The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 1

Lincoln, December 1356

The sun was setting as the travellers approached the outskirts of the city. Red-gold beams struck the mighty cathedral perched atop its hill, turning its pale stone to a glowing bronze that darkened as night approached. Already, stars were beginning to appear in a cloudless sky, and shadows slanted across the frozen track. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at the University in Cambridge and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse, shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, and was glad the journey was almost at an end. It was unusually cold for the time of year, and early snows dusted the surrounding countryside.

‘A magnificent sight,’ breathed Thomas de Suttone, gazing at the minster in awe. He was a large man who wore the habit of a Carmelite friar, albeit a very elegant one. One of Michaelhouse’s theologians, Suttone preferred to tell others how to practise moderation and poverty than to do it himself. ‘A fitting tribute to the glory of God.’

‘It is on a hill,’ complained Brother Michael, the third of Michaelhouse’s travel-weary scholars, regarding it balefully. He was a Benedictine, and his dark cloak and habit were splattered with pale mud. His palfrey stumbled in an ice-filled rut, and a lesser horseman might have been thrown, but the monk had been taught to ride before he could walk, and he did no more than shift in his saddle and adjust the reins. ‘We shall have to ascend it on foot, because my poor beast is spent.’

‘It is spent because you are so fat,’ explained Suttone brutally. ‘My animal is not nearly as exhausted, and neither is Matt’s. Yours has a far greater load to carry.’

‘I am slimmer than I was this time last year,’ countered Michael indignantly. He was proud of the fact that the habits he had filled to bursting point eighteen months earlier were now slightly loose, although even the most sycophantic of his friends could not deny that he still possessed a very full figure. Bartholomew encouraged him in his new regime of moderation, because, as a physician, he believed that obese men were susceptible to dangerous imbalances of the humours.

‘When the Death returns – which it will – it will carry off gluttons,’ stated Suttone matter-of-factly. He was fond of predicting what would happen if the country were ever ravaged by the plague again. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He was weary of Suttone’s gloomy prophecies, and did not like to be reminded of the time when all his medical skills and experience had proved to be useless.

‘We are more than a week late,’ he said, seeing Michael open his mouth to make a tart response that would almost certainly initiate a quarrel. He was too tired and cold to be caught in the middle of another of their rows. ‘Do you think you are still expected?’

‘Of course we are!’ cried Suttone, offended by the suggestion that the city of Lincoln might not be waiting on tenterhooks for his arrival. ‘The Feast of St Thomas the Apostle – when the ceremony installing Michael and me as cathedral canons will take place – is not for another two Sundays yet. It is Wednesday today, which leaves us plenty of time to prepare ourselves.’

‘I shall want to look my best,’ said Michael, grimacing at his dirt-splattered clothes. ‘We will need to commission special vestments, and I might even purchase some new shoes.’

Suttone nodded eagerly. ‘I shall do the same. We have been on the road for more than two weeks now, and I am tired of sitting astride this wretched nag and having sleet, snow and rain blow in my face. It has been clear today, but the good weather has come at a price, and I have never known such bitter cold. My feet are frozen to the point where I do not think they will ever move again.’

‘It is a pity the same cannot be said for your jaws,’ muttered Michael unpleasantly. ‘You have not stopped complaining for the last fifteen days.’

‘Where shall we go first?’ asked Bartholomew, before Suttone could respond to the insult. With dusk approaching, they needed to find lodgings before people closed their gates and retired to their beds for the night. ‘The cathedral?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Suttone and I cannot arrive there covered in mire and reeking of horse – the other canons will wonder what sort of fellows they have invited to join their ranks.’

‘I still do not understand why you two were offered these posts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neither of you have visited Lincoln before, and nor have you done anything to benefit the city.’

Michael glared at him. ‘I am Senior Proctor of England’s greatest University and a confidant of the Bishop of Ely. Thus, I am an important man, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that a place like Lincoln should want to include me among its officials.’

‘But you will not be among its officials,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You will be in Cambridge.’

‘A non-residentiary canon,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the cathedral will benefit from having my name in its records and, in return, I shall claim a modest income from the prebendal stall I am to “occupy”. Prestige, Matt. It is all about prestige – on both sides.’

‘I would have thought being the Bishop of Ely’s spy would count against you, Brother,’ said Suttone with his customary bluntness. ‘I, on the other hand, am one of my Order’s foremost scholars, and my family has long been associated with Lincoln. My grandfather was Bishop Oliver Suttone.’

Michael regarded him coolly, while Bartholomew supposed that either the long-dead prelate had taken vows of celibacy later in life or – more likely – had ignored them altogether.

‘I am not forced to rely on dead ancestors to help me win favour,’ declared the monk icily. ‘And my bishop is very well thought of by his peers.’

His comment suggested the same could not be said for Bishop Oliver Suttone, although Bartholomew had no idea whether the man had been a saint or the biggest crook in Christendom.

‘Night is drawing on,’ said Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, kicking his pony forward to speak quietly to the physician. Cynric was the last of the four-man party from Michaelhouse. ‘We should not dally while they quarrel again. Remember what happened last night? You and I were hard-pressed to fight off those robbers, and this pair were next to worthless.’

‘Michael was not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the competent way the monk had wielded a stave. For a man who had foresworn arms, the monk was remarkably adept with long pieces of wood.

The religious habits worn by Michael and Suttone had deterred most footpads from attacking them on their journey, although the ruthless band that had set their ambush the previous night had chosen to ignore the general consensus that it was a bad idea to raise weapons against men of God. They would be more cautious the next time, though. Cynric was a formidable swordsman, and Bartholomew’s recent experiences in France – a country with which England was currently at war – had honed his once mediocre skills to the point where he was more than a match for the common robber.

Cynric sniffed as he rode next to Bartholomew. ‘But Suttone distracted me by falling to his knees and squawking prayers. Look at them now – they are debating whether Bishop Gynewell of Lincoln is better than Bishop de Lisle of Ely, and neither is qualified to give an opinion, because they have never met Gynewell. They will squabble for hours, if you do not move them on.’

Bartholomew addressed his argumentative colleagues. ‘I can see the city gates ahead. They will close at dusk, so we do not have much time if we want to sleep inside tonight.’

Suttone squinted into the rapidly fading light. ‘Bishop Gynewell mentioned gates south of the city in his letter – although he said the first set actually protects a suburb called Wigford, not Lincoln itself. However, he also said the Carmelite Friary is located in Wigford, so we shall stay there.’

‘I am not staying with White Friars,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘They have a nasty habit of fasting or dining solely on fish during Advent – and after a day in the saddle, a man needs red meat. We shall hunt out the Benedictines instead. They have a more sensible attitude to such matters.’

‘If you had bothered to read Gynewell’s missive, you would know that the Black Monks’ Priory is a long way to the east of the town,’ argued Suttone. ‘Too far to go tonight. But my Carmelite brethren will not starve two hungry canons-elect and a University physician–’

‘Look,’ said Cynric, pointing to where someone was lighting a lantern outside a substantial gatehouse. The lamp swung in the gathering wind, and would not burn for long. ‘Only a convent would own such a great, thick door. We could ask to stay there.’

‘We could not,’ said Suttone distastefully. ‘According to Gynewell, the first friary encountered from this direction will be Gilbertine.’ He almost spat the name of the only religious Order to be founded in England. ‘And we all know they are inferior to the rest of us.’

‘Then you can find somewhere better tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, spurring his horse forward. The Cambridge Gilbertines were respectable, sober men, and he thought Suttone’s prejudice against their Order was unjustified and ignorant. ‘But tonight we shall stay here. It is too near nightfall to be choosy.’

Suttone opened his mouth to argue, but the temperature was dropping fast as the sun disappeared, and even he saw further travel would be foolish. He set his pony after Bartholomew, with Michael and Cynric at his heels.

The Gilbertine Priory of St Katherine occupied a substantial tract of land about a mile south of the city, tucked between the main road and the broad River Witham. Like many convents that had been built outside a town defences, it looked to its own security, and was protected by a high wall. Unfortunately, the wall was in a poor state of repair, suggesting it had been built in a time of plenty, but the priory within was currently experiencing leaner times. On closer inspection, the gatehouse was similarly afflicted: there was worm in its wooden door and its metal bosses were rusty. The grille that allowed guards to scan visitors before opening the front door was missing, affording anyone outside an unobstructed view of the buildings within. Bartholomew saw several long, tiled roofs, indicating that the Gilbertines owned a sizeable institution, if not a wealthy one.

Opposite the gate, standing so close to the side of the road that carts would surely be obliged to alter course to avoid hitting it, was a tall structure, liberally adorned with pinnacles and a teetering central spire. It stood twice the height of a man, and reminded Bartholomew of a roadside shrine he had seen recently in France.

‘It is probably the Eleanor Cross,’ said Suttone, when he saw his colleagues regarding it curiously. He raised his eyebrows in contrived disbelief when Michael regarded him blankly. ‘Queen Eleanor – wife of the first King Edward.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael, struggling to remember his history before Suttone started to gloat. ‘When she died, Edward was so distressed that he built one of these monuments at every place her body rested on its journey to Westminster Abbey. The cortege started near Lincoln, I recall.’

‘The King left her viscera here, though,’ added Suttone, determined to have the last word.

‘Her what, Father?’ asked Cynric.

‘Viscera – innards,’ explained Suttone. ‘It is a great honour for the cathedral to have them.’

Cynric eyed him in shocked revulsion. ‘You English!’ he muttered, but not quite softly enough to escape Suttone’s sharp ears. ‘Disembowelling queens is not the act of civilised men. You are worse than the French – and that is saying something.’

Suttone’s eyes narrowed. The book-bearer had been taciturn and deferential before Bartholomew had taken him overseas some eighteen months before, but the experience had changed him – and not for the better. He often voiced his own opinions now, and was not afraid to say exactly what he thought, even when it was rude. Bartholomew did not seem to care, and even sought out the fellow’s advice on some matters, which Suttone, a traditional sort of man, found unconscionable. It was true that Cynric’s military skills had saved them several times during the journey, but Suttone disliked saucy servants, and he preferred the old Cynric. He opened his mouth to object to being compared unfavourably to the French, but the party had been spotted by the man kindling the lamp – a small fellow with jug-like ears. Like all male members of the Gilbertine Order, he wore an ankle-length tunic of black, covered by a white cloak and hood.

‘Are you looking for lodgings?’ he asked, coming towards them with open eagerness. ‘My name is John de Whatton. We have plenty of beds and food, even for Benedictines and Carmelites, and especially if they can pay.’

‘Good,’ replied Michael ungraciously. ‘I am starving. So is my horse,’ he added as an afterthought, when Suttone drew breath to comment on his plague-inducing appetite.

‘We have plenty of sweet hay, too,’ said Whatton with a cheerful smile. ‘However, you may find us in disarray this evening. We have had a death, you see, but you should not let it bother you.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Bartholomew politely. ‘One of your brethren?’

‘No, thank the good Lord. One of the guests. He was murdered.’

‘Well done, Matthew,’ whispered Suttone venomously, as the Michaelhouse men followed Whatton through the crumbling gatehouse and into the Gilbertines’ domain. ‘Gynewell wrote that there are six friaries and convents in Lincoln, to say nothing of hospitals that entertain paying guests, and you choose the one where someone has just been slaughtered.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ agreed Michael. ‘Whatton did not say whether the suspect is under lock and key or still at large. It would be a pity for me to have survived the treacherous journey from Cambridge, only to have my throat cut on arrival. Lord! It is a bitter evening – it would not surprise me to learn there was another blizzard in the offing. But I suppose there are four of us to repel the murderous advances of these Gilbertines, so I suggest we do as Matt says, and stay here tonight. We can always find somewhere better tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow might be too late,’ Suttone pointed out darkly.

Michael chose to ignore the comment as he ventured further into the priory. ‘This place should please you, Suttone: it looks poor, and you will not want to be too lavishly entertained, lest it encourages the plague to come again.’

‘My beliefs about the Death do not lead me to embrace squalor when alternatives are available,’ replied Suttone haughtily. ‘But we are inside now, and it would be churlish to take one look around and opt to go elsewhere. Some of these Gilbertines might be cathedral canons – future colleagues – and it would be a pity to offend them so soon. I agree with you: we shall sleep here tonight.’

A lay-brother came to take the horses, and Whatton issued a stream of instructions – the visitors’ beasts were to be given warmed oat mash and the stable that did not leak. The man nodded in a way that suggested he did not need to be told, indicating the orders were for the guests’ benefit, not his. Then Whatton bustled away abruptly, leaving the scholars alone and uncertain what to do next. When Suttone and Michael began a waspish debate about the merits of poverty in religious foundations, Bartholomew took the opportunity to inspect his surroundings before the light failed completely.

The buildings stood around two separate yards, with the chapel and the Prior’s House forming a barrier between them. As in most Gilbertine foundations, a nuns’ refectory and dormitory lay to the north, while the brothers had a similar set of buildings to the south, along with a two-storeyed hall for guests and a thatched shed for servants. A muddle of kitchens, pantries and storehouses stood to the west, overlooking the neat vegetable plots that ran down to the river. The land to the south of the complex comprised an extensive orchard of fruit trees.

‘Who has been murdered?’ asked Michael, breaking into the Carmelite’s tirade against those who hankered after luxury – with the natural exception of himself, of course. ‘Did Whatton say?’

‘One of the guests,’ replied Suttone. ‘Clearly, they do not offer much protection for those unlucky devils who are forced to stay within their walls.’

‘Look at that!’ hissed Cynric suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s arm hard enough to hurt as he pointed. ‘Surely, that is a woman? What is she doing in here?’

‘It is a Gilbertine foundation,’ explained Michael. Cynric did not look any the wiser, so he elaborated. ‘A dual house – where nuns and brothers live together.’

‘Does that mean those ladies will share our beds tonight?’ asked Cynric nervously. ‘My wife will not approve of that at all, and she is bound to find out. She always does.’

‘Well, I shall not do it,’ declared Suttone. ‘Unless there is absolutely no alternative. Here comes Whatton with a friend. Draw your sword, Cynric, lest they have come to kill us.’

‘Don’t,’ countered Bartholomew sharply, when Cynric started to comply.

‘God’s greetings,’ said the newcomer. He was taller than Whatton, and there was something unpleasant about his wet-lipped grin and the mincing quality of his voice. ‘You have caught us at a bad time, I am afraid. One of our visitors died this morning, and his friends have been here all day, demanding an explanation. Then several other guests left, because they do not want to sleep in a place where their throats may be cut during the night. So we are now all confusion.’

‘Someone’s throat was cut?’ asked Suttone in alarm.

The Gilbertine’s smile slipped a little. ‘It was just a figure of speech – he was merely stabbed, so do not worry yourself with unnecessarily gruesome images. I am Hamo, and the prior has asked me to see to your needs during your sojourn with us. I am more than happy to do so.’

‘You should be,’ remarked Whatton wryly. ‘It means an effective promotion to Brother Hospitaller, a post that has been vacant since Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters last year.’

‘Fat William was a greedy fellow,’ said Hamo, and his grin became a little gleeful. ‘He was in the habit of eating the food left by pilgrims for the poor, and Dame Eleanor said God struck him down for his unrepentant gluttony.’

‘Then Dame Eleanor sounds like a woman after my own heart,’ said Suttone, impressed. ‘Does she believe gluttony is the sin most likely to provoke God into sending the Death again? If so, I would like to meet her.’

Whatton raised his eyebrows in surprise: Suttone was not as large as Michael, but he was still a very well-fed man. ‘I do not know which sin she deplores the most, but she is a saintly lady, and often weeps when she sees brazen wickedness. Since she walks from here to the cathedral every day – and it is quite a long way – she tends to notice rather a lot of it.’

Hamo clasped his hands in front of him, and adopted an ingratiatingly submissive pose. ‘But enough of us. Have you come to Lincoln for the installation of canons, for Miller’s Market or to make reparation for sins committed during the Summer Madness?’

‘Summer Madness?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Hamo regarded him oddly. ‘People ran insane in August. Did you not hear? It happened all over the country. They fell shuddering and screaming to the ground, and had to be bound hand and foot to prevent them from harming themselves. We took them to the churches, so God could cure them.’

‘And did He?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. He and Cynric had only returned to Cambridge in October, for the beginning of the academic year. The ensuing term had been frantically busy, and neither had had much time to catch up on what had happened in England during their absence.

Hamo nodded. ‘For the most part, although we lost a few because they refused to eat or were smothered as they were restrained. However, a number of very evil deeds were perpetrated by some sufferers, and many will flock to the cathedral on St Thomas’s Day to make amends.’

‘What sort of evil deeds?’ asked Suttone curiously. ‘Gluttony? Avarice?’

‘Worse,’ replied Hamo. ‘One man – a merchant called Flaxfleete – set fire to a rival clothier’s storerooms. I am sure he will be among the petitioners – he will not want arson on his conscience.’

‘The Dean and Chapter have offered a complete absolution from all summer sins for the very reasonable price of sixpence,’ elaborated Whatton, clearly impressed by such a good bargain. ‘And since the Madness was used as an excuse for committing all manner of crimes, there will be a lot of folk eager to take advantage of the offer. It is all in a good cause – the cathedral’s roof is very expensive to maintain.’

‘We had no cases in Cambridge, but the town was full of the news for weeks,’ explained Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The sickness struck across all of England, and I am surprised you did not hear the tales when you returned from France.’

‘What caused it?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael was startled to be asked such a question. ‘I have no idea. An imbalance of humours, I suppose, since that is the explanation you physicians usually give for any ailment that mystifies you.’

‘Actually, the Devil was responsible,’ countered Hamo matter-of-factly. ‘He sent people into fits of twisting and contortions, and made them see things that were not there.’

‘Ignis sacer,’ surmised Bartholomew, drawing his own conclusions. He translated for Cynric’s benefit. ‘Holy Fire. It is a kind of plague that often occurs after wet, cold winters. It causes a swelling and a rotting of the limbs – and that does create an imbalance of humours, Brother.’

‘Well, we are not in Lincoln to confess sins brought about by Summer Madness,’ said Suttone to the Gilbertines. His tone was smug. ‘Brother Michael and I are here to be installed as canons.’

Hamo beamed in genuine pleasure. ‘I must tell Prior Roger immediately! He will be delighted – he likes to keep favour with the cathedral.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you kin to these two, come to share their moment of honour?’

Bartholomew did not want to tell him the truth, which was that he was looking for the woman he hoped might become his wife. When Matilde had despaired of him ever putting the question that would make her happy and had left Cambridge, he had promptly resigned his Fellowship and had gone to find her, taking Cynric with him. He had visited her relatives in France and on the Italian peninsula, and searched every city, town and village he had ever heard her mention, but all to no avail. Matilde had disappeared as though she had never been born.

When he had returned to Cambridge after almost sixteen months of futile hunting, he learned that Michael – wholly on his own initiative – had destroyed his letter of resignation and arranged a sabbatical leave of absence instead, which meant his job at Michaelhouse was still his own. He had been grateful beyond words, because he liked teaching, and a hall full of eager students had helped ease the emptiness in his heart that Matilde had left.

Then Michael and Suttone had been offered posts as canons in Lincoln, and the mention of that city had jolted a memory in one of Matilde’s friends – they had discussed Lincoln once, she said, and Matilde had almost married a man who lived there. Matilde had never talked about Lincoln to Bartholomew, although he knew about the aborted betrothal, and while he doubted he would find her there, he felt compelled to turn the very last stone. And it was the very last stone, because he had followed every other lead, even the most unlikely ones. He had waited patiently for term to finish – Michael could not be expected to inveigle a second sabbatical so soon after the first – and then had offered to accompany his two colleagues when they travelled to Lincoln for their installation.

But what should he tell the Gilbertines? No one at Michaelhouse knew why he had gone the first time, except Michael and Cynric; as far as Suttone and the other Fellows were concerned, he had been seized with a sudden desire to inspect the medical faculties in Padua, Montpellier, Paris and Salerno. Bartholomew was not a monk or a priest in holy orders, unlike most University officers, and so women were not forbidden to him, but chasing them across half the civilised world was not the kind of behaviour expected from scholars nonetheless, and he preferred to keep his business to himself.

‘He came to protect us helpless monastics on the long and dangerous road from Cambridge,’ explained Michael, when the physician took rather too long to reply to what was a simple question. The monk did not want the Gilbertines to assume there was another reason for the physician’s presence, and start to pry. And, since he seriously doubted Matilde would be found in Lincoln, there was no need for anyone to know the real purpose for his friend’s journey.

Personally, Michael believed Matilde did not want to be found, and thought Bartholomew should abandon his quest and take the cowl instead. Scholars were not permitted to marry, and if the physician caught his prize, he would be forced to give up his Fellowship. He was a valuable asset to Michaelhouse, which was why the monk had gone to the trouble of arranging the sabbatical in the first place – something he would not have done for any other colleague.

‘He defended you against robbers?’ asked Hamo doubtfully. Bartholomew’s hat and cloak revealed him as a physician, and he wore a leather jerkin of the type favoured by seasoned travellers and soldiers. However, his sword was caked in mud and beginning to rust in a way that would shame a real warrior, and the medicine bag he wore looped over his shoulder would impede his drawing of it.

‘We are not overly endowed with good fighting men at the University,’ explained Michael, seeing the Gilbertine did not know whether to believe him. ‘So, we are obliged to accept whoever offers.’

‘Actually, Doctor Bartholomew has recently returned from France,’ said Suttone, indignant on Bartholomew’s behalf at the slur on his fighting abilities. To underline his point, he deliberately gave the last word a sinister timbre that was potent enough to make both Gilbertines shudder.

‘How dreadful,’ said Hamo. ‘We are at war with the French, so it must have been very dangerous.’

‘It was,’ agreed Suttone. ‘He went to study there, and his devotion to acquiring foreign knowledge meant he was at Poitiers in September.’ He pursed his lips meaningfully, glancing at Michael to show that he was wrong to denigrate their colleague’s military skills.

‘Poitiers?’ asked Whatton eagerly. ‘There are tales of a great battle there – the Black Prince won a mighty victory. Did you see it? We would love to hear your account, if you were.’

‘Such slaughter is hardly a subject for fireside chatter,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully.

‘It is, though,’ countered Cynric immediately. ‘Most of the great Welsh ballads are about battles, and you have to admit Poitiers was one of the best. I shall never forget the moment when the Black Prince raised his sword after that third skirmish – when we were certain we were doomed because we were outnumbered and exhausted – and tore into the French like an avenging angel. It was a glorious sight and I do not mind telling you the story, Master Whatton.’

‘But I do,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He failed to understand how his book-bearer had distilled even the most remote flicker of enjoyment from the bloody carnage. Cynric, meanwhile, was bemused by the physician’s revulsion by what he saw as a bright, shining moment in history. They had discussed it at length, and both knew it was a matter on which they would never agree.

Whatton winked at Cynric in a way that suggested arrangements would be made later. ‘How did you come to be in Poitiers – or France, for that matter? Surely, the natives are hostile to Englishmen?’

Bartholomew was not about to admit that he had been visiting members of Matilde’s family, but he did not want to lie, either. He told a partial truth. ‘Cynric and I were forced to travel with the English army for some of the time. It was safer that way – until French forces trapped us and forced a fight. Poitiers might have been considered a great victory here, but it came at a terrible price – for both sides.’

‘While we are in Lincoln, we are hoping to meet an old acquaintance,’ said Michael, hastily changing the subject before Bartholomew’s distaste for war led him to say something unpatriotic or treasonous. Too late, he realised he had chosen another subject that was painful for his friend, but it would look odd to change what he was going to say, so he pressed on. ‘A lady called Matilde, who lived here once. I do not suppose you happen to know her?’

Suttone smiled suddenly and unexpectedly. Everyone at Michaelhouse had liked Matilde, even sour old miseries like the Carmelite. ‘Dear Matilde! We all missed her when she left. Do you think she might be here, Brother? It is possible, I suppose. She once told me – after I gave a sermon in which I mentioned my grandfather the bishop – that she considered Lincoln’s cathedral to be the finest in the world, so perhaps she does hail from this place.’

‘My Order compels me to preach among the laity, so I do know a large number of townsfolk,’ replied Hamo. ‘But I am afraid there are several women by that name. What does she look like?’

Bartholomew refrained from telling him that she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. ‘I believe she was once betrothed to a merchant called William de Spayne,’ he said instead.

Hamo beamed. ‘Oh, that Matilde – a lady with the face of an angel, and the sweet heart of one, too. I am not surprised you would like to trace her. She is an acquaintance well worth keeping.’

Bartholomew gazed at Hamo, aware that his heart was pounding. He had not imagined that the first man he asked would remember Matilde – he had not expected anyone to know her, having endured more than a year of shaken heads and apologetic smiles – and he wondered whether his luck had finally turned. ‘Is she here now?’ he asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

Hamo shook his head. ‘I am sorry – she is not. But Spayne might know where she went. You could ask him.’

‘He is our current mayor,’ added Whatton helpfully. ‘And he lives in one of the old stone houses near the corn market. Anyone will tell you how to find it.’

‘Not tonight, Matt,’ said Michael in an undertone, seeing the physician about to follow their directions immediately. ‘It is dark, and only a madman wanders around strange cities after sunset.’

‘When was she last here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice. It would be hard to wait all night for answers, although he saw the sense in Michael’s advice.

Hamo thought carefully. ‘It must be six years now. Everyone loved her. There is a deep rift between some of the city officials, you see, and she was one of few who have tried to heal it. But then she just left. She was here one day and gone the next, like a puff of wind, leaving no trace of herself.’

‘Just like she did in Cambridge,’ said Suttone, shaking his head sadly. Then he frowned. ‘Do I recall you being especially fond of her, Matthew?’

‘No more so than anyone else,’ replied Michael briskly, before Bartholomew could answer for himself. ‘He is a University Fellow, after all, and not given to hankerings for women.’

Suttone seemed to accept the point, and Hamo began to elaborate on Matilde’s abrupt departure from his city. Bartholomew’s brief flare of hope had died at the mention of six years. She had been in Cambridge since then, and he suspected her Lincoln friends would know even less about her most recent wanderings than he did.

‘Who is she?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, pointing to where an unusually tall lady in the white habit of a Gilbertine nun was walking towards the chapel, holding a lamp to guide her. The robe accentuated her slim figure, and she moved in a way that suggested she knew she was attracting admiring glances. At her side was an older woman, slightly bent with age, but still moving quickly enough to make her younger companion stride out to keep pace with her.

‘That is Dame Eleanor,’ replied Whatton, his voice softening with quiet admiration. ‘As a child, she was presented to the old queen, who gave her to us. She has been here for nigh on six decades.’

‘You mean Queen Isabella?’ asked Suttone. ‘The wanton wife of the second King Edward?’

‘No, the queen before her,’ replied Hamo. ‘Eleanor – whose memorial stands outside our gate. We are very proud of that, because it is a symbol of the esteem in which our priory is held by monarchs. But our Eleanor – Dame Eleanor Darcy – has dedicated her life to Lincoln’s saints, and climbs the hill every day to tend their shrines in the cathedral. She is a devout and venerable lady.’

‘Is she the one who deplores gluttony?’ asked Suttone keenly. ‘You mentioned her earlier.’

‘What saints?’ asked Cynric, as Hamo nodded his answer to Suttone’s question. ‘Does your city have saints of its own?’

Hamo nodded again. ‘They are called Little Hugh and Bishop Hugh, both buried in the cathedral.’

‘I meant the other lady,’ said Michael impatiently, eyes fixed on the apparition in white that glided along the snow-dappled path. ‘The younger one.’

‘That looks like a woman,’ supplied Suttone unhelpfully. ‘The Gilbertine Order enrols them in its priories, as you mentioned earlier. It is an odd rule, and I do not consider it a wise one.’

‘Women have just as much right to live in this fine convent as men do,’ said Whatton coolly. ‘And problems with cohabitation occur only when folk are weak and given to fornication. Benedictines could never manage it, and neither could Carmelites, but male and female Gilbertines have been living side by side without trouble or sin for nigh on two hundred years.’

‘I applaud your achievement, but who is she?’ pressed Michael irritably, overlooking the slight to his Order in the interests of learning what he wanted to know.

‘Christiana de Hauville,’ replied Hamo, glaring at his colleague for his intemperate remarks to honoured guests. ‘She is technically a lay-sister, although she is nobly born and owns property in the city. Dame Eleanor has taken a liking to her, and they are often together. As you can see, they are going to the Chapel of St Katherine for evening prayers.’

‘Eleanor says she has taken Lady Christiana under her wing,’ said Whatton. He smiled indulgently. ‘Yet it often appears the other way around – Christiana looks after Eleanor. But, suffice to say, they are devoted to each other. It is cold out here. Would you like to come inside?’

‘I would like to visit your chapel,’ said Michael transparently. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’

‘You can do it by your bed, Brother,’ said Suttone, shooting Michael a look to warn him that the honour of his Order was at stake, and he should not prove the Gilbertines right by ogling the first female who crossed his path. ‘Our horses are already installed in a warm stable with a bucket of hot mash, and I would like to do the same.’

‘Would you?’ asked Hamo, startled. ‘I was planning to put you in the guest-hall, and provide you with a supper of roasted goose. But, of course, if you would rather eat oats–’

‘The guest-hall will be acceptable,’ said Michael, tearing his eyes from the chapel and indicating that Hamo should lead the way. ‘And I might manage a sliver of roasted goose, especially if it comes with a few parsnips and a loaf of bread.’

‘We are delighted to have you here, and we will cook you whatever you want,’ replied Hamo generously. Bartholomew hoped he would not regret the promise: Michael had a formidable appetite. ‘Ask for anything, and, if it is in my power to give, you shall have it.’

‘How kind,’ said Michael, inclining his head. ‘You are most hospitable.’

‘Yes, we are,’ agreed Whatton pleasantly. ‘We like guests, especially ones who might leave us a donation to mend our roofs. We suffered badly in the Death – there were sixty of us, but now we are only twelve – and Prior Roger says we may never recover. The biggest problem is that there are not enough of us to collect the tithes we are owed, and we sink ever deeper into poverty and debt.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Suttone. ‘But surely you can hire a bailiff to help you?’

‘We tried, but they kept absconding with our money,’ said Hamo mournfully. He opened the door of the long building that formed the guest-hall. ‘Here we are. You shall have the upper room, because it is nicer than the ground-floor chamber. Warmer, too.’

He led the way through a dark, vault-like hall that had bedding piled around the edges, and headed for a spiral staircase. It emerged in an attractive room with clean white walls, wooden floors and the exotic luxury of a stone sink in one corner with a pail of icy water underneath it. He and Whatton set about lighting a fire, while Michael opened a window shutter to inspect the chapel. Bartholomew paced restlessly, thinking about William de Spayne, and hoping, despite the practical part of his mind that told him he was wasting his time, that the mayor might be able to tell him something useful about Matilde.

‘You mentioned a Miller’s Market when you asked why we had come to Lincoln,’ said Suttone conversationally while the Gilbertines busied themselves at the hearth. ‘What is that, exactly?’

‘It is an annual occurrence now,’ said Hamo, rolling straw into a ball for kindling, ‘although it does not usually coincide with the installation of canons. Those two events – along with the General Pardon – are why our city is so busy at the moment, and every bed taken.’

‘Is it?’ asked Michael, thinking about the empty chamber below.

Whatton applied a tinderbox to Hamo’s straw. ‘Every convent is bursting at the seams, and every inn seethes with visitors. Except us.’

‘That is because our priory is the one farthest from the city, and people dislike walking the extra distance,’ added Hamo quickly, seeing his guests’ thoughts naturally turn to the man who had been murdered that day.

‘You still have not told us what Miller’s Market is,’ said Michael.

‘A merchant named Adam Miller started it five years ago, when he baked cakes and sold them at cost to the town’s poor,’ replied Whatton. ‘The next year, other members of the Commonalty – that is the city’s ruling council – followed his example, and the poor had ale and leather goods. And so it has continued, although the promise of cheap supplies encourages evil types – thieves, pickpockets, beggars and scoundrels – to flock here, too.’

‘You said you have come to be enrolled as canons,’ said Hamo, rather more interested in eliciting information than dispensing it. ‘Which stalls will you occupy?’

Suttone smiled with more pride than was right for a man in a vocation that advocated humility. ‘Brother Michael will have the Stall of South Scarle, and I shall have the Stall of Decem Librarum – which is valued at six pounds, eighteen shillings and seven pence a year.’

‘That is a lot of money, Father,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘What will you do with it?’

‘As canons, we shall have specific duties to perform,’ explained Suttone. ‘But obviously we cannot live here, since we have our University teaching to do, so we shall spend a portion of it on paying a deputy – called a Vicar Choral – to act in our stead.’

‘You will pay him almost seven pounds a year?’ asked Cynric, awed. ‘May I apply? I can read a bit of Latin – Doctor Bartholomew taught me when we were in France.’

Michael smiled indulgently. ‘We only need pay our assistants a fraction of our earnings – our prebends, as they are called. The rest we can keep for ourselves. I shall give some to Michaelhouse, some to my mother abbey at Ely, and spend the rest on good wine to share with friends. But Suttone and I do not accept these posts for the money, but because they represent an acknowledgement of our academic prowess.’

‘They represent the fact that you have connections to the men who can control these things,’ corrected Whatton baldly, making Bartholomew laugh. ‘Who is it? The Bishop of Ely? Our own Bishop Gynewell?’

Suttone’s face was stony. ‘I am related to the Lincolnshire Suttones, who–’

‘Gynewell, then,’ said Whatton, nodding his satisfaction that he had been right. ‘The Suttones are a powerful family in these parts, and Gynewell is obliged to pander to them at every opportunity.’

Hamo beamed in delight, and reached out to grasp the Carmelite’s hand. ‘Then you and I are kin, Father, because I am Hamo de Suttone. I hail from a lowly branch of the dynasty, it is true, but I am proud of it anyway. I had no idea that our humble priory was about to entertain such an auspicious guest.’

‘But you both plan to appoint Vicars Choral and join the ranks of Lincoln’s many non-residentiary canons,’ said Whatton, not as impressed as his colleague. ‘Most of your prebends will go to other foundations, and not to poor Lincoln. Still, it cannot be helped. At least you are English. Most of the last lot were French – and us at war, too!’

‘Shameful,’ agreed Cynric with considerable feeling.

‘Whatton mentioned a murder earlier,’ said Suttone, glancing towards the door to ensure it could be barred from the inside. ‘But he did not say whether you had caught the culprit.’

‘We have not,’ replied Whatton, standing up as the logs caught at last. ‘But there is no need for alarm. I doubt the killer will attack anyone else.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

Whatton smiled serenely. ‘Because of the man Aylmer was – debauched, sly and dishonest. No one was surprised when he was found dead with a dagger in his back.’

‘Do you mean John Aylmer?’ asked Suttone. He swallowed hard. ‘From Huntingdonshire?’

Hamo nodded. ‘You know him? He was certainly the kind of fellow to stick in a man’s mind.’

‘He is certainly stuck in mine,’ said Suttone weakly. ‘He is my Vicar Choral.’

‘I cannot wait until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, pacing up and down in the guest-hall. The Gilbertines had gone, Suttone was out in search of the latrine, and the physician was alone with Michael and Cynric. ‘I keep thinking Hamo may be right – that Spayne might know where Matilde is now. If he was going to marry her six years ago, then they were obviously close.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘But think about her arrival in Cambridge, Matt. It was roughly six years ago, so she probably went there immediately after she left him. She mentioned this betrothal to you once, which suggests that either they parted on bad terms or he did not mean that much to her. Do not rush this. You waited the best part of a term before coming to investigate this particular lead, so surely you can manage a few more hours?’

Bartholomew was not sure he could. The possibility, however remote, that Spayne might be able to help him gnawed at his senses like a worm. ‘I know it is dark, but it is not late, and I cannot see Spayne being in his bed before seven o’clock. I am going to see him tonight.’

‘It is not wise to wander around strange towns after dusk,’ said Michael gently. ‘You know this.’

‘I will go with you,’ offered Cynric, seeing the physician was not to be dissuaded. He stood and slipped his sword into his belt.

Michael looked around for his cloak. ‘Then so will I. Cynric can protect you with his blade, and my habit may make footpads think twice about molesting you.’

‘It did not work yesterday,’ Cynric pointed out ruefully.

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall say a prayer before we go. In the chapel.’

‘You mean the chapel that lady went into?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Then go and fulfil your religious obligations, Brother. I do not need an escort.’

Michael was right: it was dangerous to explore unknown cities at night, and Bartholomew did not want to put his friends at risk just because he was impatient. They listened to his arguments for them remaining with the Gilbertines, then followed him outside anyway. Snow lay in untidy heaps, where it had been swept, and the ground was slick with hoarfrost.

‘You have been more than patient with my hunt,’ said Bartholomew, buckling his sword to his waist as they walked across the yard. He never carried weapons in Cambridge, but his travels in France and along some of England’s robber-infested highways meant he was now more cautious. ‘Both of you. And I shall make you a promise: this is the last time I race off in search of shadows. If I cannot find Matilde this time, I shall concede defeat.’

‘I shall hold you to it,’ warned Michael, selecting a tortuous route that avoided the bigger drifts. ‘You cannot spend the rest of your life haring around countries with which we are at war, and we need you at Michaelhouse. We have students eager to study with you – you taught them more last term than Doctor Rougham managed in a year – and England needs University-trained physicians. If Suttone is right, and the Death is about to come back, the importance of your work cannot be overestimated.’

‘You give me too much credit. Physicians were worthless during the plague – worse than worthless, even, since I sometimes wonder whether our advice and practices made it worse. But even if we cannot cure the pestilence, then I suppose there are other ailments to treat. We still have our uses.’

‘You do,’ agreed Michael. ‘Oh, look! We just happen to be at the Gilbertines’ church. Give me a few moments to say my prayers, and then we shall visit Spayne together.’

The Chapel of St Katherine was an attractive building, which had been raised by Normans. It boasted small roundheaded windows, and the arches in the nave were adorned with brightly painted dog-tooth mouldings. Its chancel was longer than its nave, although not as wide, and its stone floor made their footsteps echo as they walked towards the high altar. It smelled damp, as though the roof was leaking somewhere, and it was icy cold. It was also empty, although a doused but still-warm lamp suggested that Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana had not long left their devotions.

Michael grimaced before kneeling to recite a psalm of deliverance. Unlike Bartholomew, who enjoyed being on the road and seeing new sights, the monk considered travel a dreadful ordeal, and was genuinely grateful to have arrived in Lincoln unscathed. While he chanted, Bartholomew wondered what it was about Lady Christiana that had caught Michael’s attention, thinking she could not hold a candle to Matilde’s radiant beauty. But then, he acknowledged wryly, he could not look at a woman without comparing her unfavourably to Matilde these days. It was hardly healthy, and he knew he should stop before he drove himself insane.

‘You should leave some coins,’ Michael called over his shoulder, as he climbed inelegantly to his feet. ‘St Katherine will appreciate them, and we need all the good graces we can muster, since we have to ride home again in two weeks.’

When Bartholomew did as the monk suggested, he saw others had left oblations, too. In pride of place was a silver chalice. It was a simple thing, quite small, and its tarnished appearance suggested it had seen better days. Other people had used it as a receptacle, and several pennies and a ring lay on its bottom. Bartholomew dropped his offering in with them, then stood in the shadows, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for the monk to finish.

Eventually, Michael was ready and they left the priory, ignoring the unhappy strictures of Whatton at the gate, who told them they would miss supper if they took too long. Bartholomew was not hungry, his appetite vanished at the prospect of new information, while in his newly ‘slender’ form, Michael had trained himself to miss the occasional repast. And Cynric was an old soldier, used to eating at irregular times, and was adept at obtaining what he wanted from locked kitchens anyway.

The first obstacle they were obliged to surmount was a tall, narrow structure known as the West Bargate. It straddled a foul-smelling dyke, and comprised a vaulted arch with a stout wooden gate – the heavy bar that secured the gate from inside gave the building its name – and a guard-room above. Smoke issued from the chimney, and a good deal of hammering and shouting was required before the soldier could be persuaded to leave his cosy domain. Once they had his attention, it cost fourpence to be allowed through, and another fourpence to extract the promise that they would be let out again later, to return to their lodgings.

Bartholomew expected to find himself in the city once they had passed under the West Bargate’s dripping portal, and was surprised when the guard said Lincoln was still a mile away: the churches and houses that lined the road ahead comprised the elongated suburb-settlement of Wigford.

The first of Wigford’s dozen churches was a stately affair dedicated to St Botolph. Next was St Margaret’s, once fine, but now showing signs of neglect. Then came Holy Cross, adorned with a handsome steeple, but with its priest’s house a blackened shell at the far end of its churchyard. Some of its parishioners were moving around the ruins with torches, and the rattle of saws and the tap of hammers showed they were rebuilding it, lending their labour once their day’s official work was done. A young priest – no more than a boy – had been given the job of stirring the mortar, but he was unequal to the task, and his parishioners’ complaints rang in the still night air.

Eventually, after a stumbling walk that took twice as long as it would have done in daylight, they reached a river spanned by a bridge of stone. On the other side was a substantial gatehouse. The building appeared to be several hundred years old, and was the kind of crumbling, unstable edifice that did not encourage people to linger underneath. The Michaelhouse men paid another toll and hurried through its cracked arches, relieved when they reached the city on the other side.

They were pleasantly surprised to find Lincoln far more lively than its suburbs. People were in the streets, and shopkeepers operated by the light of lamps. Inns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade, and musicians entertained frozen admirers with pipes, drums, lutes and rebecs. The performer with the largest crowd was a singer who bawled obscene ballads and encouraged his audience – a scruffy horde with the pinched look of poverty about them – to join in the chorus. They were watched with rank disapproval by several well-dressed merchants. The scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, and Michael bought some to eat as they walked, parting with a few to a boy with a mop of golden curls, who agreed to lead them to the house of the merchant called William de Spayne. Michael was unimpressed when it transpired to be up a very steep incline.

‘Now you see why I prefer the Fens,’ he gasped, as he laboured upwards. ‘There are none of these mountains to ascend. Only heathens live in places where there are hills.’

‘That is Spayne’s home,’ chirped the boy, grinning his amusement at the monk’s discomfort. ‘It is almost opposite the corn market, which always runs late on Wednesdays, as you can see. Spayne’s place is called the Jewes House because it was built by the Jews who crucified St Hugh.’

He snatched the rest of the chestnuts and scampered away before the monk could object, while Cynric regarded Spayne’s abode with serious misgivings.

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ he muttered. ‘Saints murdered by Jews.’

‘He is confusing two stories,’ explained Bartholomew, knowing Cynric could be superstitious and not wanting him to take against the city quite so soon. ‘St Hugh was a Lincoln bishop who died peacefully in his bed, and who was a good man. Little Hugh was a child allegedly crucified by Jews, although since identical stories arose at the same time in Norwich, Bury St Edmunds, York and Gloucester, it makes me wonder whether it was just an excuse.’

‘An excuse for what?’ asked Cynric uneasily.

‘For the expulsion of Jews from England a few years later,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And the confiscation of all their goods. The Crown made a lot of money by passing that particular law.’

‘And whoever managed to lay hands on this building did rather well out of the Jews’ misfortunes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a very fine house, although in desperate need of loving care.’

‘Just like everything else around here, then,’ said Cynric, looking around disparagingly.

‘Are you going to knock?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did no more than stare at Spayne’s front door. That part of Lincoln was full of stone houses, although Spayne’s and the building next door were by far the best. Both were pure Norman, with round-headed doors and windows, and the stocky sense of permanence always associated with that particular style of architecture. The monk was right when he said Spayne’s home needed money spent on repairs, though, because the mouldings were beginning to weather, and the window shutters were rotting under cheap paint. The house next to it was in a far better state, although the lamps from the nearby corn market showed scorch marks that suggested it had been in a recent fire.

When Bartholomew continued to hesitate, Cynric knocked for him. The book-bearer jumped back quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword, when it was hauled open by a man wearing a purple cote-hardie – a tight-fitting tunic with flaring knee-length skirts – and a red hat. He was laughing and held a goblet in his hand. Behind him was a hall filled with cheering men.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his humour evaporating when he saw strangers in the darkness outside. ‘I was expecting more claret from the Swan tavern, not visitors.’

‘Master Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping into the light spilling from the house. Despite his finery, the man was unattractive – no chin at all and eyes that were far too small for his fleshy face – and the physician was not surprised Matilde had rejected his offer of marriage.

The man flushed with anger. ‘I most certainly am not! My name is Walter Kelby, and you would do well to remember it. Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. There was a strong smell of wine, and Kelby was unsteady on his feet. The physician knew perfectly well that intoxicated men sometimes began fights over nothing, and he did not want trouble. ‘I apologise for the intrusion – we have obviously been directed to the wrong house.’

‘You want Spayne?’ Kelby staggered when he tried to lean against the door jamb and missed. ‘Why? Is it about wool? If so, then you would fare better with me, since I offer competitive prices. Come in, and join our revelries. I am Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we are celebrating.’

‘Celebrating what?’ asked Bartholomew, since the man was obviously itching to tell him.

‘Our good fortune. One of us accidentally committed a crime during the Summer Madness, but obviously he was not in his right wits when he did it, so he should not be held accountable for the consequences. But God made Sheriff Lungspee see reason today, and Flaxfleete was acquitted. He will make reparation at the General Pardon, of course – it only costs sixpence, anyway – but it was good to learn he will not be fined by the secular courts for something that was not his fault.’

Bartholomew smiled politely. ‘Then we shall leave you to savour your victory.’

‘Hurry up, Kelby.’ A short man with sharp, rat-like features came to stand behind the merchant, and Bartholomew had the immediate sense that he was dishonest, despite the fact that his sober clothes suggested he had taken holy orders. ‘Where is the wine? Master Quarrel said it would be delivered within the hour, and I would kill for a drink.’

‘These fellows want to know if I am Spayne,’ slurred Kelby. He stumbled when his friend flung an arm across his shoulder, and Bartholomew jumped forward to prevent both from toppling into the street. ‘The ground moved! It must have been another earthquake. Is the cathedral still standing? Can you see it, Flaxfleete?’

‘It is too dark,’ replied Flaxfleete, after a few moments of intent peering. ‘But I do not think God will tear up the land tonight. Not after my success in the law courts.’

‘Earthquake?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘Is Lincoln subject to them, then?’

‘We had one during the life of Bishop Hugh, although he died more than a hundred years ago,’ explained Flaxfleete. ‘The minster was shaken to pieces, and he rebuilt it. Our Guild reveres St Hugh, and we try to emulate his actions.’

‘By raising cathedrals?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought Lincoln only had one of them.’

‘I mean we donate money to worthy causes,’ said Kelby, fortunately too drunk to know the monk was mocking him. ‘Such as providing ourselves with a new guildhall, and buying wine for the cathedral officials. We are good friends with them, unlike some I could mention.’

‘Very worthy,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could prolong the conversation with more questions. He started to back away. ‘Good evening to you.’

‘Who told you Spayne lived here?’ asked Flaxfleete curiously. ‘One of the choristers – small boys with angelic faces and the Devil’s manners? It is the kind of trick they might play on strangers.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s tug on his arm that indicated he wanted to go.

‘To inconvenience men who have business with him,’ said Kelby. ‘God bless them for it.’

‘And because we are good, honest guildsmen,’ added Flaxfleete. ‘But Spayne is a member of that vile coven of rich merchants known as the Commonalty.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. When he saw the monk’s interest had been piqued by the two men’s odd remarks, Bartholomew sighed and gave up his attempt to cut the discussion short.

‘All decent, respectable traders are members of the Guild of Corpus Christi,’ explained Kelby patiently. ‘Meanwhile, all corrupt ones belong to a council known as the Commonalty.’

‘Damn them to Hell,’ added Flaxfleete viciously. ‘So, we and Spayne are enemies, and have been for years. Fortunately, the Guild has more than fifty members, but the Commonalty is only twelve. However, these dozen hold a disproportionate degree of power, and the unemployed weavers favour them because they give charity. One is Adam Miller, you see.’ He regarded them with pursed lips.

‘Lord!’ said Michael, pretending to be shocked. He was amused by the way the merchants kept assuming strangers should know all about their city. ‘Not Adam Miller!’

‘The very same,’ said Kelby gravely. ‘The whole town is afraid of him and his devious ways – except the weavers, of course. And Spayne is his man.’

‘Spayne is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He did not think Matilde would have embarked on a friendship with a man who indulged in illegal activities; she was a woman of considerable integrity.

‘Yes, and so is Miller,’ said Kelby firmly, leaning so hard against Flaxfleete that the man dropped his cup. ‘We are a divided city: the Guild and the cathedral stand for everything good, and the Commonalty represents everything bad. Every honest soul is terrified of Miller.’

Michael was puzzled. ‘But I understand a man called Adam Miller finances Miller’s Market. He cannot be all bad.’

Flaxfleete waved a dismissive hand. ‘As I said, he is popular among unemployed weavers, but we guildsmen and our people are not deceived by his so-called largess.’

‘You wear a priest’s robes, yet it sounds as though you were tried by a secular court,’ said Michael to Flaxfleete, intrigued both by the merchants and their chatter. ‘Why? You could have claimed benefit of clergy and been subject to more lenient Canon law.’

‘Because I took holy orders after the arson incident, and Bishop Gynewell declined to judge me,’ said Flaxfleete. It was clear he thought the decision an unreasonable one. ‘He said he did not wish to become embroiled in the city’s dispute, especially since the buildings I happened to incinerate belonged to my deadly enemy: Spayne.’

‘And there is the fact he would not be the first to take holy orders to avoid secular punishment,’ muttered Bartholomew to Cynric. ‘If that was allowed to happen, every felon in England would wear a habit.’

‘Most do anyway,’ replied Cynric. He had scant respect for clerics.

‘But it was our turn to win a trial presided over by Sheriff Lungspee, in any case,’ slurred Kelby. ‘Especially after what happened to poor Dalderby.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael.

‘A villainous rogue called Thoresby threatened to chop off his head,’ explained Flaxfleete indignantly. ‘It will not surprise you to learn that Dalderby is a guildsman, and Thoresby belongs to the Commonalty. It was obvious that Thoresby was guilty, but Lungspee pardoned him anyway. It was shameful! Miller certainly bribed Lungspee to get him released. Here comes the wine at last.’

‘You did not say why you wanted to see Spayne,’ said Kelby, lurching to one side to allow a sweating youth to enter his house with a barrel. ‘If it is wool business, then you should deal with me instead – and I will even give you a cup of claret while we discuss terms.’

‘It is not wool business,’ said Michael. ‘Although I understand wool is what made Lincoln rich.’

‘It did,’ acknowledged Flaxfleete. ‘But times have changed, and we are all suffering from cheap foreign imports – except Spayne, who has trading rights in the upstart port of Boston. Damn him – and damn them, too! Boston is killing Lincoln, and he encourages it.’

‘You should go sparingly with that,’ advised Michael, pointing at the keg. ‘My friend here visited France this year, and he says the grape harvest was poor. That claret might make you sick.’

Kelby tried to focus on the barrel, screwing up his face as he did so. ‘Well, I have had more than enough for today, so perhaps I will abstain.’

‘I have not,’ said Flaxfleete, clapping a comradely hand on his shoulder. ‘I intend to make this a night to remember – my acquittal and the other good news.’

‘What other good news?’ asked Kelby, trying to focus on him.

Flaxfleete grinned. ‘I am saving that to announce later, but you will be delighted, I assure you. We shall be celebrating all night, and I mean to drink until I can no longer stand.’

‘My students do that,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘But they are sixteen. An excess of wine leads the black bile to–’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘Or it really will be too late to call on Spayne.’

‘He lives next door,’ said Flaxfleete, jerking his thumb at the handsome house that stood uphill from his own.

‘And you can tell him from me that if there is any Summer Madness next year, he might find more of his storerooms burned to the ground.’

In the darkness of the street, Bartholomew heard a roar of delight as the barrel was presented to the company within. It was loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring house, and he wondered what Spayne thought of the celebration. From what he had been told by the Gilbertines – and what he knew of the disease called Holy Fire – Flaxfleete’s claim that his illness had made him incinerate Spayne’s buildings was bogus, and Sheriff Lungspee had been wrong to acquit him.

‘This is a godless city,’ grumbled Cynric, as they walked towards the house Flaxfleete had indicated. ‘Disembowelled queens, warring merchants, crucified children. It is not what I expected.’

‘Flaxfleete was right: that boy did play a trick on us,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, ignoring the book-bearer’s unhappy mutters. He grinned. ‘If he is a chorister, he will have a shock when he realises he has just started a feud with one of the new canons.’

‘It sounds as though Lincoln has enough feuds already,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘The city feels uneasy, and you should avoid disputes, even with choirboys.’

They reached the house, and the physician stood hesitantly outside a second door that evening. He gazed at it, wondering whether the narrow alley that separated Spayne’s home from Kelby’s provided enough of a barrier between what sounded to be very determined foes.

Spayne was wealthy, judging from his house, which had new shutters on its windows and a highly polished front door. Snow was piled on the roof in a way that suggested it might slough off at any moment and flatten someone, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Spayne might hope it would, and that its victim would be a neighbour. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer, so he knocked again.

Michael was about to suggest they return in the morning, when they heard a bar being removed and the door was opened by a woman in a long green robe. Beyond her was a handsome hall with fine wall-paintings and polished floorboards. Unfortunately, the chamber’s elegant proportions were spoiled by the presence of a crude wooden brace near the hearth, suggesting the ceiling was unstable and needed to be shored up.

‘The answer is no,’ said the woman coldly. ‘The sound of your revelry is not disturbing us. You can carouse all night without having the slightest impact on our comfort. Good night.’

She started to close the door, but Michael inserted his booted foot. ‘My apologies, madam, but we have no idea what you are talking about.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Kelby did not send you?’

Michael shook his head.

‘He is trying to make as much noise as he can, in the hope of annoying us,’ she went on. ‘He and his Guild often enjoy raucous meetings, but this one is particularly galling: they are celebrating the fact that Sheriff Lungspee found Flaxfleete innocent of setting my brother’s storerooms alight. He claimed it was Summer Madness, but we all know it was not.’

‘That is not why we came,’ said Michael. ‘We are visitors from Cambridge, and I believe Master Spayne may share a mutual acquaintance with us.’

‘I am Ursula, his sister, but I am afraid he is out.’ Ursula gave a curious half smile. ‘Please do not tell Kelby this, but when Will heard there were plans to celebrate Flaxfleete’s acquittal, he made arrangements to sleep elsewhere. He asked me to go with him, but I refuse to allow Kelby and his henchmen to drive me from my home.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He backed away. ‘Then we shall return tomorrow.’

‘Where is your brother staying, Mistress?’ asked Bartholomew, prepared to travel some distance if it meant having answers that night. ‘Would it be possible to call on him this evening?’

‘He is lodging at the Black Monks’ Priory.’

‘How far is it?’

Her fierce expression softened. ‘Do not venture that way now. The road is haunted by footpads, and the monks always retire early in the winter. They will not admit you, and you will find you have made a wasted journey – if not a dangerous one. Can your business not wait a few hours?’

‘Yes, it can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We are sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘Come back tomorrow. I shall be up very early, baking.’ She smiled spitefully, giving the impression that she would be doing so as noisily as possible, and that neighbours with sore heads could expect to find themselves woken before they were ready.

‘We shall call as soon as we can,’ said Michael. ‘I hope you manage some rest tonight.’

‘That is what a tincture of valerian is for,’ she said, shaking a tiny phial at them. ‘Will declines to use it when the Guild is at its revels, but I do not mind. He–’

She broke off when a high-pitched shriek issued from Kelby’s house, and there came the sound of footsteps hammering on a wooden floor. Lights flickered under the window shutters, and then there was shouting. When Bartholomew looked back at Ursula, she had closed the door, evidently unsettled by the sudden uproar in the enemy camp.

‘Murder!’ came a braying cry. ‘Help us!’

‘No,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder as he prepared to respond. ‘We are strangers here. It would be foolish to interfere in something that is none of our business.’

He began to lead the way down the hill. As they passed Kelby’s house, the door was thrown open, revealing the lighted hallway within. Flaxfleete lay on the ground, heels drumming, while his friends hovered helplessly above him. He was in the throes of a fit, and Bartholomew knew from the way he was lying that he would suffocate unless he was moved. He pulled away from Michael.

‘I am a physician, Brother. I cannot stand by while a man chokes to death.’

‘This is not a good idea,’ warned Michael, following with considerable reluctance. ‘They are sure to remember who visited before this murder – and who was first to arrive when the alarm was raised.’

‘It is not murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘He is still alive.’

But when he knelt beside the stricken cleric, he could see it was no fit that afflicted him. Flaxfleete was blue around the nose and lips, he was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide and frightened in his waxy face. His body twitched convulsively, and he had vomited violently enough to cause bleeding in his stomach. Even as Bartholomew knelt beside him, he knew that all the skill in the world would not save the man. He started to loosen clothing, in an attempt to ease his breathing, but Flaxfleete resisted.

‘No,’ he whispered, grabbing Bartholomew’s tunic and hauling him down so he could speak without being overheard. ‘Keep me covered. I am cold.’

It was an odd request under the circumstances, but as Flaxfleete’s struggle for air became increasingly frantic, Bartholomew had no choice but to pull the habit away from his neck. As he did so, he saw a strange blue mark on the cleric’s skin, on the point of the shoulder. It was not large – perhaps half the length of a little finger – and was the kind of blemish he had seen soldiers make with ink and needles, as a sign of brotherhood. It was a strange thing to see on a merchant-cleric who had probably never seen a battle. Suddenly, Flaxfleete’s convulsions reached a critical point, and all Bartholomew’s attention was focussed on trying to hold the man’s head in a way that might enable him to draw air into his lungs. But it was to no avail, and it was not long before he stood and raised his hands apologetically.

‘I am sorry. You should summon a priest.’