The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 12

Bartholomew and Michael left the Close and walked to Miller’s fine house in Newport. Remembering what he had seen the last time he had been there, Bartholomew was grateful Cynric was with them. As they moved farther north, an increasing number of weavers and their families thronged the streets. They spoke in low voices, and there was a distinct aura of fear and uncertainty. Miller’s house and enclosure was like a castle under siege. Armed guards lurked outside, and there were even archers on the roof, training their weapons on passers-by. The grinning Thoresby patrolled the grounds with a black dog that snarled at anyone who came too close.

‘I do not like this,’ whispered Michael. ‘Miller has helped the weavers over the years, and it looks as though they are going to show their appreciation by massing against the Guild.’

‘And the Guild is ready to resist,’ said Cynric. ‘The two sides are fairly evenly matched.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘The Commonalty’s supporters outnumber the Guild by at least five to one – there are far more poor in Lincoln than merchants.’

‘The guildsmen have better weapons, though,’ argued Cynric. ‘And they have horses and hired mercenaries. I would not risk a single penny by betting on the winner: the outcome is too uncertain.’

He led the way across Miller’s yard, ignoring the way the dog slathered at him, although Bartholomew made sure Michael was between him and the creature; it did not look as if Thoresby had it fully under control. No one spoke as they approached the door, although dozens of eyes watched. Cynric rapped with his dagger, and when it was whipped open, Miller’s face was as black as thunder.

‘I told you not to come back, physician,’ he snarled, ‘or have you come to gloat over sending Chapman a few steps nearer the grave?’

‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. A fever was often the outcome with dirty wounds – and then there was the poultice of henbane. Perhaps he had not cleaned it all out.

‘Bunoun said Chapman would have recovered by now, had you not meddled,’ said Miller furiously. ‘We sent for you at dawn, when he became sicker, but the Gilbertines said you were not to be disturbed, so we summoned Bunoun instead. Thank God we did.’

‘Is there a suppuration?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is always a danger with–’

‘Do not blame it on the wound,’ snapped Miller, hand dropping to the dagger in his belt. ‘Bunoun said you poisoned him. You are lucky I do not run you through!’

Cynric drew his hunting knife, daring him to try, while Bartholomew’s hand slipped into his medical bag and the various implements it contained. He had forgotten his sword again.

‘Young Hugh brought a message last night,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could embark on a complex explanation of wounds and their consequences that Miller would not understand. And Cynric had been right: the looming riot would bring an abrupt end to his investigation, and time was short. ‘It was for Chapman, and asked him to meet Simon in the Church of the Holy Cross.’

Miller regarded him frostily. ‘Do not be stupid. You know Chapman could not go to Holy Cross or anywhere else. He is too ill.’

‘So you have said,’ said Michael. ‘But I want to know about the note. When was it delivered?’

‘There was no note from Simon,’ said Miller firmly. ‘I would have remembered, since he so seldom bothers to acknowledge me these days. After all I have done for him, too.’

Langar had heard the shouting, and came to see what it was about. Ink stained his fingers, and he carried a quill in one hand and a sword in the other. Behind him were the hefty Lora Boyner and Sabina. Lora carried a bowl of water, and her blunt features were tear-stained.

‘Master Langar,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see a note from Simon last night – for Chapman?’

Langar frowned. ‘There was no letter from Simon – for Chapman or anyone else. The man is a coward, afraid to put pen to parchment, lest the Guild wins the confrontation they are itching to provoke. He is too cunning to leave documentary evidence of his real allegiance.’

‘The Guild will not win,’ snarled Miller. ‘God is on our side. Chapman said so.’

Lora looked the scholars up and down. ‘You are brave. Miller promised to kill you if Chapman dies, and here you are on his doorstep, asking to be executed.’ Her eyes watered, and Bartholomew saw the relic-seller’s sufferings had pierced her tough façade. ‘It was the wine you sent yesterday afternoon that did the damage. You said he should not have claret, but then you had a flask delivered and ordered him to finish the whole thing.’

‘I did not send anything,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. He jumped back when Lora emptied the bowl, narrowly missing him. ‘And I specifically told you not to give him wine – only ale.’

‘The prescription accompanying the jug was signed with your name,’ snapped Miller, not believing him. ‘One of the priests from the cathedral brought it. You left it with him, because you could not be bothered to walk the extra distance to hand it to us yourself.’

‘And you gave this potion to Chapman?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘After I expressly warned you against feeding him anything from outside?’

‘Do not blame it on us,’ said Sabina, indignantly. ‘You–’

But Bartholomew was livid, both by the slur on his skills and on behalf of his patient. He went on the offensive, startling them with the ferocity of his attack. ‘You ignorant fools! Chapman narrowly escaped the first time someone tried to poison him, and now you have let the killer strike again. I thought he would be safe here, among friends concerned for his welfare, but I was wrong. I should have taken him to the Gilbertines’ hospital, and tended him myself. You are–’

‘Easy, Matt,’ said Michael, afraid he might push them too far. ‘It is clear a mistake has been made, and yelling will not help us understand what has happened. Do you still have this flask, Master Miller? If so, then perhaps we can see it.’

‘You had better come in,’ said Langar reluctantly. ‘This is not a conversation we should have in the open, not with the city on the brink of civil unrest. We want to avert a riot, not encourage one.’

‘Do we now,’ sneered Miller, suggesting that Langar would have his work cut out for him if he intended to act as peacemaker. ‘Fetch that wineskin, Lora. I want to know what is going on here.’

While Lora went to find the offending container, Bartholomew looked around Miller’s hall. Changes had been made since their last visit. Window shutters had been reinforced with planks of wood, and water-filled buckets stood in a row near the hearth, in case of fire. A pile of crossbows lay on the table in the centre of the room and several men were sharpening bolts. Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered whether they had defence or attack in mind.

‘Old models,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Unreliable. These will not change the odds in their favour. They are still about even with the Guild.’

Michael surveyed the scene with monkish disapproval. ‘Perhaps you would tell me something while we wait, Master Miller. Yesterday, Ursula de Spayne was sent milk that was tainted with poison. She drank it, because she assumed it was a gift from you.’

‘Ursula likes milk, bless her,’ replied Miller. ‘It is bad for her innards, though, and I stopped sending it when Surgeon Bunoun told me it blocks her bowels. So you can accuse someone else–’

‘Ursula is not the only one who has been fed fishy poison,’ Michael went on. ‘First, there was Herl, then Flaxfleete, then it was in Telford’s wineskin.’

‘And now Chapman,’ said Bartholomew, taking the pitcher Lora handed him and sniffing it carefully. The poison did not smell as rank as it had in Flaxfleete’s barrel, but, like Ursula’s milk, it was still strong enough to be noticeable. He supposed it had come from the pot they had left at the cathedral – the one they should have destroyed.

Miller was confused. ‘This note is from you,’ he said, snatching a piece of parchment from Lora and waving it in Bartholomew’s face. ‘See your name signed at the bottom, nice and big?’

‘I never write it like that,’ said Bartholomew, regarding it in disdain. ‘And nor would my prescriptions encourage a sick man to “swallow the lot”, as is so prosaically written there. I did not send Chapman the wine, just as you did not send Ursula the milk.’

‘This is Kelby’s doing,’ said Lora, turning angrily to Miller. ‘It must be. He killed Herl, then Aylmer, and now he is after Chapman. Where will it end? When he has dispatched the lot of us?’

Suddenly, there was a sword in Miller’s hand. ‘I will not wait meekly to be struck down by poison. Round up the men, Langar.’

‘Not yet,’ said Langar. ‘We should wait until Sunday, when we have a better idea of numbers–’

Spittle flew from Miller’s mouth as he spoke. ‘We could all be dead by Sunday.’

Langar scowled, angry in his turn. ‘Very well, we shall have a war, if that is what you want. However, I need an hour or two to take a few steps of my own – to increase the odds in our favour.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael nervously.

‘I have trained men to spread rumours that will shake our enemies’ confidence,’ explained Langar. ‘And one or two highly placed guildsmen have been in my pay for years. I shall summon them and learn Kelby’s secret plans.’

‘If he has any,’ said Sabina reasonably. ‘He may be like us, waiting to see what will happen.’

‘You would say that,’ said Langar, turning on her. ‘You abandoned us, and only returned when you became frightened for your life. You are not here for friendship or loyalty.’

‘That is not true,’ lied Sabina. ‘I came because Chapman is ill.’

‘Nicholas should never have married you,’ said Langar, working himself into a temper. ‘We were happy until you came along with your sordid offer of “marriage”. And you did not do it to save him from Kelby’s accusations of lewd behaviour with me. You did it because you wanted to share his house and the money he had from his trade.’

Sabina shot him a look full of loathing. ‘His house was a hovel and he earned a pittance.’

‘He was not a dedicated silversmith,’ admitted Langar. ‘However, he was content until you started criticising his work, demanding to know why he did not make more money. You corrupted his mind, and it led him down a dark path.’

‘A dark path whereby he made copies of sacred relics?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

‘What?’ asked Langar, put off his stride by the question. He opened his mouth to resume his attack on Sabina, but she spoke before he could do so.

‘That is exactly what he did. And it was not right. The saints do not approve of that sort of thing.’

‘Are you saying Nicholas made copies of the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Langar. ‘Is that what he was doing, night after night in his workshop for the last month of his life, when he would not see me?’

‘He made bad replicas,’ said Sabina spitefully. ‘Only a fool would have been deceived by them – they are made of tin, for a start. And there are mistakes in the carving.’

‘He gave Jesus three fingers,’ said Michael.

‘Oh, he took that from the original,’ said Sabina scornfully. ‘He was not that inept.’

‘Where are they?’ asked Langar, looking around as though he expected them to appear. ‘I sincerely hope Chapman has not sold any. We do not want our Commonalty stained with that sort of thing. People have scruples where relics are concerned.’

‘Chapman did not sell them,’ said Lora disdainfully. ‘He believes the Hugh Chalice is sacred, and refuses to have anything to do with Nicholas’s work. Nicholas was so angry that he tried to scrape the mark off his arm.’

Langar frowned. ‘He told me Sabina caused that injury, by throwing a hot pan at him.’

‘How many did he make?’ asked Michael, while Sabina shot Langar a derogatory look.

‘A number,’ replied Lora evasively.

‘He died with four in a bag around his shoulder,’ said Sabina. Her expression was spiteful; she was enjoying Langar’s hurt shock as he learned things his lover had kept from him. ‘Tetford was kind, though: he helped me toss them in the Braytheford Pool, where they belong. As a reward, I gave him a cope, given to me by that horrible Canon Hodelston, as payment for–’

She stopped speaking abruptly. ‘As payment for providing him with information about the Commonalty?’ asked Langar softly. ‘We always did wonder how he and the Guild always seemed to know our plans. It almost saw us destroyed during the plague.’

‘That is the garment in which you will be installed, Brother,’ whispered Cynric, lest the monk had not made the connection. ‘Tetford’s tale about the chest in his tavern’s attic was a lie. And now we know how he came by the four chalices for his women, too.’

‘We do not have time for this,’ said Miller, pacing restlessly. ‘Kelby wants to slaughter us all, and the longer we stand here chatting, the more time he will have to organise it.’

‘Please,’ said Sabina, going to place her hand on his arm. ‘Do not walk the road to violence. Lives will be lost on both sides, and our town deserves better. Spend your money on helping the weavers.’

‘Sabina seems rather ready to persuade us to stand down,’ said Langar icily, ‘just as she was six years ago, when Canon Hodelston brought us to the brink of ruin. You should ask yourself why.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ said Sabina, while Miller and Lora regarded her with sudden suspicion. ‘He wants to get rid of you, so he can take your place as head of the Commonalty. He is telling lies, to confuse you and make you look inept.’

‘I have no reason to doubt him,’ said Miller coldly. ‘And perhaps he is right about you.’

‘I am here to help Chapman,’ sighed Sabina impatiently, as if she was becoming tired of repeating herself.

‘Kill her,’ said Miller to a man with a crossbow. The response was so immediate that Bartholomew wondered whether summary executions had been ordered before. One moment, Sabina was opening her mouth to protest her innocence, and the next she was lying on the floor with a bolt in her throat. The room was silent except for an unpleasant choking sound, which stopped before Bartholomew could do more than kneel beside her.

‘Damn,’ breathed Langar, rubbing a hand across his mouth. He glanced uneasily at the scholars. ‘That was inopportune, Miller.’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Miller. ‘I have never trusted her, and should have listened to your concerns years ago. What is wrong with you? I thought you would be pleased.’

Langar shot the visitors another uncomfortable look, then headed for the door. ‘I cannot say I will miss her, but this was not how I envisaged the problem being solved. But we can discuss it later; now we must be about our business, if we are to survive this confrontation.’

Miller sneered disdainfully as the lawyer swept from the room. ‘We will do more than survive – we are going to win. Thoresby, rally the men. Lora, go to Spayne, and tell him we have need of his help.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael finding his voice at last. ‘This is not the way to resolve a dispute. We–’

‘Out of my way,’ said Miller, shoving him to one side. ‘We have work to do.’

‘Please,’ begged Michael. ‘Let us talk to Kelby and–’

‘I am inclined to dispatch you, too,’ said Miller, regarding Michael and then Bartholomew with his small eyes. He spat on the floor. ‘Especially as you have just witnessed what you probably regard as a murder. You are lucky that I do not want to annoy the Suttones by shooting their friends, so I shall let you go. However, the physician can consider it a temporary reprieve.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael in a low voice.

‘I mean that if Chapman dies, then so will he.’

Cynric bundled Bartholomew and Michael out of the house and down the nearest alley as fast as he could, afraid that if they tried to reason with Miller he might change his mind about letting them go. Even Bartholomew’s recent battle experiences had not steeled him for a murder ordered in front of his eyes, and he was deeply shocked. Michael was more concerned with the lives that would be lost if Lincoln went to war, and was ready to do anything to stop it.

‘You did your best to make him see sense,’ said Cynric, holding the monk’s sleeve when he attempted to return to Miller and argue the case for peace. ‘So did Langar, but he has the wits to see he was wasting his breath. And look what happened to Sabina when she argued for moderation.’

‘Cynric is right,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘We are completely helpless. If we warn Kelby, he will summon his own troops, and there will be a skirmish for certain.’

‘Sheriff Lungspee will not help, either,’ said Cynric. ‘When I told him his city was about to erupt into civil war, he asked whether I thought his gate would withstand invaders. He intends to lock himself in, and only emerge when the battle is done and he knows which side to favour.’

Michael peered around the corner, watching the scurrying preparations around Miller’s domain. Bartholomew stood next to him, seeing ancient weapons pulled from storage, and men assembling so quickly that he could only assume they had been waiting for the call. He was alarmed: he had not anticipated that Miller’s friends would be so numerous. He saw several traders among them, looking terrified, and suspected they had been forced to show their colours against their will.

‘Not everyone wants this fight,’ he said. ‘The more militant of the workless weavers have little to lose, and rich guildsmen will be desperate to protect their houses from looters. But most people are frightened, because they do not know where this dispute will take them – no matter who wins.’

‘What can we do?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘This is our fault, for going to Miller without thinking the situation through. We must stop him, or the blood will be on our hands.’

‘No, it will be on that killer’s, Brother,’ said Cynric practically. ‘It was him who unleashed all this mayhem with his poisoned wine. You are innocent.’

‘Well, I do not feel innocent,’ stated Michael. ‘I repeat: what can we do?’

‘Find the real killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then hope Kelby and Miller will listen to reason.’

‘How?’ cried Michael, frustrated. ‘I thought we had our answer when Hugh said he delivered Simon’s letter to Langar, but all we have is another attempt on Chapman’s life.’

‘I think I know who it is,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Michael whipped around to face him. ‘You do? I suppose we may have enough clues to allow a logical deduction now. Who is it? It must be someone from the cathedral, since we have eliminated the Gilbertines, and I do not think Miller and his people would try to kill Chapman, because he is one of their own. Well, Sabina might have done, I suppose. Is it her?’

‘I do not know how to say it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘You will not be pleased.’

‘Gynewell!’ said Cynric in satisfaction. ‘I always said there was something odd about him.’

‘Not Gynewell,’ said Bartholomew.

‘The dean, then,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, that makes sense. The night we were attacked, it was Bresley who said we did not need an escort, and that we would be safe walking to the Gilbertine Priory alone. He had henchmen waiting, and he intended us to be murdered.’

‘The dean has no reason to want us dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On the contrary, he wants you to stay in Lincoln and help him keep order among his unruly clerics. I imagine he was more worried about the bishop’s safety when he told Gynewell not to accompany us – there will not be another prelate so understanding about his stealing. I am afraid the culprit is someone clever enough to stay one step ahead of us today. It is someone who deliberately sent us to Miller’s house in pursuit of the letter Simon sent Chapman – the missive Langar never received.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You think young Hugh is the killer?’ He started to laugh. ‘Really, Matt! He might have lied about giving it to Langar – God knows, he has fibbed before – but his motive would have been mischief, not malice. Besides, he is a child.’

‘Of course I do not think it is Hugh,’ snapped Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But our culprit learned that we wanted to speak to Hugh this morning, and managed to reach him first. I think Hugh was ordered to lead us astray by saying Langar accepted the letter.’

‘It may have been Langar doing the lying,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘He is a law-clerk.’

‘I believe he was telling the truth. The note was intercepted by someone who then killed Simon and tried to do the same to us. Ineptly.’

‘Spayne,’ said Michael with great delight. ‘He enticed us away from Hugh with tales of an ailing sister, and sent a crony to tell the boy what to say.’

‘Not Spayne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not tell him our plans, so he could not have known them. However, there was one person who knew exactly what we intended to do, and who encouraged us both to visit Spayne before interviewing Hugh. She did it so she could speak to him first.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to Lady Christiana.’

Bartholomew saw it was not going to be easy to convince him. ‘She insisted we visit Ursula. Then she asked Hugh to lie about delivering the note to Langar, because the truth is that Hugh gave the note to her – the woman who buys him wooden soldiers.’

‘This is rambling from a deranged mind,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘I will not listen.’

‘It is true,’ said Cynric gently to Bartholomew. ‘You cannot be right.’

‘I am right,’ said Bartholomew, gripping the monk’s sleeve to prevent him from leaving. ‘You saw what Hugh did when he had finished speaking to us: he darted straight to Christiana. And she asked to accompany us to the cathedral when she heard what we were going to do.’

‘She went to pray,’ said Michael coldly, freeing himself. ‘As she does every Tuesday.’

‘And she has others who do her bidding, too,’ continued Bartholomew, ‘such as the “priest” who delivered the poisoned wine to Chapman. Only an hour ago, we saw Ravenser, Claypole, Bautre and John follow her about like lovesick calves. They do anything she asks.’

‘Christiana has no reason to kill Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘You are deluded.’

‘The poison is unusual,’ said Bartholomew, thinking aloud. ‘Yet it features in the deaths of Herl, Flaxfleete and Tetford – and now the attempts on Ursula and Chapman. And there was the man who died during the plague … ’

‘Canon Hodelston,’ supplied Cynric. ‘Rapist, thief and extortionist.’

‘And I think Fat William had some sort of toxin-induced seizure, too. Perhaps this poisoning has been going on for years – ever since she arrived in Lincoln – and we shall never know how many have really died.’

‘Then what about the possibility that Ursula may have given herself a non-fatal dose because she knows we are coming close to the truth?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘She certainly has a knowledge of poisons, because she dispatched Christiana’s mother with some.’

‘There is Christiana’s motive for trying to kill Ursula,’ pounced Bartholomew.

‘Christiana thinks her mother killed herself,’ said Cynric doubtfully. ‘She does not hold Ursula responsible.’

‘She is lying,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so she will not be a suspect when Ursula dies.’

‘That is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I suppose she took her bow with her when she killed Simon and Tetford, did she? Or do you think Dame Eleanor is the archer? I would not put it past her: the elderly are known to be very deadly.’

‘She does not need Dame Eleanor. She has willing priests from the cathedral to help her. Claypole is tall, so perhaps he is the swordsman. And John and Ravenser were the others.’

Michael was so disgusted, he could find no words to express himself. Cynric spoke for him. ‘The cold must have addled your head,’ he said, concerned. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and–’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Christiana spends a lot of time at the tomb of Little Hugh, where we discovered that poison. Now I see why it was in Tetford’s flask. It was not to harm you, but was intended to kill him.’

‘Why should she want to do that?’ demanded Michael, finding his voice again. ‘You just said she recruits men like him to go around ambushing people for her.’

Bartholomew could think of no good reason. ‘Perhaps he refused,’ he suggested lamely.

Michael pulled a face to indicate he did not consider the theory worthy of further discussion. ‘Hundreds of people visit that shrine, and the poison could belong to any one of them. Everything you say about Christiana is arrant nonsense.’

‘Miller is innocent in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, as innocent as such a man can ever be. He did not poison Flaxfleete, he did not kill Aylmer or Herl, and he did not send tainted milk to Ursula.’

‘He and his cronies just hanged Shirlok, shot Sabina and are planning to plunge a city into civil war,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Aside from that, Miller is as pure as the driven snow. And now you must excuse me, Matt, because I have a killer to catch.’

Bartholomew ordered Cynric to stay with Michael, overriding the book-bearer’s objections that he preferred to be with the man who had lost his wits. He believed the monk had allowed passion to interfere with his reason, and was convinced he needed protection from a very ruthless criminal. Michael flounced down the hill, indignation in his every step, with Cynric trailing reluctantly behind him. Bartholomew watched them go and wondered what to do. Should he confront Christiana, since it was clear Michael would not do so? Or should he try to gather more evidence first? What he had was flimsy, and he did not see her giving herself up when presented with it.

He started to follow Michael, glancing up when something brushed his face; snow was falling again. He shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he would have preferred to return to the convent, to sit in front of the fire and discuss Blood Relics with Suttone. He had had very few intellectual debates over the past year, and was surprised how much he had missed them. A cold winter’s day, with a blizzard in the offing, meant the best place for any scholar was by a hearth with like-minded company. But he was unsettled and troubled, and felt compelled to discover more about the killer.

It was a dull morning, so lamps were burning in some houses, and the air was thick with wood-smoke as people lit fires to ward off the chill. The snow began to fall in earnest, which meant it was difficult to see Michael and Cynric, even though they were not far ahead. Through a whirl of white, he watched the monk skid and Cynric jump forward to catch him. Roughly, the monk shoved him away, and Bartholomew saw his theory about the identity of the killer had genuinely enraged him.

The streets were curiously empty of people, and Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that the blizzard had driven them indoors, and that snow might accomplish what peacemakers could not. Then gradually he became aware of furtive movements in the shadows of the darker alleys, and the few people who were out were heavily armed. He was about to hurry forward and suggest he, Cynric and Michael return to the Gilbertines while they could – to sit out the storm caused by Miller and the weather at the same time – when a figure loomed out of the swirling whiteness. It was John.

‘Have you seen my brother?’ he demanded. ‘Bautre wants him to learn the solos for the installation ceremony on Sunday, but he has slunk off on business of his own. I cannot find him anywhere.’

‘I last saw him with Christiana at the Head Shrine.’

John’s harsh expression softened at the lady’s name. ‘She is good with him, and he is much better behaved when she is around. You owe me your thanks, by the way. I delivered that flask to Chapman, to aid his recovery, just as you asked. However, there is a rumour that it did not work, and that Chapman is dying. I am sorry.’

‘That claret was not from me. And it was tainted. Who told you I wanted it delivered to Chapman?’

John’s jaw dropped, and he started to back away. ‘No! There must be some mistake … ’

Bartholomew grabbed the front of his habit. ‘Who?’ he repeated angrily.

‘I cannot…I did not…I see the answer! Someone must have deceived Christiana, and she in turn deceived me, although she did it unknowingly. We are both innocent of wrongdoing.’

Bartholomew released him. ‘You had better find Hugh. A child should not be out in this weather.’

‘He will be all right,’ said John, backing away before he was grabbed again. ‘He has an uncanny instinct for his best interests, and he is almost fourteen years old, anyway, a child no longer.’

‘Speaking of his best interests, he thinks you will make a better brothel-keeper than Ravenser.’

John’s expression was spiteful. ‘The same could be said about anyone in the city, regardless of talent, because Ravenser is dead. Someone shot him.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Another death?’

‘The first of many today, I imagine. Miller and Kelby are mustering forces, so there will be a fight. I intend to be in the cathedral before it starts, and I recommend you do the same.’

‘Do you think Miller’s men killed Ravenser?’

‘Probably, since Ravenser announced today that his so-called House of Pleasure will not be buying any more ale from Lora Boyner. Kelby threatened to withhold donations to the cathedral if Ravenser continued to purchase ale from a Commonalty brewer, so he really had no choice. And now, if you have finished manhandling me, I shall be on my way.’

Bartholomew watched him stagger up the hill, skidding on the slick surface. The snow was coming down harder, and it was not many moments before he was out of sight.

‘There he is!’ came a sudden yell. ‘There is Chapman’s murderer!’

Bartholomew glanced behind him to see Lora, with Langar at her side. She wore a leather jerkin, military style, and held her sword as if she knew exactly how to handle it. She surged forward, and Bartholomew was fortunate snow had rendered the ground slick underfoot, or she would have been on him before he had had time to turn and face her. He scrabbled in his bag for a surgical knife, although he doubted it would do him much good against a sword.

‘Chapman is dead,’ she shouted, feinting at him and forcing him to take several steps back. ‘He died in the throes of a fit. Miller said we were to kill you.’

‘Hurry up,’ ordered Langar. ‘This is a major thoroughfare, and although it seems deserted, you never know who might come along. The longer you take, the greater our chances of being seen.’

‘So, you want no witnesses to your crime,’ said Bartholomew, backing away and holding his bag in front of him like a shield. ‘That should tell you your reasons for murdering me are flawed. If it was a justifiable killing, you would not care who saw it.’

‘A scholar’s logic,’ sneered Langar. ‘Hurry up, Lora. At this rate, we will be pursuing him all the way to Cambridge.’

‘I am doing my best,’ muttered Lora, struggling to keep her balance. ‘I am unused to men who jump away from me. Most stand and fight, because they assume they cannot lose against a woman. Few survive to warn others never to underestimate the fairer sex.’

Bartholomew had no intention of underestimating the fairer sex, and he knew better than to engage an experienced sword-wielder with a dagger. His only option was to stay out of blade range for as long as possible, in the hope that someone would see his plight and come to his rescue – or distract Lora for the split second that would allow him to turn and run for his life.

‘Which of you killed Shirlok?’ he demanded, hoping the certainty in his voice would throw her off her stride. ‘He arrived in Lincoln recently, and you were afraid he might destroy all you have built. You hanged him, making sure it was done properly this time.’

Langar gazed at him in surprise. ‘Shirlok? I thought I saw him in the Angel, but everyone told me I was mistaken. I knew he had survived his execution, but he would be a fool to come here and–’

‘Bunoun did the honours,’ said Lora. She shrugged when Langar gaped at her. ‘He said no one would hire a surgeon with a criminal past, and Miller did not like being blackmailed, either. There was no need for you to know, Langar, although I am surprised you have not smelled him. He reeks, and Miller said it was only a question of time before you investigated the basement.’

Langar continued to stare, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to spread dissent. ‘There are other things they have kept from you, Langar – such as the Hugh Chalice being in Lincoln for the last twenty years. Where was it, Lora? In the cellar?’

Lora grinned. ‘Yes – and you have no idea how surprised we were when we arrived here, and found a chest containing the lion’s share of Shirlok’s treasure among our crates. We did not steal it, though, so we have done nothing wrong.’

Bartholomew had continued to slither away, but he had reached the hill and moving down it backwards on the slippery snow was not easy. ‘Then I imagine you were delighted when Bunoun eliminated Shirlok. It meant you could sell the Hugh Chalice at last.’

‘Is it the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Lora. ‘Chapman believed in its sanctity, but the rest of us are sceptical. And now we are done talking, because if I slide all the way down this hill, I shall have to walk up it again, and I need my strength for slaughtering guildsmen.’

‘Will you let her murder me?’ asked Bartholomew of Langar. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. ‘She who has kept secrets from you, and has hidden the bodies of murdered men in your home? She and Miller obviously do not trust you, or they would have shared this information.’

‘They often keep me in the dark,’ said Langar with a shrug. ‘It makes it easier for me to defend them in court – I do a better job if I do not know they are guilty. But hurry up and make an end of him, Lora. There is a lot to do, if we are to stand any chance of winning against Kelby.’

Lora launched herself forward with single-minded determination, and Bartholomew scrambled away from a swing that was intended to decapitate him. He turned, intending to make a run for it while she was off balance, but his foot slipped, and he stumbled to one knee. He tensed, anticipating her blade would be driven into his back, but Lora was overly eager, and when she dived forward, ice sent her sprawling flat on her face. Bartholomew struggled upright, but Langar grabbed his cloak, yanking it hard enough to drag him off his feet again. Lora took her sword in both hands, while Langar held the physician down, to make the killing easier for her.

Bartholomew kicked out as hard as he could – not at Lora, whom he could not reach, but at Langar, causing the lawyer to crumple across him. Langar shrieked in pain and shock as Lora’s sword bit into his shoulder. He released Bartholomew’s cloak, and the physician rolled away, cursing when the snow stopped him from gaining his feet as fast as he would have liked. Lora ignored her groaning colleague, and came after Bartholomew with a series of hacking blows, swearing when her blade hit the wall of a house and sent pain shooting up her arm. She dropped the weapon and clutched her wrist. Bartholomew clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could, trusting he would soon be invisible in the swirling snow. He heard Langar and Lora yelling at each other as he disappeared.

He was near Spayne’s home, so he located the narrow alley that separated it from Kelby’s house, and ducked inside, praying no one would follow the footprints he had left. Moments later, Lora lumbered past, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Langar was a considerable distance behind, hand to his injured shoulder, and the lapsed time was enough for wind and snow to have masked the tracks to some extent. Cynric would not have been deceived, but Langar was not the book-bearer, and he staggered past without noticing. Then they were gone, and Bartholomew heaved a shaky sigh of relief.

He moved farther down the alley when he heard shouting, afraid Langar had met with reinforcements, and found himself in the yard at the back of Spayne’s house. The remains of the blackened storerooms were smothered in snow, and he supposed Spayne would be alarmed for his roof. More yelling told him that he would be wise to stay out of sight for a while, so he huddled against the back of the house, near one of the window shutters. He wondered how long it would be before the trouble eased, and con sidered taking refuge with Spayne. But their last encounter had been uneasy, and he was not sure his welcome would be a warm one. Indeed, Spayne might even betray him, so he would not be asked to reveal what he knew about Matilde. He decided to stay in the yard, wrapping his cloak more closely around him, and pulling his hat down to cover his ears.

But the hollering was becoming more agitated, not less, and he saw he was going to be in for a long wait. Eventually, he heard the bells chime for a cathedral ceremony he knew was due to take place at two o’clock, and ventured out to assess the road. It was fortunate he had moved stealthily, because Miller himself was standing near the end of the alley, in conversation with Spayne. The two men nodded agreement and separated, Spayne to go back inside his home and Miller to address a group of weavers. Bartholomew retraced his steps and hunkered down in his chilly refuge again.

It began to grow dark, dusk coming early because of the low clouds. He felt the cold seep into him, and hoped the weather would drive both sides back into their houses for the night. Then there was a hissing sound from above, and he leapt up in alarm when he recalled how the tile had almost killed Michael earlier. But it was only snow, sloughing off to land in a slippery pile near Spayne’s rear door. Heart thumping, he decided to abandon the yard. The falling flakes and encroaching night might be enough to hide him, but if not, then Lora’s sword was a better end than being buried alive. He was just rubbing life into his frozen legs in anticipation of escape, when he heard a familiar voice. Spayne had guests.

‘ … is the pity of it,’ came Christiana’s clipped tones. ‘I do not know what else to say.’

‘It was an accident, I swear,’ replied Ursula, her voice unsteady. ‘I did not mean to harm her.’

Bartholomew frowned, wondering why Christiana should be visiting the sister of a man she so obviously despised. He put his eye to the gap under the shutter, to see inside the house.

‘You did harm her, though,’ Christiana was saying flatly. ‘Matilde was right.’

‘She was not,’ shouted Ursula. ‘She was misguided and spread vicious rumours about me.’

‘You have been telling everyone that your mother asked Ursula for cuckoo-pint deliberately,’ came Spayne’s voice. He sounded confused. ‘You believe she wanted to die.’

Christiana’s voice was colder than Bartholomew had ever heard anyone speak. ‘My mother had everything to live for. She would never have entertained suicide. I spread that tale so no one will look to me when Ursula dies.’

A dark chill gripped Bartholomew as he knelt in the snow. He had hoped for proof that Christiana was the killer, but he had not expected it to come in the form of another death. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Spayne would not allow his sister to be dispatched – or would he? He recalled what Simon had told him: that Spayne had been an abbey oblate, and knew nothing about arms and fighting. Perhaps he would be powerless to prevent it.

‘Your mother and I were friends,’ said Ursula wheedlingly. ‘Why would I harm her?’

‘Because she was going to marry Kelby,’ said Christiana in the same icy voice. ‘And her dowry would have made him stronger and richer than your brother. You could not stand the thought of that, so you intervened in a spectacular way. You killed her.’

Bartholomew poked the window shutter with his knife, grateful to find it rotten. Quickly, he bored a hole, so he could better see what was happening within. He winced when the hinge protested at the pressure, but the room’s occupants were more interested in each other than in strange sounds from outside. When he put his eye to the hole, he was astonished to see not three people, but four. Spayne and Ursula sat side by side on a bench on the far side of the hall, while Christiana stood near the hearth. Hugh was with her, and Bartholomew saw he held a small bow – the kind children used when they learned archery. His face was alight with curiosity, and Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised the boy would be out when mischief was in the air.

‘The sadness is that it was unnecessary,’ said Christiana quietly. ‘My mother did not love Kelby and would never have wedded him. She was going to ask Prior Roger to marry her secretly to the man who had captured her heart – the man whose babe she carried.’

‘Did she tell you?’ asked Spayne, and the expression on his face was both stricken and guilty.

‘I am her daughter,’ said Christiana. ‘Of course she told me.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts reeled as he tried to understand what they were saying. Then he looked at Spayne, and had his answer in the way the mayor’s eyes flicked around the room: a man who enjoyed prostitutes, but who had declared himself celibate. Bartholomew found his hands were shaking, and wondered whether Matilde had known that Spayne had lain with her closest friend.

‘My mother was pregnant with your child,’ said Christiana softly. ‘But Matilde held your heart. You were in a quandary. Should you do the dutiful thing and allow Prior Roger to marry you to my mother? Or should you put your own happiness first, and wed Matilde?’

‘It was not like that,’ said Spayne miserably. ‘Not so … sordid. And I did not want to hurt either–’

Christiana’s voice was loaded with disgust. ‘My mother’s death left you free to take Matilde, as well as preventing Kelby from getting her dowry. You were even vulgar enough to propose on the day of the funeral. I am not surprised Matilde refused you. She fled the city, and I lost a valued friend.’

Suddenly, there was a rap on the door. In his agitated state, Bartholomew jumped violently enough to rattle the window shutter, but the occupants of the room did not notice.

‘If you call out, I will kill you,’ said Christiana sharply and, for the first time, Bartholomew noticed that Spayne and his sister were bound hand and foot.

‘I must answer,’ said Spayne desperately. ‘It is probably Miller, and talking to him will give me another opportunity to urge him to stand down. And then you and I will discuss ancient history.’

‘It is not ancient,’ snapped Christiana. ‘It was six years ago. But I have finally obtained the evidence I need to convict you, Ursula. We all know you fed my mother cuckoo-pint – that was never in question – but we have never been able to prove you did it knowing it would kill her.’

‘That is because I am innocent of malicious intent,’ insisted Ursula. She licked dry lips.

‘Why have you waited so long to voice these vile accusations?’ asked Spayne. His strangely furtive expression suggested to Bartholomew that he had known exactly what his sister had done.

‘Because I had no proof before. I have it now, though. Matthew was the key, although he does not know it.’ The physician was startled, but then recalled the discussion he had had with Dame Eleanor. They had talked about wake-robin, and how it was used to expel afterbirth. Wake-robin was another name for cuckoo-pint. ‘He told Eleanor that all good midwives know to give cuckoo-pint in small amounts over a number of hours. However, you gave my mother her potion in one large dose. You knew exactly what you were doing.’

‘Prove it,’ challenged Ursula, but Bartholomew could see she was worried.

There was another knock, harder this time. Someone was becoming impatient.

Christiana ignored it. ‘Once I knew what to ask, I was able to go to midwives and apothecaries, and discuss with them the correct way to administer it. They all said the same: bit by bit. My mother was the only one who received hers all at once. Matilde was right after all.’

‘So what if she was?’ demanded Ursula, suddenly defensive. ‘No one cares about this now. And no jury will ever convict me.’

‘I was not thinking of going to a jury,’ said Christiana in a soft voice that made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. ‘I was thinking of dispensing my own justice. I tried with the milk, but that did not work, because I could not use a strong enough dose – you would have noticed.’

The hammering came a third time. ‘Spayne?’ came Michael’s voice. ‘I know you are in there, because I can see your lamps. We are looking for Matt. He is missing and I am worried.’

‘Lady Christiana might know where he is,’ shouted Ursula, before Christiana or Hugh could stop her. ‘Come in and ask her yourself–’

She fell silent when Hugh leapt towards her and placed a dagger under her chin. ‘That was stupid, lady,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘We asked you to keep quiet.’

‘It was not stupid at all,’ said Ursula defiantly. ‘It was extremely clever. Now the monk knows she is here, and if I come to any harm, she will be his prime suspect.’

‘Christiana is with you?’ With relief, Bartholomew recognised Dame Eleanor’s voice – the one person who could talk sense into her misguided friend.

‘Let them in,’ said Christiana to Hugh. ‘Ursula is right. We cannot let Michael go, having heard that. He is tenacious, and I do not want him investigating my affairs.’

‘We could kill him later,’ suggested Hugh. ‘After we have finished here.’

‘We will do it now,’ said Christiana. ‘We have already made two unsuccessful attempts to dispatch the fellow, and learned to our cost that he is not an easy target. Claypole’s arm is still bruised, and I was almost brained twice – once with the branch of a tree and once with a shoe-scraper.’

‘What about Dame Eleanor?’ asked Hugh nervously. ‘She might not like it.’

‘She will be no trouble,’ replied Christiana.

When Christiana moved towards the door, Bartholomew pushed away from his window and tried to run to the front of the building, to warn the monk. The snow had drifted, so it was knee deep and like wading through mud. He tried shouting, but there was too much racket on the main road, and he knew Michael would not hear him. He took only a few steps before realising it was futile, and struggled back to his vantage point, defeated.

It gave him no pleasure to know Michael would soon see he had made a dreadful mistake with the woman he had admired, and he was disgusted with himself for dismissing Hugh’s role with the letter so readily. He was a child, it was true, but one with an eye for mischief, and also one who was a talented archer, as Bartholomew himself had witnessed at the butts. And, like many other males at the cathedral, Hugh was captivated by Christiana.

By the time he reached the hole in the window again, Michael and Eleanor were inside the hall. The monk beamed at Christiana, and Bartholomew saw Hugh had hidden his weapon. He considered bursting through the shutter, but a bar had been placed across the inside that would seriously hamper any attempt to enter quickly. He had also lost his bag with its arsenal of surgical blades, and there was a limit to what an unarmed man could do against a bow.

‘I am glad you are here, Michael,’ said Christiana, indicating he should sit on the bench opposite Spayne and Ursula. ‘We have been discussing murder.’

‘Have you?’ asked Michael. Something in the tone of her voice had alerted him to the fact that all was not well. He was an astute man, and immediately became wary. ‘Well, in that case I shall leave you, and resume my hunt for Matt–’

Hugh moved quickly to block the door. ‘You must stay here.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. He had noticed that the Spaynes were trussed up like chickens.

‘Because Hugh will shoot you if you try to leave,’ said Christiana, as the boy snatched up his bow. ‘And he is very good, as Simon and Tetford can attest. Now, sit down.’

‘Christiana?’ asked Eleanor, startled. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ursula confessed,’ blurted Christiana, suddenly tearful. ‘She is proud of herself for eluding justice, and her brother feels no guilt at all for his role in my mother’s murder.’

‘That is not true,’ cried Spayne. ‘I am wracked with self-reproach. Why do you think I have never married? It is nothing to do with Matilde, but because I have a nagging sense that I will be damned in the sight of God if I find wedded bliss with another woman.’

‘I do not know what is happening, but I am sure it can be resolved peacefully,’ said Michael, edging towards the door. ‘And I cannot stay here. I need to find Matt before–’

Hugh aimed his bow, and Michael flopped hastily on the bench when he saw the determined gleam in the child’s eye. Christiana moved forward, and Bartholomew was impressed by the speed with which she secured the monk’s hands. She left his feet free, though, and Bartholomew was under the impression she did not intend to wait long before making her move. He looked at Dame Eleanor, willing the old lady to bring the confrontation to an end, trusting her quiet saintliness would make Christiana see reason.

‘What is happening here?’ asked Michael with quiet calm. ‘If it involves violence, I beg you to reconsider. Too many men have lost their lives already.’

‘We are working to the glory of God,’ replied Christiana, moving away from him. ‘And it is time to avenge my mother’s murder at last.’

‘Hugh,’ said Dame Eleanor, turning to the boy. ‘You know what to do.’

Bartholomew watched aghast, as the boy raised his bow and shot Ursula in the chest. She made no sound as she slumped to one side. Christiana and Eleanor glanced at each other, and smiled.

‘I doubt St Hugh will be very impressed by that,’ said Michael in the shocked silence that followed. ‘Your actions will have him weeping in Heaven.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Dame Eleanor. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw the old lady’s eyes fill with the light of religious fervour. ‘I have served him for sixty years, and I know what he wants.’

‘He wants this?’ asked Michael, nodding towards Ursula.

‘He wants justice,’ said Eleanor coldly. ‘And he sent Christiana and Hugh to help me in my quest. That is how I know I am doing what he desires.’

‘You have corrupted them,’ said Michael. ‘A child and a vulnerable, grieving woman. You have murmured your deranged ethics into their ears, and turned them evil.’

Eleanor grimaced. ‘Rot! They know I am right, and they are only too happy to help me.’

‘She is a saint,’ said Hugh simply, while Christiana nodded agreement. ‘One day she will have a shrine in the cathedral, and we will be recorded by the chroniclers as her helpmeets. People will revere us for taking a stand against sin.’

Bartholomew moved away from the window, and put his hands over his face. He had been wrong: Christiana was just a foot soldier, and the real power behind the murders that had so mystified them was the saintly Eleanor, with her wise eyes and kindly smile. He was in an agony of indecision. Should he burst into the hall and attempt to disarm Hugh? Should he run to the Gilbertine Priory or the cathedral for help, or would that take too long? He staggered back along the lane into the main street, trying to decide which option would give Michael the best chance, then stopped abruptly when a figure loomed out of the swirling snow, just visible in the faint light from the lamp above Spayne’s door. It was Lora, who greeted him by hurling her dagger. He threw himself to one side, and it landed quivering in one of Spayne’s windowsills.

‘Fetch Miller!’ he called urgently, staggering to his feet with his hands full of snow. ‘Spayne is being held captive in his house by the people who killed Aylmer and Herl.’

‘I do not believe you.’ She moved towards him with her sword.

Bartholomew had not imagined she would. He lobbed snow at her as hard as he could, first with one hand, then the other. Both landed square in her face, making her gasp in shock. While she was reeling, he landed two quick punches that knocked her flat on her back.

‘Summon help,’ he ordered, when she gazed at him in stunned surprise. ‘At once.’

He did not wait to see what she would do. He grabbed her dagger from the sill, knowing that Michael’s rescue – he did not care what happened to Spayne – was down to him alone. He tried peering under the shutters at the front of the house, but they fitted better than the ones at the back, and all he could see was Hugh and his bow. There was no time for rationalisation. He waded to Spayne’s front door and kicked it hard. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and he marched inside.

‘Sheriff Lungspee is on his way,’ he declared. ‘He will be here any moment, so put up your weapons and bring an end to this before anyone else is hurt.’

‘Do not treat me like a fool,’ said Eleanor coldly, neither surprised to see him nor unsettled by his announcement. ‘Lungspee is hiding in his castle, waiting for the city to grow peaceful again.’

Bartholomew raised the dagger, intending to hurl it at Hugh and force him to drop the bow, but Eleanor moved fast, and he saw something flash through the air. There was a resounding thump under his arm, and he jerked backwards, staggering against the brace near the hearth. It groaned alarmingly, and there was a short silence. Then Hugh laughed and Michael groaned in despair.

‘Did you mean to do that?’ asked Christiana of Eleanor, going to close the door. When Bartholomew recovered his wits sufficiently to understand what had happened, he found himself pinned to the pillar with a knife. It had passed under his elbow and caught the material of his tunic.

Eleanor grimaced. ‘I was aiming for his heart, but he moved. Still, he is rendered harmless, because my knife has nailed his arm to the wood, so the outcome is the same.’

Bartholomew flexed his hand to make sure she was wrong. It would not be difficult to rip himself free, but then she would hurl a second blade at him, and this time she might damage more than his clothes. He sagged slightly, trying to give the impression that he was injured, while his mind worked feverishly for a way out of the predicament. He could see none.

Michael’s face was white, and his voice was barely audible over Spayne’s heartbroken sobs. ‘Matt worked out what you had done, but I did not believe you capable of such wickedness.’

Eleanor glanced at Bartholomew. ‘What did you work out, exactly? You may as well tell us. We will not kill you as long as you are talking, and you are vain enough to think the delay may provide you with an opportunity to escape. What do you have to lose?’

‘Do not humour them, Matt,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Let them continue to wonder what you know and who else we have told about it.’

Hugh aimed his bow at the monk. ‘I will kill him if you do not answer, physician. Dame Eleanor says shooting evil men is good for my soul, so I am not afraid to do it.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to accept the challenge. Lora might do what he had asked, and the longer he talked, the greater the chance of her arriving in time. ‘You shot Tetford, because he closed his tavern – you earned pennies as a pot-boy and did not want to lose the income. Since then, you have learned there is always a need for pot-boys, and that murder was unnecessary.’

‘He is a child,’ said Michael, joining in reluctantly. ‘And it did not occur to his unformed mind that the tavern would be taken over by another landlord. Then, of course, he realised he might do better under his brother than with Ravenser: John is always talking about looking after the family, and Hugh has high expectations. Did he tell you he shot Ravenser today?’

‘Did you?’ asked Eleanor, regarding the boy admonishingly. ‘You cannot go around killing for personal gain – only for greater purposes.’

Hugh was sullen. ‘Ravenser paid me less than his whores.’

‘You ordered Hugh to shoot Michael – after you had rendered the guard insensible so our knocks at the gate would go unheard,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘but Tetford happened to be with us, and the temptation was too much. You have created a monster.’

‘A soldier,’ corrected Hugh. ‘Not a monster. And I did not mean to shoot Tetford: he just got in the way. It was dark, and I could not see very well.’

‘And then you ran away,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘You are happy to kill with bows, but too cowardly to fight with blades. No wonder no one has given you a sword. You do not deserve one.’

Hugh was outraged and his weapon started to come up. Eleanor pushed it down again. ‘Not yet. I want them to tell us what they know about Tetford.’

‘You were going to kill him anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You had put poison in his wineskin – we found the secret supply Christiana keeps at Little Hugh’s tomb. You could have saved yourself the bother of the orchard ambush. Tetford offered that wine to Michael, and he would have swallowed it, if Hugh and Claypole had not loosed their arrows.’

Christiana frowned. ‘That was what Dame Eleanor originally intended: the two of them poisoned while toasting Tetford’s latest insincere attempt to be a good man.’

‘I was annoyed when Claypole and Hugh acted too soon,’ said Eleanor. ‘Tetford was a wicked young man, and I intended to prevent him from becoming a Vicar Choral in my cathedral. And I did not want you interfering with the saint’s will by exposing me, Brother, so you had to die, too.’

‘If you attacked us in the orchard, then you were also responsible for the episode at Holy Cross,’ said Michael. ‘The pattern was the same: two bowmen, someone with a sword and someone with a dagger. You three and Claypole. No wonder you did not best us. So, we know why you killed Tetford and attempted to dispatch me, but what about Father Simon? What had he done to incur your wrath?’

‘He engaged in skulduggery,’ said Eleanor angrily. ‘And I am tired of it. Hugh showed me the note he wrote, inviting Chapman to discuss the Hugh Chalice, so I decided to make an end of them both.’

‘I see why you deplore Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘I dislike relic-sellers myself. But Simon–’

‘Chapman is not a relic-seller,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is a felon who sells stolen goods for Miller. Worse yet, he dared lay his sinful hands on the Hugh Chalice! When my henbane salve did not work, Christiana arranged for John to take him some wine instead. There has been nothing but theft and wickedness ever since the cup made its appearance, and it is demeaning. St Hugh does not approve.’

Bartholomew flexed his elbow. The material was pinned very firmly to the wood, and he was not sure he could free it without anyone noticing. The brace creaked and Eleanor glanced sharply at him. He tried to look helpless, hoping she would not come and inspect her handiwork. ‘And you think he approves of murder?’ he asked, to distract her.

‘It is not murder,’ she said firmly. ‘It is justice.’

‘And I suppose “justice” led you to poison Herl and Flaxfleete, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The toxin is an unusual one. Did you read about it when you were trying to understand how Ursula had killed Christiana’s mother?’ Eleanor inclined her head. ‘And I suppose you murdered Herl because you learned he had duplicated the Hugh Chalice?’

She nodded a second time. ‘He tried to sell me a copy. And Aylmer was on the verge of stealing the real one–’

‘So, you stabbed him in the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We thought it was someone who either took him by surprise or who he did not expect to hurt him. Both are true in your case. Sabina said he was killed with his own dagger. You grabbed it and knifed him before he knew what was happening.’

‘The pity of it is that Aylmer belonged to a fraternity dedicated to placing the chalice in the cathedral,’ said Michael. ‘As did Simon. Aylmer contrived to be at the Gilbertine Priory to help Simon, not to steal from him.’

‘He was holding it when I caught him,’ objected Eleanor. ‘He had taken it from Simon’s bag and it was cradled in his hands. Everyone else was in the chapel, so it looked suspicious, to say the least. And I acknowledge that this fraternity was dedicated to the chalice, but it was not selfless. Simon wanted it presented at a ceremony that would glorify him, and Flaxfleete intended to present an ostentatious reliquary at the same time. It was wrong.’

‘I know how you killed Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘The keg was not poisoned when it sat by the door of the Swan, as we assumed, but when it was still in the cellar. The inn is owned by Christiana, so she can come and go as she pleases.’

Bartholomew’s legs were beginning to shake from standing at an awkward angle, and he shifted his weight. The roof creaked, and he had a sudden memory of Michael leaning against the sapling in the Gilbertines’ garden when he was interrogating Chapman. He wondered whether he could bring down the roof. But then he and Michael would die, too. So would Spayne, who had said nothing since his sister’s murder, and who sat with his eyes glazed in helpless shock.

‘You might have killed the entire Guild,’ Michael went on. ‘Although when you poisoned Herl’s ale – also in the Swan – you were more careful.’

‘All for St Hugh,’ said Eleanor. ‘I am weary of evil men, but no matter how many I dispatch, there are always more to take their places. I started with the sinister Canon Hodelston, during the plague–’

‘Lungspee said Hodelston’s death took the feud to a new level of violence,’ interrupted Michael accusingly. ‘And I suppose next on your list was Fat William, who died eating oysters.’

‘Fat William was a glutton who ate food designated for the poor, but he was not the second or even the third. However, I have learned all I need from you now. It is time to end this.’

‘We are going to set a fire,’ chirped Hugh. ‘And you will all die in it.’

‘St Hugh would be appalled by what you have done in his name,’ said Michael. ‘It is time to stop.’

‘I cannot,’ said Eleanor. ‘Not as long as my saint’s city is infested with sinners. Shoot them, Hugh. Michael first.’

Hugh raised his bow and Bartholomew saw he could not fail to miss. He leaned as hard as he could on the post. There was a low groan.

‘The roof!’ cried Spayne, in a voice that cracked with tension and distress. ‘Do not lean on the brace – the ceiling will cave in!’

Bartholomew pushed harder and beams began to sag.

‘Stop!’ screamed Eleanor. ‘Hugh! Shoot him!’

Hugh was more interested in ducking away from the clumps of plaster that were dropping around him. He dropped his bow and scampered this way and that, like a rat in a cage. With a bellow of fury, Christiana dived for the weapon and snatched it up herself. Summoning every last ounce of his strength, Bartholomew shoved the pillar until it popped out of its holdings and crashed to the floor. It dragged him with it, so Christiana’s shot went wide.

‘Run!’ he yelled to Michael, trying to free himself.

The monk leapt to his feet as timbers fell.

‘You are a fool!’ said Eleanor to Bartholomew, standing immobile among the chaos. ‘Tonight, Christiana and I were going to tell you where we think you will find Matilde. We know you love her – your determination to find her is too strong for mere friendship.’

Bartholomew ignored her as he struggled to free himself. She staggered as a piece of plaster struck her, and the physician raised his arm to protect his head as chunks of stone began to rain down. She dropped to her knees, blood streaming from her scalp, while Christiana hurled the bow at the monk and aimed for the door. Michael reached for the old lady with his bound hands, intending to drag her outside, but she snatched up a long splinter of wood and threatened to stab him with it.

‘I will not be exiled to some remote convent when all I have done is obey the saint’s will.’

‘Get up!’ yelled Michael, backing away and turning to Bartholomew. He hauled ineffectually on the dagger that pinned the physician’s tunic to the fallen support. ‘Hurry!’

‘You killed my sister,’ said Spayne to Christiana, blocking her path. His hands and feet were still tied, but when she tried to duck past him, he launched himself forward and knocked her over with his body. She cried out in pain when she fell on her own dagger, and gazed in horror at the blood that stained her hand. Bartholomew could not see whether it was a superficial wound or a mortal one.

Eleanor turned to him in anguish. ‘I have chosen to die here, but you must save her. You see, we did not write our list – it is in her head. You must take her with you if you want to find happiness.’

Bartholomew finally ripped his tunic free and headed for Christiana, but before he could reach her, she disappeared under a billowing cloud of debris that drove him backwards. The air was full of thick, choking dust.

‘Matt!’ screamed Michael, who had gained the door. ‘The whole thing is going to fall!’

‘They do not know where Matilde went,’ said Spayne hoarsely. Bartholomew spun around and saw the mayor’s legs were trapped under a massive beam. It was too heavy to move, and he was going to die in the collapsing building. ‘No one does, except me. I am the only person she ever told about a friend in a certain city. I am sure she will be there now.’

‘Come away, Matt!’ howled Michael.

Spayne had used Christiana’s dagger to free his hands. ‘I will tell you my secret if you help me escape. If you refuse, I will throw this blade, and you will not reach the door alive.’

Bartholomew hauled on the beam with all his might, but knew it would not have budged had he been ten men. He glanced up and saw the sky through holes in the ceiling. A tile crashed into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Dizzily, he put his hands around the wood again, barely aware of what he was doing.

‘It is hopeless,’ said Spayne, his voice cracking with despair. ‘All right, come closer. I will tell you what you want to know, but only if you promise to tell Matilde I still love her.’

Bartholomew nodded, willing to agree to anything.

‘She is … ’ began Spayne. ‘No! For the love of God, no!’

His head jerked back as an arrow slapped into his throat. Bartholomew gazed at Spayne in shocked disbelief, then turned to see Cynric at the door, a bow in his hand. The book-bearer clambered across the wreckage and grabbed Bartholomew’s arm. There was another groan, and more timbers dropped

Bartholomew jerked away, appalled that Cynric should be the instrument that had destroyed his last hope. ‘He was going to tell me where to find Matilde!’

‘He had a dagger,’ said Cynric, fighting his way across the wreckage and dragging the physician with him. ‘He was going to stab you as soon as you leaned close enough to hear what he was saying.’

Bartholomew shook his head, feeling numb. ‘He was–’

There was another groan from above. Cynric shot through the door, pulling Bartholomew after him. With a tremendous crash, the last of the roof gave way and collapsed in a billow of snow and tiles.