Wetherset had abandoned in his agitation. ‘It is cold, and you will not want to walk home without it.’

Ungraciously, de Wetherset snatched it from her hand and strode away, Suttone hurrying after him when he saw him head in entirely the wrong direction in his agitation. While the monk watched Suttone herd the ex-Chancellor towards the right gate, Bartholomew made a grab for the folds of Agnes’s unfashionably voluminous skirts. She started to screech, but stopped abruptly when he located a linen bag hidden among the pleats. It was suspended by a ribbon, and clanked in a way that suggested several items were contained within.

‘That is mine,’ snapped Agnes, trying to wriggle away from him. ‘The men here sometimes do not have coins, so they pay with other items instead.’

Bartholomew tugged the bag, breaking the ribbon. Agnes hastened to snatch it back, but he fended her off with one hand and emptied its contents on to the ground with the other.

‘This,’ he said, grabbing a gold cup to wave at her, ‘belongs to Adam Miller. It is one of a set of four, although the dean has ensured that Miller is now the perplexed owner of a set of three.’

‘I will give it to the bishop tomorrow,’ she said sulkily. ‘There is a special box for anything from the dean, and Gynewell always makes sure it gets to its rightful owner. It is part of the arrangement of working here: anything from Bresley goes to the bishop, and the rest we can keep.’

‘How odd,’ said Michael, bemused.

‘Bresley is ill,’ explained Agnes. ‘He does not know what he is doing. The bishop says he is a good dean, and does not want to find a replacement, although it means he is obliged to spend an hour of each morning returning borrowed property. That cup will be back with Miller by noon tomorrow.’

‘And what is this?’ asked Cynric, picking up another item. ‘Did the dean give you this, too?’

Michael gazed at it in shock. ‘That is the Hugh Chalice!’

‘So is this,’ said Cynric, producing the one he had taken from Miller’s house.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, placing them side by side and inspecting them in the dim light of the lamp that burned above the tavern’s door. ‘They are identical. Which is the real one?’

‘The one in the Gilbertine Priory presumably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless all three are fakes.’

‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Michael of Agnes. ‘Who gave it to you?’

‘Tetford,’ said Agnes reluctantly. ‘After he had decided to close his tavern. He gave one to each of his favourite girls, and said we could sell them to keep us from poverty. He said they were the cups St Hugh used for his wild – but generally respectable – parties.’

‘And how did Tetford come by them?’ asked Michael, his face creased in confusion.

‘He did not say. Why? Was he wrong about their value? The others will not be pleased, because they have already made arrangements with some of the city’s convents. Lincoln’s religious foundations are always eager to buy St Hugh’s relics.’

‘How many of these cups are there?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘He gave one each to me, Belle, Jane and Rosanna,’ said Agnes. Her expression was hard and angry. ‘He said there are no others like them anywhere in the world, but now I see he was lying as usual. God rot his filthy soul!’

It was past eight o’clock by the time Bartholomew, Michael, Suttone, de Wetherset and Cynric started to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory. Michael carried Agnes’s bag, and in it were the four chalices Tetford had given to his ladies, along with the one Cynric had found in Miller’s home.

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice because it was late and people in the houses they passed were asleep. Hard little pellets of snow swirled in all directions. They bounced across the frozen ground, where the wind blew them into dry, shifting heaps. ‘These cups look similar – if not identical – to the one Shirlok was accused of stealing in Cambridge. What is happening?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Someone has obviously been making copies of the real one in an attempt to make his fortune.’

‘If there is a real one,’ said de Wetherset. ‘But regardless, local convents will jump at an opportunity to buy a relic of St Hugh, especially if it is made of silver.’

‘I doubt these are silver,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a spotting on them that suggests they are forged from some base metal.’

‘Well, they look silver to me,’ said de Wetherset, ‘so they will look silver to potential buyers. I was right to be sceptical of Simon’s chalice – the poor man was as deceived as those impertinent women. I always knew he did not possess my abilities.’

‘What abilities?’ asked Suttone sulkily. He had been enjoying himself in Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, and held de Wetherset responsible for bringing a pleasant evening to a premature end.

‘My talent for distinguishing genuine relics from false ones. It is a gift from God.’

Bartholomew was relieved when they reached the Gilbertine Priory, and even more relieved when there was someone waiting to let them in. Prior Roger had not liked the notion that his guests – especially Suttone – might abandon him, and was ready to do all in his power to keep them. He was so determined they should not be obliged to go through his garden a second night, that he had waited in the porter’s lodge himself, to make sure the guard did not fall victim to another flask of drugged wine.

‘There you are,’ he said, leaping to his feet to usher them inside. ‘I was beginning to be worried.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a dangerous–’

‘Well, you are here now, thank the Lord!’ Roger beamed. ‘I hope you had a good evening. Is it snowing yet? I think we shall have a heavy fall before the night is out.’

‘It is just starting again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is Father Simon in the guest-hall?’

Roger shook his head. ‘Hamo saw him with you at Flaxfleete’s funeral. Did you separate afterwards? That was unwise, given the number of villains arriving for Miller’s Market.’

‘Hamo saw us?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had not spotted the wet-lipped Gilbertine, and he disliked the notion that someone had been watching him without his knowledge.

‘Simon has not returned?’ asked Michael, equally unsettled. ‘He left us hours ago, and said he was going to walk straight home. I hope he has not come to any harm.’

Eager to impress them with his level of concern for absent guests, Roger organised a hunt, sending his brethren out to make a thorough search of first the convent’s buildings, and then its grounds. There was no sign of the priest, so Bartholomew offered to walk back to the city, following the route Simon would have taken. Cynric, Michael and three burly lay-brothers accompanied him, but they met with no success.

‘His belongings are here,’ said de Wetherset, when they returned, cold and tired. ‘I have been through them, but there is nothing to suggest he intended to spend the night away. And Suttone and I have spoken to everyone here, and no one has any idea where else he might be.’

‘He is local,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he has gone to stay with friends.’

‘He does not have any friends,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Besides, he likes the Gilbertines’ daily offices, and he is a devout man. He will not miss a mass by sojourning with secular acquaintances.’

‘He should have remained with us,’ said Suttone, annoyed by the trouble the priest was causing.

‘Perhaps he has less cause to be worried about being ambushed than the rest of us,’ said Michael thoughtfully. He turned to de Wetherset. ‘I want to know about his alibi for Aylmer’s stabbing. Why did you lie about it? No, do not look shocked: this is important. You must tell me the truth.’

De Wetherset’s expression was furious. ‘I did tell you the truth. How dare you!’

‘One on occasion you told me – rather smugly – that you had not attended the Gilbertines’ prime since your first morning here. However, when we asked after Simon’s whereabouts when Aylmer was murdered, you said you heard him singing in the chapel. You cannot have it both ways.’

De Wetherset sighed angrily. ‘You always were a pedant, picking at details. As it happens, I was in the chapel that morning – I was speaking figuratively when I said I avoided every office after my first day. However, since you love irrelevancies, you should bear in mind my exact words when I answered that question: I said Simon had a loud voice. I did not say I had heard it, and the truth is that I cannot remember. Perhaps I heard him that day, perhaps I did not. I am afraid dawn offices tend to run together in my mind. However, he offered me a roof over my head at a very reasonable price when I first arrived in the city, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He is no killer.’

‘I think he might be an arsonist, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He set his own home alight to hurry along the offer of a prebendal stall. It was not his house – it belonged to Holy Cross. Now the parish will have to pay for a new one.’

‘I suspected at the time that he had had a hand in the conflagration,’ admitted de Wetherset. ‘We could have doused it when he woke me, but he told me to save my belongings first. By the time we had done that, the blaze had taken too firm a hold. Having said that, he intends to pay for a new building himself, out of his prebend, and it will be bigger and better than he one he burned. His only real crime was impatience – he wanted the promised stall sooner rather than later.’

‘What shall we do?’ asked Prior Roger unhappily, when he came a few moments later to see if Simon had been found. ‘We cannot sit by the fire when the poor man is missing.’

‘We have no choice,’ said Michael. ‘There is nothing we can do until daylight, and we–’

‘We shall pray for his safety,’ announced Roger. ‘Ring the bells, Hamo. Rouse the brethren from their beds. We shall make sure all the saints hear our petitions.’

‘Amen to that!’ cried Hamo.

Not liking to sleep when everyone else was obliged to attend the impromptu service, Bartholomew trailed after Michael. Then, while Roger assembled his flock and the organ started to wheeze, he walked to the altar and looked for the Hugh Chalice. It was not there.

‘Where is it?’ he asked of Roger, breaking into the prior’s first alleluia.

Roger gazed at the empty spot in horror. ‘It was here this afternoon. I saw it myself.’

‘Do you think Simon found out he had been cheated?’ asked Michael. ‘And tackled the culprit?’

‘You mean Chapman?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is too ill for visitors, and I doubt Miller would have let Simon see him.’

‘He might,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Why should he refuse the request of his own brother?’

‘We can ask tomorrow, when I change the dressing on Chapman’s arm,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Will they answer you honestly?’ asked Roger worriedly. ‘Why would they, if they murdered Father Simon themselves?’