The Tarnished Chalice

EPILOGUE

The day of the installation was bright and clear. Michael, Suttone and de Wetherset made their oaths of canonical obedience to Gynewell in the Bishop’s Palace, then went outside to join the magnificent procession that was to walk to the cathedral for the formal ceremony. There was some jostling and confusion among the participating dignitaries and officials – the number of people involved was considerable, and protocol and rank needed to be scrupulously observed – but eventually, everyone was in his designated place, and the bells began to ring in a jubilant, discordant jangle.

‘What shall we do about the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Gynewell, while they waited for the choir to line up. ‘In all the excitement following the deaths of Dame Eleanor, Lady Christiana and the Spaynes, I clean forgot about it. Simon was going to donate it to the cathedral today, but obviously he is in no position to do that now.’

‘I have some bad news,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I spent a good deal of time with all twenty-two of the cups you retrieved, but none is the genuine item. They are all fakes.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Suttone. ‘What tests did you perform?’

‘I can tell by their feel,’ replied de Wetherset loftily. ‘I cannot explain it any better than that. I just sense, with all my heart, that none of these goblets is the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Then you are wrong,’ said the dean. He held up a tarnished vessel, although Bartholomew had no idea whether it was one he had seen before. ‘I also subjected the cups to rigorous examination, and I sense – with all my heart – that this is the real one.’

‘How?’ asked de Wetherset, startled. ‘Because it is the only one I do not desire to own myself,’ explained the dean. ‘I am content to see it stand on the High Altar, whereas while I feel obliged to take the others to the crypt.’

De Wetherset weighed it in one hand, then the other. ‘I suppose it may have a certain something,’ he conceded eventually. ‘Although, as an instrument of St Hugh myself, I expected the sensation to be a good deal stronger.’

‘Perhaps the saint has abandoned you,’ said Suttone unkindly. ‘He does not want you to stand as University Chancellor against a Suttone, and this is a sign of his displeasure.’

‘It is tin,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael take the cup from the spluttering de Wetherset. ‘I thought the real one was supposed to be silver.’

‘Details, Matt, details,’ said Michael. ‘If the dean says it is holy, then that is good enough for me.’ He passed it to Suttone.

‘It is holy,’ declared Suttone, although he was no more qualified to make such a proclamation than Michael. ‘This is the real one, without the shadow of a doubt!’

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Choirmaster Bautre, eager to please the Michaelhouse scholars because they had exposed Claypole’s role in the murders, thus ridding Bautre himself of the man who was plotting to overthrow him. ‘I can see the holiness radiating from it.’

‘So can I,’ said John sombrely. ‘Our dean speaks the truth.’

‘Good,’ said Gynewell, pleased. ‘But none of you has answered my question: what shall we do with it? I have no idea who owns legal title. Does it belong to the Old Temple in London? The Geddynge priest who bought it from Shirlok? Are we actually entitled to display it in the cathedral?’

‘I think so,’ said the dean. ‘And if anyone else lays claim to it, then I swear, by all I hold holy, that I will bring it back again by any means possible. It belongs here. I feel it.’

‘It can be a part of the procession, then,’ said Bautre. ‘One of my lads can carry it, holding it aloft all the way through the ceremony. It will be an arduous task, so I shall allot it to Hugh – the first of many such duties he will have to endure as penance for listening to bad advice from Dame Eleanor.’

‘Putting a holy thing in the hands of such a person might see him struck down,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘I would not like my day marred by an effusion of blood.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Michael venomously. ‘It would be divine justice, and I do not see why he should escape unscathed while his co-conspirators lie dead. It was clever of Dame Eleanor to leave that document claiming full responsibility, and maintaining Hugh was not present at any murder, but it was unwise. She wanted to leave Lincoln a better place, but she has unleashed a devil in it.’

‘Let John carry the Hugh Chalice,’ suggested Suttone, after a moment during which everyone looked sombre. ‘He is an upright fellow, and I intend to make him my Vicar Choral.’

‘You are too late,’ said Michael smugly, while John looked suitably modest. ‘I have invited him to be my deputy, and he has accepted. You must find another.’

‘You cannot have Bautre, either,’ gloated de Wetherset. ‘He is mine.’

The dean smiled suddenly. ‘This business may have been unpleasant, but it has rid me of some very turbulent priests. Tetford, Aylmer and Ravenser are dead, Claypole is in prison. We shall have a staff worthy of this fine cathedral yet.’

Suttone pouted sulkily. ‘You two were securing yourselves Vicars Choral when you should have been praying, like me. Dame Eleanor was right: this is a corrupt place.’

‘Not as corrupt at Cambridge,’ said the dean indignantly. ‘And it was there that this business began. De Wetherset was telling me about it yesterday.’

De Wetherset shrugged when everyone looked at him. ‘You all know that Miller, Lora and Langar died in that riot the other night, and that Master Quarrel of the Swan has been elected head of a new Commonalty, which includes guildsmen. Well, now their black shadows have gone, I am free to reveal what I recall of the incident twenty years ago.’

‘You mean about the carts in the bailey?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And the box that you–’

‘No,’ said de Wetherset sharply. ‘I refer to the trial. Shirlok told the truth when he named those ten people as his accomplices, and everyone knew it. Why do you think they left Cambridge immediately after? Not because they were shamed by the accusations, but because an arrangement was made.’

‘What sort of arrangement?’ asked Michael icily, angry that there was still information that had been kept from him.

‘One whereby they would leave Cambridgeshire if they were acquitted.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The trial was in front of a jury, and–’

‘And juries are made up of men,’ interrupted de Wetherset. ‘Men can be bribed. The first jury comprised Miller’s friends and relations, but Shirlok recognised them and exercised his right to object. So, Langar was obliged to find replacements. They had to be folk who could be bribed, which is more difficult than you might imagine – people are afraid of being caught.’

‘And you think Lincoln has problems!’ breathed Bresley.

‘Not all the jurors were tainted,’ de Wetherset went on. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Your brother-in-law’s ethics are somewhat fluid, but they do not stretch to corruption on that scale. However, eight of the twelve – including Morice and Deschalers the grocer – agreed to return a verdict of not guilty.’

‘I thought so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Miller paid them, just as he has been offering “tokens of his affection” to Sheriff Lungspee here.’

‘It was not Miller,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It was his brother, Simon.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

De Wetherset nodded. ‘Yes I am. I even know why. You have already ascertained that Aylmer sold the Hugh Chalice to Geddynge for twenty shillings. However, it was not Shirlok who stole it from Geddynge and gave it to Lora to sell again: it was Simon. Miller had commissioned Shirlok to do it, but Simon did not trust him, so he did it himself.’

‘No,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘Simon wanted the Hugh Chalice to be in Lincoln so much that he carved one on his body. He would never have passed it to Lora to sell a second time. Besides, he would have told us as he lay on his deathbed.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘He admitted his involvement in various plots, but not once did he acknowledge doing anything felonious. His “confession” only went so far.’

‘He did want the cup in Lincoln,’ agreed de Wetherset.

‘However, do not forget that he hailed from a criminal family, and was more than happy to make a profit along the way. He confessed it all one night, when we were drunk together in his Holy Cross house. I doubt he remembered our tête-à-tête the next morning. In fact, I doubt he remembered his crime when he was sober at all – I think he probably pushed it into the deepest recesses of his mind.’

‘I suppose his suppression of these memories might explain why he was such a convincing liar,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Why did you not mention this sooner?’

‘And have Miller come after me?’ asked de Wetherset scornfully. ‘Do not be an ass! But to return to our drunken heart-to-heart, Simon described how he gave the chalice to Lora to sell, and then he bragged about how he had expected to steal it back again.’

Bartholomew understood what had happened. ‘Unfortunately for him, Shirlok was arrested on a different set of charges and named Lora as a regular handler of his stolen goods. Even more unfortunately, Lora happened to have the Hugh Chalice in her possession at the time. Simon’s simple plan to make a few shillings had gone disastrously wrong. So, of course he needed to hire a corrupt jury to acquit him.’

‘Why did he arrange for all ten appellees to be released?’ asked Suttone. ‘Why not just himself?’

‘Now that would have looked suspicious,’ said de Wetherset. ‘And he could not leave his brother to hang, anyway. Langar obliged him by appointing malleable jurors, but added a proviso: they would have to leave the county afterwards. That was self-interest on Langar’s part – he was afraid that if any of the felons bragged about evading justice, then he would hang, too. And besides, he had plans of his own – to leave his clerking post and rise to power on the backs of loutish men.’

Michael sighed irritably. ‘You should have told me this before, regardless of the risk to yourself. I might have solved the case in half the time – and perhaps even saved some of the lives lost.’

‘Well, it is over now,’ said Gynewell, before de Wetherset could object to the reproof. ‘And virtually all these wicked men are dead. I expect the Devil is devouring their souls as we speak.’

He did a curious jigging dance, banging his crosier on the ground. Cynric watched expectantly, and Bartholomew recalled that the book-bearer had predicted the bishop would explode in a puff of red smoke that morning. He edged away, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire.

‘I am sorry about what happened to Christiana, Michael,’ he said in an undertone, as the others moved away. Since her death, the monk had spent all his time either at the cathedral preparing for the installation, or sitting quietly in St Katherine’s Chapel. There had been no opportunity to talk. ‘I know you were growing fond of her.’

‘I am a monk, Matt, sworn to a life of chastity. How could I be “fond” of a woman?’ Michael smiled, but the expression did not touch his eyes. ‘And I am sorry I did not believe you when you saw the truth. None of this was her fault, you know. She was seduced by that evil old lady’s deranged lies.’

Bartholomew nodded, but made no other reply. He did not want to spoil the day with an argument.

‘Is my cope straight?’ whispered Michael, plucking nervously at his robes. Rosanna had done a fine job, and he looked magnificent in his vestments. ‘Damn this breeze! It is ruffling my hair.’

Bartholomew gave the heavy garment a tug that jerked it from perfectly even to a decided list to the left. Suttone sniggered.

‘You should go,’ advised de Wetherset, before the physician could do any more damage. ‘Or you will not find a good place to stand. Obviously, you will not want to miss anything.’

Bartholomew walked up the winding path to the cathedral and found the building full of people. It was so packed that he considered seeing the procession inside and then slipping away. He did not feel equal to the occasion, and wanted time alone, to absorb the fact that his quest to find for Matilde was at an end. Unfortunately, he was spotted by Prior Roger, who invited him to the South Transept, an area that had been reserved for special guests.

‘What a fine day God has created!’ bawled the prior, making several merchants jump in alarm. ‘I am looking forward to raising my voice in praise today! The choir will appreciate a little help, I am sure, given that so many of their number are either dead or in prison.’

Bartholomew tried to think of an excuse to leave before the music started, but then Hamo approached and pulled him to one side.

‘I cleared out the rooms of Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana this morning,’ he said. He no longer rubbed his arm, because Roger had ordered him to submit to a medical examination, and Bartholomew had removed the splinter he had acquired while eavesdropping. He was astonished that he could be so painlessly ‘cured’, and had been gratefully obsequious to the physician ever since. ‘I found this.’

He passed Bartholomew a piece of parchment. It contained a long list of names Matilde had mentioned to the two women, and the settlements where they might be found. Bartholomew’s hopes soared when he realised Eleanor’s declaration that there had been no written record had been a desperate ploy to force him to save Christiana. Then they plummeted again.

‘I have already visited all these people.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Hamo sincerely. ‘I was optimistic when I discovered it. Dame Eleanor was not a bad woman, and spent more than half a century serving the cathedral. Do not judge her too harshly.’

‘She murdered Herl, Aylmer, Chapman, Flaxfleete, Simon and Ursula, and she admitted to dispatching many more – including your Fat William. She looked the other way while Hugh rid himself of Tetford and Ravenser, and she tried to hurt Michael. And it was her killing of Canon Hodelston that inflamed the feud that has ravaged the city ever since. It is hard to see her as a saint.’

‘Her motives were pure,’ argued Hamo. ‘She really thought that ridding the city of wicked men would benefit everyone. And she had a point – no one she killed will be bound for Heaven.’

‘I have heard murderers use these justifications before, but who was she to judge?’

Hamo acquiesced. ‘You seem sad and preoccupied. Why?’

‘I cannot stop thinking about Spayne, and how he was about to tell me Matilde’s secret when Cynric shot him. It makes me wonder whether I should abandon my duties in Cambridge and continue my search. There is still more to be learned about her.’

‘Spayne had no answers,’ said Hamo. He shrugged when the physician showed surprise at the confidence of his words. ‘He knew nothing that would help you, and your book-bearer was right to shoot him before he could harm you with his dagger.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I am good at hearing conversations not intended for my ears, as you know.’ Hamo patted his arm ruefully. ‘And I happened to chance upon a discussion between him and Langar once. He was telling the lawyer all the places he had looked for Matilde, but said there was one he would never search, because it was where he had been an oblate and it held too many unhappy memories. I imagine that is where he was going to send you – if indeed he was ready to confide. I am inclined to believe Cynric: he was trying to make sure you died with him.’

‘Where was he an oblate?’ asked Bartholomew eagerly.

‘I asked around, but no one seemed to know, so I spent all day yesterday trawling through the cathedral’s records. I found the answer late last night. It was Stamford, but that is on Christiana’s list, and you just said you have visited everyone on that. Ergo, I do not think you would have learned anything useful from Spayne.’

Bartholomew sighed. He was disappointed, but at the same time relieved. ‘Thank you. At least now I will not spend the rest of my life wondering.’

That morning, he had been surprised to wake up and find himself looking forward to returning to Cambridge and his teaching. There was a desperate shortage of University-trained physicians, and Suttone had been talking about the imminent return of the plague only at breakfast. Reinforcements might be needed soon, and in Cambridge he could do some good. He would see his patients, teach his students and write his treatise on fevers, and in time the wound Matilde had left would heal.

He was about to ask Hamo whether he had heard any rumours regarding the pestilence, when there was a sudden, ear-shattering blare on a trumpet that had all the Gilbertines grinning in delight. The procession began to pass through the great west door. At the front was Hugh, struggling under a massive cross, and following him was the choir. Then came the Vicars Choral, dissolute and slovenly, and the canons. Michael winked at Bartholomew, de Wetherset nodded, and Suttone gave him a self-satisfied smile. Then came the relic-bearers, which included John toting the Hugh Chalice, men carrying St Hugh’s head, a fat canon with Joseph’s teeth, and the dean with the gospels. Gynewell, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, brought up the rear, his mitre sitting incongruously atop his curly head and his heavy cope dragging the ground behind him.

The ceremony was as grand and impressive as any Bartholomew had witnessed. Gynewell had a good voice, and his careful Latin was a pleasure to hear. The physician began to lose himself in the beauty of the place and the occasion, closing his eyes to listen to the music soaring through the nave. When he opened them, he noticed some of the choristers were becoming restless. Two seemed to be playing a game with pebbles, studiously ignoring Bautre’s warning glares, while Hugh had abandoned his place altogether. Bartholomew hoped his absence would not herald the beginning of some piece of mischief that would spoil Michael’s day.

In the South Choir Aisle, unseen by prying eyes, Hugh shrugged out of his choir robes and hid them behind the tomb of Little Hugh, recovering his cloak at the same time. Then he inserted his new sword – the one Christiana had been going to give him for his birthday – between two stones at the base of the shrine and levered, making sure to do it when the dean was reaching a crescendo to mask the noise. The stone popped out, and Hugh dropped to his knees, to rummage in the recess it revealed.

First out was the Hugh Chalice – the real one, which Eleanor had acquired from Herl after he had made his copies. She had immediately brought it to the cathedral, where Hugh had adapted the plinth so she could keep it safe from wicked men. They were the only two who knew about the hiding place, and it had proved useful for concealing one or two other items, too – such as the white pearls Hugh had stolen from Bartholomew’s medical bag during the confusion following the collapse of the Spayne house. These went quickly into the purse at his belt.

Finally, he extracted two flasks. One contained the wine-and-water mixture Dame Eleanor had swallowed to fill herself with holy strength, and the other held the poison she had used to kill Herl, Flaxfleete and countless others; she had asked Hugh to secrete it inside the plinth when a smattering of dust had told her someone had discovered its usual hiding place. The two cheap pots looked identical, and Hugh wondered how she had known them apart. He sniffed them gingerly, but they both smelled foul, as far as he was concerned.

He unwrapped the Hugh Chalice and stared at it for some time, trying to decide what to do. Eventually, he put it back inside the tomb. It would be safe there until he had secured a wealthy buyer. Perhaps he would try the Old Temple in London, where St Hugh had died. Then he placed the two flasks in his hat and slipped out of the nearest door. He skipped down the hill to the Bishop’s Palace, and let himself into the kitchens, where food and a large keg of wine stood, waiting to be served to the newly installed canons and their guests. He sniffed the flasks a second time, taking his time to decide which was which, although it was not easy.

Looking around quickly, to make sure no one was watching, he emptied the contents of one pot into the bishop’s wine. Then he took a long draught from the second, to fortify himself for the long journey he was about to make. He grimaced at the flavour, but he was not afraid. Dame Eleanor would watch over him, as she had promised. And she was a saint, after all.