The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 11

Someone was grabbing the back of Bartholomew’s tunic, pulling him away from the choking coldness of the snow. He tried to struggle to his knees, but the fall had winded him, and it was some time before his senses cleared and he was able to look around.

‘Matt!’ said Michael. ‘Stand up, or you will ruin your new hose in all this filthy sleet.’

‘Where are they?’ Bartholomew asked, staggering to his feet and more concerned about the men who had attacked them than the welfare of his clothes.

‘Gone. They ran off when you gave that battle screech you seem rather fond of these days. It was loud enough to wake the dead, and now half the parish is here, demanding to know what happened.’

Bartholomew saw a crowd of people standing in a tight knot, as if they thought such a formation might be safer. ‘We should follow the swordsmen. See where they go.’

‘They are long gone. It was a stupid idea to follow Simon. I should never have listened to you.’

‘He was only praying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is he? Did he run away with the others?’

‘He is still in the chancel. The new priest is giving him last rites.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, mind reeling. ‘He is dying? How? I do not understand.’

‘He took an arrow in the innards. Even I can see the wound is mortal, although he lingers yet. Will you see if you can help him?’

Bartholomew tottered unsteadily to the church door, Michael at his side. Simon was lying on his back near the altar, and Bartholomew could see the barb protruding from his stomach. It was an ugly place to be shot, painful and almost invariably fatal.

‘After you drove that sword-wielding lunatic away, a second fellow appeared,’ explained Michael, as they approached the stricken cleric. ‘He attacked you from behind, and I lobbed the shoe-scraper at him when it looked as though he was going to smother you.’

‘Were they two of the men who attacked us before?’

‘It was dark, so I could not see, but I imagine so. There cannot be that many people who want us dead. When they had gone, I heard a lot of shouting from inside the church. I ran towards the door in time to see two men bowl out as though they were on fire; Simon was here, lying as you see him. I could not make out more than shadows, but one was larger than the other, and they were both armed.’

‘So, there were four of them again,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Just like last time.’

Michael nodded. ‘And none appeared to be the worse for wear from our last encounter. Your bruising of the swordsman’s arm was obviously not as serious as you thought.’

‘I have finished,’ said the young priest, white-faced with shock. His term at Oxford had not prepared him for the murder of his predecessor. ‘I sent for the surgeon; he should be here soon.’

Bartholomew knelt, trying to assess Simon’s wound without touching it and making it worse. He asked for the lamp to be brought closer, and wondered if he should try to extricate the missile. It would tear the organs it had penetrated, but he could repair them. The more serious problem would be the infection that always set in later, something he had no idea how to prevent.

‘Give me something,’ whispered Simon. ‘For the pain.’

Bartholomew produced a phial of poppy and mandrake juice from his bag, dribbling it between Simon’s lips, but pulling away when the priest grabbed his wrist and tried to swallow the whole pot.

‘Can you save my life?’ breathed Simon.

‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew honestly.

‘Then I will wait for the surgeon. Bunoun cured Dalderby of a near-fatal wound recently, and might be able to do the same for me.’

‘Dalderby’s was not a serious–’ Bartholomew began, before biting off the words. Simon would be more likely to recover if he thought he was in the hands of a genius, and perhaps the surgeon would work a miracle where Bartholomew could not.

The door opened, and Bunoun bustled in. Without a word, he opened his bag and laid his implements on the floor. They were rusty and stained black with old blood. He took the arrow with one hand and waggled it about, holding Simon still with the other. Bartholomew winced at the screams that echoed around the church, and Michael put his hands over his ears.

‘Gently,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. ‘And do not pull obliquely. You need to trace the path the missile took when it entered, or you will cause more damage.’

Bunoun did not appreciate the advice, and gave an experimental tug on the quarrel that made Simon shriek. ‘I know what I am doing.’ A gout of blood spurted over his hands. ‘Let me do my work, physician. You can write his horoscope when I have finished.’

‘When you have finished, he will not need one,’ muttered Bartholomew, gritting his teeth when Bunoun pulled hard enough on the quarrel to make Simon’s body rise off the floor. The missile was obviously barbed, and tugging it out was not a good idea.

‘Enough,’ gasped Simon, trying to fend off the surgeon with scarlet hands. ‘No more.’

‘I shall prepare a poultice,’ announced Bunoun loftily. ‘It will draw out the poisons, and tomorrow morning, the quarrel will be extracted without pain or loss of blood.’

He moved away, using a nearby bench as a table for his preparations. The only sound in the church was Simon’s laboured breathing and the clink of pots and phials as Bunoun worked.

‘Where have you been these last two days, Father?’ asked Bartholomew gently, hoping to distract the priest from his agonies by talking. ‘We have been worried about you.’

‘Praying,’ replied Simon, relaxing slightly when he saw Bunoun had gone. ‘I had second thoughts about your invitation to the tavern, and realised I should not alienate new colleagues by being aloof. I slipped in at the back, where a lady called Agnes came to greet me. She said it was customary for new patrons to please her with gifts, and showed me the kind of thing she accepted.’

‘A cup,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘A Hugh Chalice?’

Simon nodded weakly. ‘And she said her friends had similar ones. I grew alarmed for my own, so I hurried back to the priory and took it from the chapel. I did not want the Gilbertines to know I was in an agony of doubt over its authenticity, so I slipped in and out without being seen. Then I went to the minster, hoping St Hugh would send a sign to let me know I had the real one. I do not want to present the cathedral with a fake, not after all these years of waiting.’

‘No one saw you,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘And people have been looking everywhere.’

‘The cathedral was too noisy, too distracting, so I went to St Margaret’s in the Close instead.’

‘Claypole searched for you there,’ said Michael. ‘He said it was empty.’

‘No one came, not even St Hugh, who chose not to answer my prayers. So I wrote to Chapman, and asked him to meet me here. I was going to demand the truth about how he came by the cup.’

‘All these years of waiting,’ echoed Bartholomew suddenly, leaning forward to push Simon’s habit from his shoulder. The mark was fainter than it had been on Aylmer, as though it had been etched tentatively, but was clear, nonetheless. ‘You are a member of this fraternity. You said you were not.’

Simon grimaced. ‘I knew if I offered to remove my clothes to “prove” I was free of symbols Michael would stop me. He knows the dangers of cold air on a singer’s throat. We took a vow, you see, to keep our group a secret.’

Michael did not say he had demurred because he had not liked the look of the priest’s scaly legs. ‘Is it still a secret, or can you tell me now?’

Simon gave a mirthless smile. ‘I know we sound an unlikely alliance – me, Aylmer, Chapman, Flaxfleete, Herl and many others – but we all swore a sacred oath to see the Hugh Chalice in the minster one day. There were two score of us – guildsmen, Commonalty, clerics, weavers, all with the mark. But then Canon Hodelston was poisoned, and some members began to think the feud was more important than their duty to the saint. Friends became enemies, and only a few of us remain faithful.’

‘You should rest now, Father,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Save your strength for–’

‘No!’ Simon gripped his hand, to prevent him from leaving. ‘I want to talk, and there are things you should know. I feel no pain anyway, just a great weariness of body and spirit.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael. The priest nodded. ‘Then I do not think Chapman sold you the chalice, as you claimed. I think he gave it to you, so you could present it to the cathedral in a ceremony that would venerate it. I imagine that is why Flaxfleete returned it to Chapman after the incident with the dean: Flaxfleete could donate it to the cathedral, but you could make it part of a major rite.’

Simon coughed weakly. ‘It was why I agreed to be installed as a canon.’

Bartholomew had also been thinking. ‘Aylmer was dishonest and he was in Cambridge two decades ago. I think he was one of the friars charged to bring the cup from London – I recall thinking at the trial that he looked like a fallen priest. He was weak and corrupt, and he sold the chalice for twenty shillings, a paltry sum for such a venerable object. The friars were not murdered by robbers or struck down by an angry St Hugh on their way home. They just began new lives in another place.’

‘No,’ breathed Simon. ‘Shirlok stole it from Aylmer. Aylmer told me so himself.’

Michael frowned. ‘Shirlok always denied taking the chalice, although he admitted to making off with the other items. I think Matt is right: Aylmer sold the chalice to Geddynge for fast money. And he lied to you about it – lied to you, Simon, because you were the other friar.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, seeing the priest’s expression of resignation. ‘It makes sense now. You came to Lincoln because you had nowhere else to go. You could not return to London, given that you had failed to deliver the relic. And you felt guilty about losing it, so you decided to live here, where you could dedicate your life to the saint whose chalice you had mislaid. Plus there is the fact that Miller is your brother. Cynric was right: Adam and Simon Molendinarius were named by Shirlok as his accomplices.’

‘You doubtless stayed with your brother in Cambridge on your journey north,’ Michael continued, when the priest said nothing to indicate they were wrong. ‘You told him about the sacred task with which you were entrusted. The rest is obvious. Miller helped Aylmer sell the chalice to a gullible priest – Geddynge was chosen because it is a safe distance from Cambridge, making it more difficult for the crime to be linked to him – and Shirlok was charged to get it back again. But Shirlok was caught, and the whole miserable tribe was in trouble.’

‘Adam and I are half-brothers,’ whispered Simon. ‘Neither of us had anything to do with removing the chalice from Geddynge, though. I was terrified when we were ordered to appear at Cambridge castle. It was a dreadful day.’

‘I do not remember you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Miller said his brother died in prison.’

‘I do not remember you, either, but that is no surprise after all this time.’ Simon closed his eyes for a moment, rallying his strength, then began to speak again. ‘When we arrived here, Adam and I decided to conceal our relationship until we had found our feet: he was to say his brother was dead and no one ever asks about a priest’s family. Later, we maintained the pretence, because I do not want to be associated with criminal activities, and he finds it embarrassing to have kin in holy orders.’

Michael was puzzled. ‘Why did you elect to live in the same place, if you then denied knowing each other? What could be gained from that?’

‘I came here because St Hugh appeared to me in a dream, and said I could make amends by serving as parish priest to Holy Cross. When the chalice finally reappeared and I was nominated as a canon, I knew he had forgiven me at last.’

‘And your brother?’

‘He liked the sound of the place when I described it to him, and he had nowhere else to go. So, I was the other courier, Brother, but Aylmer and I were robbed. We did not sell the Hugh Chalice. We have lived with the shame of losing it for twenty years. Aylmer’s sorrow led him to a libertine life, but he retook his priestly vows when the cup arrived in Lincoln recently.’

‘You credit him with too much decency,’ said Michael. ‘He was never anything but a felon.’

Simon did not seem to hear him. ‘I founded the “fraternity”, as you call it, to look for the chalice, and we have been searching ever since. Chapman and Adam found it four weeks ago.’

‘Adam is not a member,’ said Bartholomew, not mentioning that Miller had probably known for the best part of two decades that his brother’s holy grail was not lost at all. ‘Why not?’

‘Because that would have put us too much in each other’s company, and I did not want him to reveal our relationship in a moment of carelessness. You may have noticed that his wits are not the sharpest in the town. Poor Aylmer. He died trying to protect the chalice … ’

‘You said he was trying to steal it,’ said Michael.

‘No, I did not. Others did, but I said we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I never believed he was acting dishonestly. I have no idea who killed him, though. Did Chapman shoot me? He must have done, because no one else knew I would be here. I paid young Hugh a silver penny to deliver him a letter, asking him to come.’

‘Can we be sure Hugh delivered it to the right house?’ asked Michael, troubled.

By the time Bunoun declared himself ready to apply his salve, the priest was sinking towards death. Unwilling to see Simon subjected to painful treatment that would make no difference to the outcome, Bartholomew told the surgeon his chances of success were slim and suggested he abstain from spoiling his good record. Bunoun was experienced enough to know he spoke the truth, and packed up his equipment before going outside to declare that he had been summoned too late to effect one of his miraculous cures. Since there was no more to be done at Holy Cross, Bartholomew and Michael left Simon in the care of the parishioners he had served so long, and returned to the Gilbertine Priory.

‘I think he was telling the truth about the Hugh Chalice – at least, the truth as he knows it,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked. ‘It is obvious to us that Aylmer sold it to Geddynge, and Shirlok was asked to get it back again, but Simon harboured no such suspicions. He founded his fraternity to hunt it down and bring it to where he thinks it belongs.’

Michael nodded. ‘I am sure you are right.’

‘Aylmer was too cautious to sell it as the Hugh Chalice, but was quite happy to collect twenty shillings for a silver cup. He may have had redeeming thoughts towards the end of his life, but he was a despicable man.’

Michael sighed. ‘Simon confided a few other things while you were consulting with Bunoun. I asked why folk had joined his group, and it sounded as if he had applied a good deal of moral pressure. I suspect that is why they fell away so readily – their allegiance was not willingly given. Still, at least we know what the mark means. I assumed it was sinister, but it was not. He also denied impregnating Christiana’s mother, but admitted to setting his house alight – for the Hugh Chalice.’

‘How did he think that would help?’

‘As we suspected, Gynewell had intimated he might be in line for the Stall of Sanctae Crucis, so he burned down his home to draw attention to himself. It worked: he was offered the post in a matter of days. It meant full-time duties in the cathedral where the cup was to be displayed, and would have allowed him to guard it.’

‘Where is the chalice now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Simon’s, I mean, not the others.’

Michael removed something from under his cloak, and Bartholomew saw the familiar, dented vessel with its worn carving. ‘He asked me to make sure it is presented to the cathedral on Sunday.’

‘It looks just like the others,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘And I thought he was uncertain about it.’

‘He claims it is the real one, because St Hugh would not let him die without seeing it after his years of devotion. So, I shall put it in St Katherine’s Chapel with the others, and de Wetherset can decide.’

Prior Roger was full of questions when Michael presented a sixth cup for his growing collection, and it was some time before he allowed the monk to go. Wearily, Michael returned to the guest-hall, where he found Bartholomew already asleep. The monk had often envied his friend’s ability to doze through all manner of commotion, and in this case, the chamber in which he rested contained de Wetherset and Suttone, who had lit several candles and were making no effort to lower their voices. Cynric was honing his sword on a whetting stone, and Whatton and a few friends had just started to bellow psalms in the building next door.

‘He refused to tell us anything,’ said de Wetherset, indicating Bartholomew with an angry flick of his thumb. ‘He said he was tired, and that we would have to wait until tomorrow. Then Whatton came to tell us Simon is dead, and invited us to sing songs for his soul. Is it true?’

Michael nodded. ‘And I do not want to talk tonight, either. However, here comes Hamo. As he was outside his prior’s door when I gave my account of what happened, you can ask him about it.’

Suttone regarded Hamo in surprise. ‘I thought you would have abandoned eavesdropping, considering you had an accident the last time you did it. How is your arm, by the way?’

‘You hurt yourself listening to private conversations?’ asked Michael disapprovingly.

‘It happened the other night, when you and Matthew were assaulted,’ elaborated Suttone. He gave a rather malicious smile. ‘Hamo was so determined to hear what Prior Roger was saying to Whatton in the Lady Chapel that he tried to climb the ivy on the wall outside – I could see him through the window. And all the time, you were in the orchard, fighting for your life.’

‘Our Lady Chapel is a difficult challenge for eaves-droppers,’ said Hamo, making it sound as though the fault lay in the building, rather than the activity. ‘And the only way to monitor discussions is to go outside and scale the wall. I heard the clash of arms as you fought off your attackers, and I was so frightened that I fell and stunned myself. By the time I had recovered, Cynric was saying that you had escaped and Tetford was dead.’

‘Why were you trying to listen to your prior?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘He wanted to know whether Whatton was going to be promoted to Brother Cellerer,’ supplied Suttone helpfully. He assumed a pious expression. ‘Nosy men will die when the plague comes again.’

Michael smiled, noting that the timing of the incident eliminated Hamo, Roger and Whatton as candidates for the ambush. He wished Suttone had mentioned it sooner. ‘Would you mind extinguishing the lamps and going downstairs to talk? Matt will snore through the trumpets of Judgement Day, but I require silence and darkness for my slumber. Good night, gentlemen.’

He lay on his bed and hauled a blanket over his face. He did not think he would sleep, because his mind teemed with questions, but he did not want to spend the night chatting to de Wetherset and Suttone, either. He needed time alone, to consider what he had learned and try to instil some order into it. Therefore, he was surprised when he opened his eyes to find the room full of daylight.

‘Roger ordered the bells silenced this morning,’ explained de Wetherset, watching him look around in confusion. ‘You seemed so exhausted last night, that I thought you might appreciate longer in bed.’

‘It was our suggestion,’ said Suttone shyly. ‘Roger was set to produce some really loud music today, as he now has six Hugh Chalices lined up on his altar, but we persuaded him that your repose was important to solving the mysteries that have beset his city. Grudgingly, he agreed.’

Michael sat up and scrubbed his face. Bartholomew was shaving in some hot water Cynric had brought, and had changed his clothes. By comparison, Michael felt soiled and grubby. He swung his large legs over the side of the bed.

‘I have a lot to do today,’ he said ungraciously. ‘You should not have let me waste time.’

‘Your wits will be sharper with the additional rest,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I am trying to help you, Brother. If I am an instrument of the saints, then I should put my talents to good use.’

Michael glanced sharply at him, but could see no trace of humour in the ex-Chancellor’s face. His ploy to prevent de Wetherset from harming Bartholomew at some point in the future had worked better than he had anticipated.

‘Roger invited Gynewell to come and hear your account of Simon’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘I heard him arrive a few moments ago.’

‘He heard cloven hoofs rattle across the cobbles,’ murmured Cynric. He was in a foul mood, furious that he had not been there when Michael and Bartholomew had been attacked a second time.

Michael stood, stretched and performed his morning ablutions. Then he donned a fresh habit and asked Cynric to air the one he had been wearing, so it would be clean for the Sunday celebrations – if he lived that long. In an attempt to alleviate the guilt he felt for not protecting his scholars, Cynric went to the kitchens and forced the cook to prepare the best breakfast the convent could provide, fingering his dagger meaningfully as he recited a wholly unreasonable list of demands. The meal took three men to carry, and won Michael’s instant approval.

‘It is healthy to consume a decent breakfast,’ he declared, when Bartholomew warned that he might be sick if he ate more than a dozen eggs. ‘I am sure Surgeon Bunoun would agree.’

‘Bunoun is an excellent medicus,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Look what he did for Dalderby, although the reprieve was only temporary. I heard Miller killed him, by hitting him over the head with a stone.’

‘It is a bad time for men to slaughter each other,’ said Suttone worriedly. ‘In four days, we shall have our installation, the General Pardon and Miller’s Market, all at the same time. If there are tales that the Guild and the Commonalty have been killing each other, blood will flow for certain.’

‘The city felt very uneasy yesterday,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Men were gathering in groups, according to affiliation, and that is always a bad sign. I remember it from my Cambridge days.’

When Michael had reduced Cynric’s fine spread to a few gnawed bones and a sizeable midden of eggshells, the four scholars walked across the snow-covered ground to Prior Roger’s solar, where Bishop Gynewell was prodding the fire into a furious glow that was too hot to be comfortable for anyone else. Prior Roger stood near a window he had eased open, and Hamo was pouring cups of wine and readying platters of pastries. Bartholomew saw they were expected to consume yet more of the Gilbertines’ hospitality, and hoped Michael would not make himself ill.

‘There you are,’ said Gynewell, bouncing across the floor to offer them his ring. ‘It is a cold–’

‘There was a lot of snow last night,’ said Roger. ‘Have you seen the thickness of it on the chapel roof? I do not think I have ever known such weather. Well, there was last year, I suppose. And Fat William died on an equally bitter night the year before that, God rest his soul.’

‘Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters,’ explained Hamo when Gynewell looked bemused. ‘He was feeding quite happily, when he started to gag. Then he shuddered, gasped and drummed his feet until he died. Poor Fat William!’

He crossed himself, while Bartholomew wondered whether Fat William’s oysters might have been tainted with the same poison that had led to Flaxfleete’s demise. The symptoms sounded very similar.

Gynewell manoeuvred a chair directly in front of the hearth, sprang into it, then listened carefully while Michael outlined what had happened in the Church of the Holy Cross.

‘That leaves just you three,’ he said to Michael, de Wetherset and Suttone when the monk had finished. ‘You must promise to be very careful over the next four days. I do not want to tell the hopeful crowds that the ceremony is cancelled because all the canons-elect are dead.’

‘You are expecting crowds?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘I assumed everyone would prefer Miller’s Market.’

‘Dean Bresley suggested we hold the service earlier,’ explained Gynewell. ‘Now people can attend the ceremony first, and go to the fair afterwards.’

Michael was horrified. ‘The previous timing meant the two factions would remain separate, but now everyone will go to both, and fights will be inevitable. What was Bresley thinking?’

‘That he does not want anyone to know which side is the stronger,’ explained Gynewell. ‘He says the more powerful one will see it as a favourable omen for war. In this way, the two parties will never know the extent of each other’s army, and he thinks it is the best way to keep the peace.’

Suttone swallowed nervously. ‘Who knows with this city? It is worse than Cambridge!’

Michael turned his thoughts to his investigation. ‘Before he died, Simon gave us several clues, and I mulled them over at breakfast this morning. I now know enough to begin the process of unveiling Aylmer’s killer.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Do you? Last night you were ready to give up.’

‘Food, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘It does wonders for a man’s mind. I mean to start with young Hugh.’

‘My cousin, the choirboy?’ asked Suttone in astonishment. ‘I do not think he killed Simon!’

‘No, but he will know who did,’ replied Michael. ‘The message Simon asked him to deliver to Chapman was intercepted by someone – and that same someone then arrived with armed cronies at Holy Cross. I shall have this killer yet. He will not outwit Cambridge’s Senior Proctor.’

Bishop Gynewell wanted to witness the impressive sight of six Hugh Chalices standing in a row in the Chapel of St Katherine, and his companions were more than willing to escape the stifling heat of Prior Roger’s solar and walk in the cold church. When they arrived they found Dame Eleanor on her knees before the altar and Christiana sitting at the back, waiting for her to finish. She had been slouching, and hastened to adopt a suitably elegant pose when she saw admirers might be watching her.

‘Dame Eleanor says it is not for a poor woman to say which is the real cup,’ she whispered, as they came towards her. ‘So she is praying to them all.’

Michael rested an unnecessary hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sure she is right, and there are almost certainly more to be found. We happened on these by chance; logic dictates that there will be others.’

Gynewell was unhappy. ‘I am afraid I cannot tell which is the original one now. I suppose we will have to send them all to Avignon, and let the Holy Father decide.’

‘There is no need for that, My Lord,’ announced de Wetherset. ‘I told you, I have a talent for detecting an air of sanctity in such things. If there is a real chalice, I shall be able to identify it for you. I know I could not do it yesterday, but I have recited several very eloquent prayers since then, and I am sure St Hugh will help me now.’

He went to stand at the altar, where his shuffling presence disturbed Eleanor. With a sigh, she rose and joined the others in the nave, hobbling slightly after kneeling so long.

‘I have been praying for Simon. And the others who have died – Aylmer, Dalderby and Tetford.’

‘We all need to pray,’ said Hamo. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. ‘In fact, we should praise the Lord with–’

‘Alleluia,’ agreed Roger with enthusiasm. ‘Let us lift our voices to the Heavenly King.’

‘Dame Eleanor has been petitioning St Hugh on my behalf, too,’ said Christiana to Michael, as the Gilbertines began to rail. ‘She has asked him to send me a good husband. I am not sure I shall follow your advice of taking the veil and soothing my loneliness with lovers.’

‘I did not put it quite like that,’ said Michael, startled. ‘I said there are ways to–’

‘We have learned a good deal about the Hugh Chalice,’ interrupted Bartholomew. He did not think Michael should have that sort of discussion with a bishop standing within earshot. ‘We know Simon and Aylmer were the friars charged to bring it to Lincoln, but that Aylmer sold it because he could not resist the temptation of easy money.’

‘Twenty shillings,’ said Suttone, shaking his head. ‘He could have had ten times that.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We do not know the Geddynge priest was his first and only victim. It is possible that he had already sold it several times before.’

‘And it has languished in Lincoln for the last twenty years,’ Michael went on, reluctantly dragging his attention from Christiana’s kirtle and focussing on his investigation, ‘because Miller knew Shirlok had escaped hanging, and did not want to attract his attention by hawking the goods that had been used to convict him. Meanwhile, the fraternity was Simon’s idea. Aylmer joined so as not to reveal his role in the original theft; Chapman enrolled because he sincerely believes it belongs here; and I suppose Flaxfleete and Herl subscribed later.’

‘Flaxfleete always was an ardent devotee of St Hugh,’ said Gynewell. ‘He was distraught when the chalice failed to arrive from London two decades ago, and wanted to serve the Head Shrine when he became a canon. This did not occur to me when we discussed the mark on his skin a few days ago, but on reflection it is obvious that he would have belonged to such a fraternity. He founded the Guild of Corpus Christi to emulate the saint’s good deeds.’

‘And Herl would have enrolled because aligning himself with powerful men might have brought him wealth,’ said Roger. ‘I am afraid he was a greedy, selfish man.’

‘But Shirlok has since died,’ continued Michael. ‘And Chapman saw it was finally safe to bring the stolen goods – including the Hugh Chalice – out of his cellar. Flaxfleete offered to “donate” it to the cathedral, but the dean visited him … ’

Gynewell grimaced. ‘Poor Bresley. He has an uncontrollable urge to lay hold of items that do not belong to him, but he puts them in the crypt, so I can return them to their owners. He thinks he will be unable to steal the real chalice, which is why he is so certain Simon’s is a fake.’

‘He believes it will cure him?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly understanding some of the dean’s curious remarks about the relic.

Gynewell nodded. ‘He removed the cup from Flaxfleete when he went to inspect it on the cathedral’s behalf, and I was obliged to take it back the following day. Aylmer was blamed, although he was innocent. The next I heard was that Flaxfleete had given it back to his relic-seller for reasons he declined to share, but that the relic-seller had approached Simon instead.’

‘It was during this time that Herl confused matters,’ said Michael. ‘He made copies of the cup and sold some to Tetford, who gave them to his … ’

‘Seamstresses,’ interjected Bartholomew.

‘Simon and Chapman knew nothing about these duplicates, though, and nor did Aylmer.’

‘How are you able to conclude that?’ asked Gynewell curiously.

‘Because both Simon and Chapman were appalled by the prospect of replicas, and Simon died trying to learn the truth. Meanwhile, Aylmer was trying to protect the chalice when he was stabbed: you do not lay down your life for something of no value.’

‘Who is this vile killer?’ asked Gynewell tiredly. ‘I would like an end to this before Sunday.’

Michael smiled. ‘You will be the first to know, My Lord. We will talk to young Hugh, and–’

‘Hugh?’ asked Eleanor, appalled. ‘He can know nothing about this! He is a child!’

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael reassuringly. ‘He is not on our list of suspects. All we need from him is the identity of the person who might have read a letter he was supposed to deliver to Chapman. And when he tells us, we shall be a step closer to catching this fiend.’

Gynewell approached the altar. ‘Well, de Wetherset? Which is the real Hugh Chalice? It is time it was in the cathedral, not lurking in dungeons and at the scenes of murders.’

‘I have not received divine inspiration yet,’ said de Wetherset with a pained expression. ‘Give me time. I shall give you an answer.’

‘I am sure he will,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, ‘but how will we know if it is the right one?’

While Bishop Gynewell questioned de Wetherset about his preliminary conclusions on the six chalices – the ex-Chancellor had managed to eliminate two – Bartholomew and Michael left the priory. They had taken no more than a few steps towards the city when Bartholomew saw Sabina Herl kneeling by the Eleanor Cross, opposite the Gilbertines’ main gate. It was a cold place to pray, and he supposed it was some sort of penance. Michael went to find out.

‘Your prayerfulness does you credit, madam,’ he said softly, ‘but beware of telling lies to God. He is no bumbling monk, to be deceived by claims of false repentance.’

She gazed at him. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Then let me enlighten you. You said you had broken away from Miller, but you leapt at the opportunity to tend Chapman. You are no more a good Christian woman than I am.’

Her expression was rueful. ‘What Langar said was right, although I would never admit it to him: I have been associated with the Commonalty too long, so I am considered a viable target by the Guild. Thus I do need Miller’s protection, and I intend to have it until the current crisis is over. And then I shall continue with my fresh start.’

Michael frowned. ‘And you have elected to atone for past sins because …?’

‘Because of Shirlok, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He watched the surprise on her face that he should know. ‘I suspect she was uncomfortable with what happened in Cambridge twenty years ago, but she put it behind her, as did everyone else. Then, a month ago, Shirlok appeared in Lincoln – alive.’

She lowered her head. ‘It was a terrible shock. Unlike Langar, Chapman and Miller, I did not hear the rumours about his miraculous resurrection. I thought he was a ghost, come to haunt me, but he was flesh and blood, and he was demanding reparation. We had let him take sole blame for the crimes we all committed, and he wanted us to make it right.’

‘How did he know you were here?’ asked Michael.

‘He fled to Essex after his trial, where he eventually settled. Then his family died in the plague and he took to wandering; by chance, his travels brought him here. He wanted to be paid for not telling his side of the story to the city where his co-accused are now fine, upstanding citizens.’

‘Did Miller kill him?’ asked Bartholomew, not pointing out that no one would be overly shocked to learn the Commonalty had criminal pasts.

‘I learned yesterday that it was Bunoun. He was one of the ten people Shirlok named, and he had more to lose from Shirlok’s blabbering than the rest of us. Who will hire a surgeon with a dubious ethical history? Anyway, suffice to say that Shirlok died with a noose around his neck.’

‘Bunoun?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘But de Wetherset said that, of the ten accused, two had died in prison, and two were taken by fever … ’

‘That is what Miller tells everyone. I suppose de Wetherset believed him, although Father Simon did not die in prison, and Bunoun did not die of a falling pox.’

‘And Shirlok is why you broke with the Commonalty?’ asked Michael.

She gave him a pained smile. ‘I was always uncomfortable with Miller’s activities, but when I met Shirlok a month ago, and I heard what he intended to do, I decided to distance myself from them. Then Lora told me – just yesterday, when I was tending Chapman – that Shirlok was no longer a problem.’

‘That is partly true,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but your good intentions coincide with the reappearance of the Hugh Chalice, which was irrelevant to you, but very important to someone else: Aylmer. The cup’s return, along with Suttone’s unexpected invitation to be his Vicar Choral, made him rethink his life. He decided to revert to the cleric he once was, and you saw he would never be with you.’

‘I was married to Nicholas. I could not have been with him anyway.’

‘Your marriage to Nicholas was a sham, because his real love was Langar,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you married Nicholas to shock Aylmer into taking you more seriously, but found yourself trapped when it did not work. Then, when the chalice reappeared and Aylmer began to collaborate with his fraternity to see it in the cathedral, you saw it was finally time to give up on him.’

‘All right,’ she agreed cautiously. ‘That is true. So what?’

‘Were you really caught kissing him behind the stables?’ Michael answered his own question. ‘No. Your “penance” was an excuse to be inside the Gilbertine Priory, near Aylmer. You were eager to know what had happened to the man you loved – and I do not mean your husband.’

She gazed at the ground. ‘Yes, I wanted answers. Aylmer’s rebirth was genuine, and I never believed he was trying to steal the Hugh Chalice when some vile killer stabbed him in the back. And although Nicholas and I were not man and wife in the proper sense, we were friends; I do not want him buried in unconsecrated ground without good reason.’

‘Again, that is partly true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is also the fact that anything you learn about Nicholas’s death will annoy Langar.’

She shrugged. ‘It is the only way I shall ever hurt him, and I really do loathe the man. When we first arrived in Lincoln, I wanted to live quietly, but he insisted on taking over the Commonalty and ruling the city. He ruined all our lives with his filthy ambition, and he has brought us to the brink of civil war. The feud between these two factions would have faded years ago, if he had not come along.’

The bishop and Lady Christiana emerged from the priory as Bartholomew and Michael finished talking to Sabina, and joined them as they walked to the cathedral. Unwilling to leave his friends in the company of Satan, Cynric followed at a distance. Michael was delighted to escort Christiana – she was going to light candles at the Head Shrine for her mother, as she always did on a Tuesday – although the pace she set left him with scant puff for talking, and he soon fell silent, concentrating on not appearing too winded in front of her. He was relieved when Spayne hurried from his house, indicating that he wanted to speak, because it gave him an opportunity to catch his breath.

‘Have you reconsidered your decision yet?’ he gasped. He watched Gynewell go to assist Canon Stretle, who had lost his footing on ice and lay sprawled on his back. ‘About Matilde?’

Spayne was startled. ‘I never intended to rethink it, Brother. I made up my mind, and it was final.’

‘It is not a very charitable stance,’ said the monk accusingly.

‘No,’ agreed Christiana, shooting the merchant a glance that was far from friendly. ‘These men want to trace Matilde because they are concerned about her. Michael is right: you should reconsider.’

‘You can berate me all you like, My Lady,’ said Spayne with the tone of the wounded martyr. ‘I will not go against my conscience.’

‘I suppose it does not really matter,’ said Michael. He smiled at Christiana. ‘Other people have offered to make us a list of the places she might be instead. We do not need you, Spayne.’

Christiana nodded, eyes flashing as she regarded the mayor defiantly. ‘Dame Eleanor and I will tell Michael and Matthew what they need to know. And I hope, with all my heart, that they find her.’

‘Fine,’ said Spayne in an icy voice. His face was hard, and Bartholomew wondered whether Michael had been right after all: there was an element of spite in his refusal to help. He was not the only one who detected the chink in Spayne’s moral armour. Christiana’s expression became flinty, and she looked the hapless mayor up and down like a hawk with a rabbit.

‘You lied to Matthew the other day,’ she said. Bartholomew wondered what she was talking about. ‘Cynric told me. When Chapman was stabbed, you uttered all manner of untruths.’

‘That is right,’ said Cynric, willing to join them as long as Gynewell was occupied with his floundering canon. ‘You spun tales that were pure fabrication.’

‘I assure you I did not,’ said Spayne indignantly. ‘I simply described what I saw.’

‘And what was that, pray?’ demanded Christiana. Michael regarded her in astonishment; he had not known she could be pugnacious.

‘That Chapman was attacked with a knife outside the Angel tavern,’ replied Spayne. ‘I happened to pass by shortly after, and although I did not see him wounded, I saw the fuss of the aftermath. I was returning home from conducting some business.’

‘What business?’ asked Cynric immediately.

‘Wool business,’ replied Spayne shortly. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.’

‘Unfortunately for you, Chapman was not hurt at the Angel,’ said Christiana. ‘We all know it is the Commonalty’s usual drinking place, and you would normally be right in assuming he was there. On this occasion, however, he went to the Swan, because the weather was too cold for the longer journey to the Angel. You made an assumption, and it showed you to be a liar.’

‘She is right about the tavern,’ said Bartholomew, when the merchant looked as though he did not believe her, ‘but I have been telling them it was a slip of the tongue … ’

‘Yes,’ said Spayne, relieved. ‘It was–’

‘No, it was not,’ said Christiana sharply. ‘You lied, because you did not want Matthew to know what you had really been doing – this “business” you are so keen to keep to yourself.’

‘It really has nothing to do with you, madam,’ said Spayne, shooting the scholars an uncomfortable glance. ‘And I was trying to assist Brother Michael with his enquiries.’

‘Spinning yarns does not help me,’ said Michael, standing with Christiana. ‘It confuses the issue, and makes it even more difficult to distil the truth.’

‘It was the truth,’ snapped Spayne. ‘However, I admit that I was not the eyewitness: it was Ursula. She was coming home from visiting a friend, but declined to tell you what she had seen. I did it in her stead, so you would have the information – albeit scant – she had to offer. I was trying to be useful.’

‘Why would Ursula want to hinder my investigation?’ demanded Michael.

‘Because Chapman was the victim,’ replied Spayne impatiently. ‘A man who has earned her contempt by selling fake relics. I thought that if I could pass off her intelligence as mine, the Spayne household would not be responsible for impeding your work. Obviously, I did not listen carefully enough to her account, and I told you the wrong tavern.’

‘Good,’ said Christiana sarcastically. ‘The truth at last, My Lord Mayor. Now let us have a little more. Tell Brother Michael why you could not have witnessed what happened to Chapman. Your “business” was in the east of the city, not the south as you claimed, so you passed neither the Angel nor the Swan.’

‘That is none of your–’

‘You were visiting a woman called Belle,’ Christiana went on relentlessly. ‘But you do not want these scholars to know about that, do you? It throws a rather different light on your reputation as a grieving, celibate man who will not look at another woman now Matilde has gone.’

Spayne was white. ‘It is hardly–’

‘I see,’ said Michael with a smug grin. ‘You hired a whore! Well, you should be grateful to Lady Christiana. When we caught you in lies and a refusal to explain your whereabouts, I immediately assumed you were out a-murdering. Now I see you are not a deadly adversary, but a feeble man, who is obliged to pay for his pleasures.’

Spayne’s shoulders slumped, and the commanding presence that had so impressed Bartholomew on their first meeting began to deflate in front of his eyes. ‘But I pay her very well.’

Michael was delighted with the confession Christiana had forced from Spayne, gratified that the paragon of virtue Bartholomew had championed had transpired to be something rather pitiful. Bartholomew was sorry for Spayne, although Michael murmured in his ear that if the merchant was ready to lie about that, then what else might he be hiding? Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that he might be right.

‘We make a good team,’ said Michael to Christiana. ‘We must work together again.’

She smiled, and there was a coquettish bounce in her step as she turned to resume the climb to the cathedral. ‘As often as you like, dear Brother.’

Spayne caught Bartholomew’s arm as he started to follow. ‘Actually, I came to ask if you would spare a moment. My sister is unwell. Surgeon Bunoun tended her earlier, but I do not like the look of the potion he prescribed. It is not urgent, but we would appreciate a visit. Today, if possible.’

He began to walk away, and Bartholomew trotted after Michael, thinking he would see Ursula after they had spoken to Hugh.

‘Go,’ said Christiana, pushing Bartholomew gently in Spayne’s direction when he explained why the mayor had intercepted them in the first place. ‘He may be sufficiently chagrined about my exposure of his frolics with Belle to let something slip about Matilde.’

‘That is true, Matt,’ said Michael, keen to have him out of the way and develop his new working relationship with Christiana. ‘I do not need you with me when I speak to a child.’

‘I will come,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘Spayne will not attack you with me there.’

‘He will not attack me anyway. If he was being entertained by Belle when Chapman was stabbed, then it means he cannot have been at Holy Cross. So, if he was not one of the four men who killed Simon, then he cannot be one of the four who ambushed us in the orchard, either.’

‘That is probably true,’ conceded Michael, albeit reluctantly. He turned to Christiana. ‘I am grateful to you for showing Spayne to be a liar, but you seemed angry with him. Is it because Ursula harmed your mother?’

She was startled by the question. ‘Of course not! He cannot be held accountable for his sister’s actions. Anyway, as I have already told you, I think my mother knew exactly what she was doing when she asked Ursula for that particular tonic.’

Michael regarded the hill without enthusiasm. ‘Shall we be on our way to the top, then?’

Christiana hesitated. ‘However, just because the Spaynes had nothing to do with the death of my mother does not mean I consider them harmless innocents. You do not become mayor by being nice, and Spayne is just as ruthless as Miller, Kelby and anyone else you care to name. I am sure he is jealous of your friendship with Matilde, and may decide he does not want you to find her.’

Michael nodded. ‘That is true, Matt, so be careful. Do not let him send Cynric to the kitchens for refreshment with the servants, or some such nonsense.’

‘I shall come with you, then,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to be in a position to chaperon Michael. ‘And we can visit Ursula together on the way back.’

Christiana shook her head. ‘You should go now, when he is flustered. And you should accompany him, Michael – both to pit your clever mind against his defences and to make sure nothing happens to Matthew. With men like Spayne, there is always safety in numbers.’

‘I would much rather escort you to the cathedral,’ objected Michael, his face falling.

Gynewell had finished helping his bruised canon, and heard the monk’s remark. ‘I can do that, Brother. Her virtue will be safe with me. I have no interest in women. Except for their souls.’

Cynric gaped at him, then jabbed Bartholomew with his elbow, to ensure such a sinister remark did not go unnoticed.

‘It is for the best,’ said Christiana, seeing Michael’s disappointment and seeming to share it.

‘You had better appreciate this, Matt,’ grumbled Michael, as they made their way to the mayor’s house. ‘I am fond of you, but you are a poor second to Lady Christiana.’

‘Go with her, then. You can retrieve that poison from the shrine at the same time. Besides, Spayne may employ prostitutes, but he is no killer. And Cynric is here.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, I will stay. If you still cannot see the real Spayne under his amiable façade, then you are not in a position to defend yourself. I cannot leave you.’

Spayne had seen them coming back, and was standing by his door, ready to usher them in. He had gone from pale to flushed, and Bartholomew saw he was acutely embarrassed.

‘It is only occasionally,’ he murmured, as they stepped across the threshold and stamped their feet to get rid of the snow that adhered to them. ‘Belle, I mean.’

‘Your vices are not our concern,’ said Michael coolly.

‘I do not want you to think badly of me,’ Spayne continued uncomfortably. ‘Since Matilde left, things have been difficult and… but you are right, my problems are not your concern. Please see what you can do to help my sister. Your book-bearer can take some refreshment in the kitchen with the servants while you are occupied.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Cynric, immediately suspicious. ‘I do not want anything.’

Spayne gave a tight smile. ‘Then you can wait outside. I do not allow men from the lower classes into my hall.’

He slammed the door in the startled Welshman’s face, and led Bartholomew and Michael to the main chamber, where Ursula reclined on a cushioned bench. A bucket stood on the floor nearby, but Bartholomew saw it was placed to catch drips from the ceiling, not for the patient. A cold, heavy droplet landed on Michael’s tonsure with a sharp click, and he glowered at the mayor, as though he had made it happen deliberately. Ursula was white-faced and frightened, and it was obvious she was more unwell than her brother had led them to believe. Bartholomew knelt next to her and began to ask questions. She had eaten nothing different, and had barely left the house, because of the cold.

‘I had a little milk yesterday,’ she said, clutching her stomach. ‘I suppose that was unusual.’

‘You do not normally drink milk?’

‘I love milk, but Surgeon Bunoun says it is responsible for blockages, so I only have it as a treat. I had some yesterday, though, to celebrate Dalderby’s funeral.’

‘Ursula!’ exclaimed her brother. ‘That is a terrible thing to say.’

‘Well, it is true,’ she said, unrepentant. ‘I am pleased he is dead. It will weaken Kelby, and that is a good thing for us. Miller knows I like milk, and he left it for me.’

‘Left it?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Left it where?’

‘On the doorstep. It was good milk, too. Full of cream.’

‘Do you still have the jug?’ asked Bartholomew.

She gazed at him. ‘It is in the parlour. Why? You do not think…?’

Frowning, Spayne left the hall, and returned a few moments later holding a pitcher. There was not much of an odour, but fishy poison was in it nonetheless. Bartholomew mixed Ursula a tonic containing charcoal, thinking that the fact that she had not noticed what was a very distinctive odour suggested she was not as competent an apothecary as she liked people to believe.

‘You have not ingested much,’ he said. ‘And if you drank it yesterday, you are already over the worst. Do you not know it is unwise to consume gifts left on doorsteps, no matter who you think they are from?’

‘Especially in a city that boils with hatred,’ added Michael.

‘I have learned my lesson,’ said Ursula bitterly, lying back against the pillows. ‘The burning is passing now, and I feel better. Thank you for your kindness.’

‘Would you be prepared to reciprocate?’ asked Michael. ‘With a little information about Matilde?’

‘I cannot,’ said Spayne before she could reply. ‘And I have explained why.’

‘Oh, tell them, Will,’ snapped Ursula. ‘Share whatever it is you are hiding. Matilde may welcome enquiries after her well-being from these scholars, and you owe her nothing, not after all these years.’

Spayne appeared to be in an agony of indecision. ‘All right. Let me think it over. I shall ask St Hugh’s advice. If he does not make his displeasure felt, I shall tell you what I know.’

‘That is good news, Matt,’ said Michael, when Spayne had closed the door behind them and they were out in the street again. ‘If he was going to ask for a positive sign, I would say you can forget about having his help, but he said he would share his knowledge if St Hugh does not object. Signs at Hugh’s shrine are rare, and you may be in luck at last. The man’s resolve is weakening.’

‘He will send you somewhere dangerous,’ said Cynric, who had not appreciated being shut out. ‘He cannot be trusted. Did he try to harm you while you were in there?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He kept his distance, and–’

He glanced up at an odd scraping sound above his head. Cynric suddenly leapt forward to shove Michael to one side. Then there was an almighty crash.

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, looking at the shattered rooftile that lay on the ground. ‘That might have killed me! It is heavy, and it came plummeting down like a … Dalderby!’

Bartholomew sighed when he understood what had happened. ‘Dalderby was “attacked” right here, killed by a blow to the skull from a stone. Sheriff Lungspee said he managed to reel to Kelby’s house, but died without speaking, and there were no witnesses. Kelby lives next door.’

‘Is that too far for an injured man to stagger?’ asked Cynric.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘We saw Sir Josquin de Mons lurch twice that distance at Poitiers, and there was an axe embedded in his pate. So, we can explain Dalderby’s death, at least. The weight of snow on a roof already damaged by fire has caused the tiles to slip. No one killed Dalderby. It was an accident.’

‘You could say Flaxfleete was responsible,’ said Michael, still looking at the broken stone. ‘It was his inferno, after all.’

As they left Spayne’s abode, Bartholomew became aware that the situation had changed since they had gone in. There were a number of men loitering outside Kelby’s home and, judging from the buzz of voices, there were a lot more inside. Further down the street, people stood in small, uneasy groups next to shops and houses. Most were well dressed, and Bartholomew was puzzled.

‘Is there a Guild meeting today?’ he asked. ‘There are a lot of trader-types in this part of the city, but there is not an unemployed weaver in sight.’

‘It looks as if the Guild has claimed the area around the Pultria,’ said Cynric. ‘The Commonalty must be gathering near Miller’s house. In Cambridge, men assemble in clans like this when there is a riot in the offing.’

‘Lord, you are right!’ muttered Michael. ‘Will you warn the sheriff while we speak to Hugh?’

The book-bearer nodded. ‘You may not have another opportunity to wander where you like, if the city turns violent, Brother, so make the most of your time. I have a feeling we might be spending the next few days in the Gilbertine Priory, hoping the fight does not spill across the city walls.’

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the cathedral, Gynewell was waiting to tell them that Hugh was at choir practice. The boys’ voices soared along the vaulted ceiling, although Michael pointed out that the lower parts were under-represented – a number of Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks were missing. Bartholomew saw why when they passed the Head Shrine: Christiana was there, and several men who should have been singing hovered around her. Ravenser was polishing a brass cross, Claypole and John were pretending to read psalters, and Bautre was inspecting the offerings left by pilgrims. When Christiana raised her head and said something, all four scurried to a nearby cupboard, and there was a good deal of elbowing as each tried to grab the candles she had requested. Her smile suggested she expected no less.

‘Hugh is a rascal,’ said Gynewell. ‘When I heard a kinsman of his had been appointed to the Stall of Decem Librarum, I was afraid your Suttone might be an adult version of him. He seems a decent man, though – more like John.’

‘He is all right,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘Although rather preoccupied with the plague.’

‘Who is not?’ asked Gynewell. ‘I lost two-thirds of my clergy, and all but two of my canons. I was afraid the balance of power would tip so far that Lincoln would be ruled by Miller, but the Commonalty also lost men, and the equilibrium was maintained.’

‘It is a pity these factions exist,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A pity for Lincoln.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Gynewell. ‘When the balance is in effect, it is a good system, because one side holds the other in check. I have heard your University has amassed a lot of power in Cambridge, to the detriment of the merchants. That is not good, either.’

‘The merchants do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I am more than content.’

‘Moderate yourself, Brother. You will find it pays in the long term.’ Gynewell cocked his head. ‘I hear this Gloria coming to an end, so you should nab Hugh before he escapes to do something else.’

He was right, and Michael was hard-pressed to waylay the boy before he could disappear with his friends. Hugh looked particularly angelic in his white alb, although mischief winked in his eyes.

‘Father Simon gave you a letter to deliver last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘What did you do with it?’

‘It was for Master Chapman,’ piped Hugh.

‘Yes,’ said Michael patiently, ‘but to whom did you take it? Chapman is unwell, so I doubt you would have been allowed to give it to him personally.’

Hugh shuffled his feet. ‘He said he would give me two pennies. And Father Simon had already given me one, which made three! That is enough to buy seven arrows for the butts.’

‘Who offered you twopence?’ asked Gynewell. ‘Speak up, Hugh. This is important.’

‘Master Langar,’ said Hugh reluctantly. ‘But it was not my fault! He refused to let me see Chapman, so I had no choice. He promised to pass the message to Chapman, and said I had fulfilled my duty in bringing the note to the house. Then he gave me a marchpane, too.’

‘Did you eat it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Hugh grinned. ‘Yes, and it was a good one – from the best baker in the city.’

He scampered away, and Bartholomew watched him dart to Christiana’s side. She smiled at him, but did not stop her prayers.

‘I will go and drag him away from the poor lady,’ said Gynewell with a sigh. ‘She will have no peace if he is hovering like a fly. What will you do now? Go to see Langar?’

‘We have no choice,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘It is the only way forward.’

‘Well, there is your Welshman with his sword,’ said Gynewell, nodding to where Cynric was waiting. ‘I strongly advise you to take him with you.’

‘We should give Gynewell that poison we found,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked along the South Choir Aisle. ‘He can dispose of it, because we cannot leave it here another day.’

Michael agreed, and watched as Bartholomew knelt by the Shrine of Little Hugh and pushed his arm through the gap at the back. He frowned when the physician drew his dagger and used it to fish about, lying full length on the floor to extend his reach. ‘Hurry up, Matt. We do not have all day, and I want to get this interview with Langar over with as soon as possible.’

‘I knew we should have taken the time to deal with the flask yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, standing empty-handed, covered in dust and thoroughly alarmed. ‘Because now it is no longer here. Someone has taken it.’