The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 2

‘You wear the garb of a physician,’ said Kelby, regarding Bartholomew with appalled eyes as he stood in the bright light of his hall. ‘I will pay whatever you ask if you save him. Gold, jewels, anything.’

‘I wish I could help,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But your friend is beyond my skills.’

‘He has stopped twitching,’ argued Kelby desperately. ‘The fit is over, so he will recover now.’

‘He is not moving because he is dead,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’

‘I shall anoint him,’ said Michael. He knelt reluctantly, giving the impression that he wished Bartholomew had heeded his advice and walked away from the whole business.

‘He cannot be dead!’ cried Kelby. ‘He was perfectly healthy a few moments ago, clamouring for wine. You saw him. He was waiting for the new keg to arrive, because we drank more than usual tonight, and we ran out. We have a lot to celebrate, what with the acquittal. How could this happen?’

On the dying man’s breath, Bartholomew had detected the rank, fishy odour of a substance familiar to most physicians – one that occurred on some rye grain and that was sometimes used by midwives to control post-partum bleeding. It was highly toxic, and Bartholomew had been told by a witch in southern France that it was also the cause of the disease called Holy Fire. His medical colleagues had rejected her explanation out of hand, although he found it more convincing than the commonly accepted perception that the sickness was the Devil’s doing.

‘Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’ he asked. Flaxfleete’s symptoms had certainly been similar to those exhibited by folk afflicted with Holy Fire, and people who had been stricken once were liable to suffer future attacks.

Kelby gazed at him. ‘You know he did, because we told you about it – it was when he burned Spayne’s storerooms. Why do you ask?’

‘Do not answer,’ murmured Cynric, who had come to stand behind Bartholomew. His hand rested on his dagger, and his eyes were watchful, as though he anticipated violence. ‘It is safer to say nothing.’

‘You should summon the sheriff,’ said Michael. There was definitely something odd about the merchant’s abrupt demise, and Cynric was right to advise them to have nothing to do with it.

‘Why should we do that?’ demanded Kelby. Shock had sobered him up, and although he was still unsteady on his feet, his wits seemed sharp enough. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Are you saying there is something suspicious about poor Flaxfleete’s sudden illness?’

‘He does not know,’ replied Michael before Bartholomew could speak. ‘That is why you should ask the sheriff to come. It is his job to ascertain what happened, not a passing physician’s.’

A tall man with dark hair stepped out of the watching throng and crouched next to his fallen comrade. He wore a priest’s robes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Suttone; as he inspected the dead man, Bartholomew wondered whether he was one of the Carmelite’s Lincoln kin.

‘This is odd,’ said the priest, sniffing the air with a puzzled expression. ‘He smells of fish. The last time I encountered such a stench, it was on Nicholas Herl after he threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. There is a medicine for women that carries a similar reek, although I do not know why Flaxfleete should have swallowed any – just as I did not know why it should have been inside Herl.’

Kelby was bemused. ‘Medicine will not harm anyone – it is supposed to make folk better.’

‘Many medicines are poisonous when administered wrongly,’ said Bartholomew. He did not add that the one imbibed by Flaxfleete must have been unnaturally concentrated to produce such a dramatic result – and to smell so strongly on his body.

Kelby pointed at the wine keg, which had already been broached. ‘Did anyone other than Flaxfleete drink from this? Do you know, John?’

The priest was thoughtful. ‘He tapped the barrel himself, and swallowed the first cup because someone told him it might be bad. He said he was less drunk than the rest of us, so better able to assess its quality.’

‘You do not seem drunk,’ observed Michael.

John inclined his head. ‘I never touch strong brews. And when men are poisoned while in their cups, it makes me glad I practise abstinence.’

Kelby was unimpressed with his sanctimonious colleague. ‘Then, since you are so steady in your wits, you can tell us what happened to Flaxfleete.’

‘It would be wrong of me to try – I am no sheriff. But I can say Flaxfleete was the only one to drink from this barrel. He downed the first cup in a gulp, declared it good, then poured himself a second. He did not fill the jug for the rest of you, but went back to the table and sat down. I was filling the pitcher – at your request, Kelby – when he complained of feeling unwell. And we all know what happened next.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, earning himself a glare from Michael for his curiosity.

‘He said he was cold, even though he was next to the fire,’ replied John. ‘And that there was a pain in his chest and a numbness in his hands. Then he clutched his head and dropped to the floor. You saw the rest.’

Bartholomew went to the cask, where the familiar fishy odour was just recognisable under the scent of strong wine.

‘Is it tainted?’ asked Kelby. ‘Poisoned?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Call the sheriff, and let him establish what happened.’

‘We shall,’ declared Kelby, grief turning to anger. ‘Dalderby will fetch him.’

‘Me?’ asked a fellow with a thick orange beard and an expensive cote-hardie of scarlet and yellow. ‘I have a sore foot and will be too slow. Send someone else.’

‘You will not mind enduring a little discomfort for Flaxfleete,’ said Kelby harshly, shoving him towards the open door. Bartholomew wondered why Dalderby was loath to leave. Was it because he felt unsafe when a fellow guildsman had been murdered? Or was he simply more interested in what was unfolding in Kelby’s hall, and did not want to miss anything?

‘This barrel came from the Swan,’ said John, when the unwilling Dalderby had been dispatched on his errand. ‘So, someone from the Swan must have tampered with it – put the medicine inside.’

‘Master Quarrel has sold me good wine all my life,’ cried Kelby. ‘Why would he change now? Besides, can you imagine what impact it would have on his trade, if it became known that he poisons his wares? It was not Quarrel or anyone at the Swan. I will stake my life on it.’

John pointed to the floor. ‘Do you see those drops? They run all the way to the door, which means the keg was leaking when it was brought in. If wine was dripping out, then it means something may have been dripped inside, too.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael, as he inspected the trail. ‘That does suggest the poison was added when the cask was at the tavern.’

‘God’s blood!’ cried Kelby in anguish. ‘Someone will swing for this!’

‘I imagine so,’ said Michael calmly. ‘However, I hope you will remember that it had nothing to do with us. We were talking to your neighbour, Ursula de Spayne, when your friend met his end.’

‘That witch,’ sneered Kelby. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that she poisoned poor Flaxfleete. She has a knowledge of herbs and potions, and regularly offers them to anyone foolish enough to trust her. She hated Flaxfleete and will delight in his death. She is the culprit!’

It was a sober supper for the Michaelhouse scholars that night. The meal – provided uncommonly late on account of Bartholomew and Michael going out – was served in the guest-hall’s main chamber. Not everyone had taken to his heels after the recent stabbing, and a handful of men huddled near the meagre fire at the far end of the room. Most were poor, as evidenced by their threadbare clothes and thin boots, and it was clear they simply could not afford to go elsewhere. There were baleful glares when Hamo provided them with day-old bread and a few onions, but brought roasted goose for the more valued party from upstairs.

Bartholomew barely noticed them. His thoughts had returned to Matilde, and all he could think was that Spayne might be able to tell him where she had gone. He did not feel like eating, and picked listlessly at the slab of fatty meat Michael slapped on to his trencher. The monk made up for his lack of appetite by eating more than was wise, and then complained that his stomach hurt. Cynric was withdrawn and morose, and became more so when Suttone began a defensive monologue about the man he had hired to be his Vicar Choral, claiming that John Aylmer was a paragon of virtue, despite Hamo’s statements to the contrary.

‘What is the matter, Cynric?’ Bartholomew asked, pulling himself out of his reverie when he noticed something was bothering his book-bearer. The man had been with him all his adult life, and was more friend than servant. He did not like to see him unhappy.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Cynric, waving a hand that encompassed guest-hall, convent and city, all at the same time. He saw Suttone had broken off his tirade and was listening. ‘You should … pay your respects to Spayne, and leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be best.’

‘You cannot do that, Matthew!’ cried Suttone in alarm. ‘Michael and I are helpless monastics and need the protection you two provide for our journey home. What is wrong with Lincoln, anyway?’

‘It is shabby,’ declared Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘It looks as though it was fine, but has fallen on hard times – just like this priory, in fact. It is also set to be destroyed by an earthquake at any moment, and I am uncomfortable with the notion of murdered saints, queens deprived of their innards, and men poisoned with wine. And Brother Michael was right in what he said: Kelby and his friends may decide to blame us for Flaxfleete’s death, just because we are strangers.’

‘We are going to be canons,’ said Suttone indignantly. ‘No one would dare offend us with unfounded accusations.’

‘You are going to be a canon, Father,’ corrected Cynric morosely. ‘I am a book-bearer.’

‘He has a point,’ said Michael to Suttone. His next comment was directed at Bartholomew. ‘But we can avoid trouble if we keep to ourselves, and do not meddle in matters that are not our concern. Lord, my belly aches! Are you sure being near that poisoned wine did me no harm, Matt?’

‘When you were out, Hamo told me about a rift that is pulling Lincoln apart,’ said Suttone, watching Bartholomew prepare his usual tonic for overindulgence. ‘Virtually every man, woman and child is either on the side of the cathedral and the Guild of Corpus Christi or they support something called the Commonalty. Bishop Gynewell manages to stay aloof, and so does Sheriff Lungspee – but only so he can accept bribes from both parties.’

‘The bishop is neutral?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I thought he would side with his cathedral.’

‘Apparently, he thinks that if he refuses to align himself, then others will follow his example and the bitterness will heal,’ explained Suttone. ‘Although there is no evidence the ploy is working so far. Still, at least he is trying. He tried to stop the General Pardon for the same reason.’

‘You mean the ceremony in which everyone is going to be forgiven crimes committed when they pretended to be afflicted with seasonal insanity?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he object to that?’

‘Because it is another step in the escalating dissension,’ said Suttone. ‘First, there was the installation of canons. In defiance, Adam Miller said he was holding his Market on the same day – to entice people towards secular activities. The cathedral immediately responded with the General Pardon. Gynewell tried to prevent it, lest Miller invent something else.’

‘Perhaps we should go home,’ said Michael, sipping the tonic. ‘There is almost certain to be trouble, and I am disturbed by the fact that people think I have been honoured with the Stall of South Scarle because the Bishop of Ely arranged it. I do not want to be accused of simony.’

‘Do not be so fastidious, Brother,’ said Suttone impatiently. ‘Michaelhouse is desperate for funds, what with the hall in need of painting and the conclave roof leaking like fury. You should not allow a dubious moral stance to prevent you from taking what is freely offered.’

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘Should I put my College before my personal integrity and accept this post? Or should I risk offending my bishop by handing it back?’

‘De Lisle will not appreciate his efforts being for nothing,’ warned Bartholomew, thinking the monk should have considered such issues before accepting the appointment in the first place.

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But Whatton made me feel … less than honourable about the situation.’

‘Ignore Whatton,’ advised Suttone. ‘Everyone knows the nomination of canons is a political matter, and that greed and favouritism are an integral part of the system. I fully accept that I owe mine to the fact that the cathedral is eager to have a Suttone in its ranks. Besides, we have just spent two weeks getting here, and it seems a pity to return home empty-handed.’

‘Make reparation, Brother,’ suggested Bartholomew facetiously. ‘Take some of this new income and offer a gift to the cathedral, or to one of the city charities.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘So, your advice is for me to buy myself a clean conscience? Very well. I shall see what the silversmiths have to offer tomorrow – assuming it is safe to go out.’

‘Do you have a kinsman called John?’ asked Bartholomew of Suttone, thinking of the dark-haired priest they had met at Kelby’s house and his resemblance to the burly Carmelite.

Suttone nodded. ‘A first cousin, once removed. His father was a tanner, but he perished in the Death, God rest his soul. John Suttone is a Poor Clerk.’

‘Why poor clerk?’ asked Cynric curiously. ‘Does it mean he earns even less than I get from Michaelhouse?’

‘It is a rank in the cathedral hierarchy,’ explained Suttone impatiently. ‘At the top, there is the dean. He has a Chapter, which comprises the canons, like Michael and me–’

‘Not until Sunday,’ interrupted Bartholomew.

Suttone ignored him. ‘Under us, there are the Vicars Choral, some of whom are in priest’s orders and include men like my deputy, Aylmer–’

‘But he is dead,’ said Cynric gloomily, crossing himself. ‘Stabbed in this very room. Right there, in fact, and you can still see his blood to prove it.’

Bartholomew looked to where the book-bearer was pointing and saw a sinister stain beneath one of the beds. He went to inspect it, noting that although an attempt had been made to scrub it away, not much effort had been put into the task. He wondered whether it had been left for a reason – perhaps as a warning to others, or because whoever had been detailed to clean the mess had had an aversion to the blood of a murdered man. People could be superstitious that way.

Suttone continued his lecture on cathedral government. ‘And under Vicars Choral are Poor Clerks, who serve the altars, act as recorders for Chapter meetings, bring the dove and so on.’

‘Bring the dove?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

Suttone shrugged. ‘I am not sure what it means, either, but it is an official post, just like my cousin John’s proper title is Clerk to Rouse the People.’

‘I suppose that means stopping folk from falling asleep during services,’ surmised Cynric. His expression was one of sympathy. ‘It sounds an onerous duty.’

‘Why did you appoint Aylmer as your Vicar Choral, and not your cousin?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I imagine a kinsman would expect to be promoted under such circumstances.’

‘I did not want to be accused of nepotism,’ explained Suttone. ‘However, Aylmer is just a family friend, which is slightly different.’

‘He seemed a decent fellow,’ said Michael, not pointing out that it was only very slightly different. ‘Your cousin John.’

Suttone raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I barely know him. However, he belongs to a city guild, and I do not approve of those. They tend to condone debauchery.’

‘The Guild of Corpus Christi certainly does,’ said Michael. ‘When we were looking at Flaxfleete’s body, I saw at least three men slumped unconscious across the table.’

‘Dead?’ asked Suttone uneasily.

‘Drunk. I could hear them snoring – and Flaxfleete was the only one who imbibed from the toxic barrel, anyway. They were lucky he was a selfish fellow who declined to serve his friends before drinking himself. And they are fortunate that John took his time filling the jug. Had he been quicker, there would have been more casualties than just Flaxfleete.’

‘You said they accused Ursula de Spayne of tampering with the keg,’ said Suttone. ‘Do you think they were right?’

Michael finished the tonic with a grimace. ‘It is possible, but it would have been a very stupid thing to have done on her part. The dispute between the Spaynes and the Guild seems very bitter, and Flaxfleete’s acquittal has done nothing to soothe the antagonism. Ursula and her brother will be the first suspects any sheriff will explore.’

‘Anger often drives people to do foolish things,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, I can tell you that being afflicted with Holy Fire does not make people dash off and burn their enemies’ storerooms – and I am astonished Sheriff Lungspee thinks it did.’

‘So is Spayne, I imagine,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to be careful when we go to see him tomorrow, and–’ He stopped speaking as someone came to hover near them, as if uncertain of his welcome. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! Is that Richard de Wetherset?’

A heavyset man with iron-grey hair stood in the shadows. He was dressed in a habit that indicated he had taken major orders with the Cistercians, although the robe was of excellent quality and suggested he did not take too seriously his Order’s love-affair with poverty. He was also portly, indicating he did not practise much in the way of abstinence, either. Because it was not a face he had expected to see in Lincoln, it took Bartholomew a moment to place it. De Wetherset had been the University’s Chancellor before he found the duties too onerous and had fled to a quieter life in the Fens. However, he had held sway in Cambridge for several years, and Michael had served as his Junior Proctor before the monk’s meteoric rise to power under de Wetherset’s meeker successor.

Behind de Wetherset was a second man. Like the ex-Chancellor, he was heavily built, and his face was the kind of florid red that suggested too much good living. The skin on his face was puckered, as if marred by some childhood pox, and even in the gloom, Bartholomew detected a pair of unusually pale eyes. He, too, wore a priest’s habit, although his haughty demeanour suggested he regarded himself as something rather more important.

‘I intend to be Chancellor of our University one day,’ said Suttone conversationally, when the monk introduced him to de Wetherset.

Michael gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Do you? You have never mentioned this particular ambition before.’

Suttone shrugged. ‘It is a notion I have been mulling over for some time. The present incumbent cannot remain in office for ever, and when he resigns, I shall put myself forward. It will make you my Senior Proctor, Brother, but as we are in the same College, I am sure we will rub along nicely.’

Michael was thoughtful. It was common knowledge that Chancellor Tynkell made no decision without the blessing of his Senior Proctor, and that it was Michael who really ran the University. Tynkell was malleable, and seldom argued with the monk; Suttone was more stubborn, and it would require greater skill to manipulate him. Michael’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. He enjoyed a challenge, and the last year – with no suspicious deaths to investigate – had been dull.

‘Are you still examining corpses on the University’s behalf?’ asked de Wetherset of Bartholomew, while the monk’s clever mind assessed the implications of serving under a different master.

‘Not recently,’ replied Bartholomew. He was not sure whether the question was de Wetherset’s way of initiating a fresh topic of conversation, or whether he was trying to be annoying: when Michael had first asked Bartholomew to inspect bodies, the physician had objected strenuously, and had had to be browbeaten, cajoled or bribed into doing what was necessary. Since then, he had grown used to it, and even enjoyed the work, because there was a good deal to be learned from cadavers. Unfortunately, his medical colleagues considered his discoveries anathema, which meant he was in the frustrating position of not being able to discuss them with anyone who might know what he was talking about.

De Wetherset raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. You are not wearing academic garb. Have you resigned your Fellowship at Michaelhouse and become a secular physician? I am surprised: I was always under the impression that you liked teaching.’

‘On our journey here, we found his scholarly tabard kept attracting the attention of men desperate for an argument,’ replied Suttone, before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘I suggested he remove it, and we have not been bothered by unwelcome company since.’

De Wetherset gazed at him, not sure whether there was an insult inherent in the Carmelite’s explanation. ‘Is that so?’

‘Matt returned from an extended leave of absence in October,’ said Michael pleasantly, before Suttone could add any more. ‘He was gone for sixteen months, which meant I was without a decent Corpse Examiner all that time. Do you remember Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall? I had to make do with him instead, and I am sure innumerable killers went free on his account.’

‘They must have done,’ said Suttone. ‘You investigated several suspicious deaths a year when Matthew was with you, but not one from the moment he left. I cannot believe all Cambridge’s killers decided to behave themselves simply because your regular Corpse Examiner was unavailable.’

‘A sabbatical?’ asked de Wetherset, while Michael frowned unhappily. Suttone was not the first to remark on the abrupt cessation of murders after Rougham had been hired to determine whether or not a death was due to natural causes. ‘I hope you did not visit Paris – I recall you studied there before you accepted the post at Cambridge – but we are at war with the French now.’

‘We have been at war with the French for as long as I can remember,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And that includes when I did my postgraduate training in Paris. But no one cares about the quarrel – in France or England – except nobles, kings and mercenaries.’

‘You sail remarkably close to treason, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset with an expression that was impossible to interpret. Bartholomew recalled that he was a dangerous man, who had not been elected to the exalted rank of Chancellor for nothing, and supposed he had better watch his tongue. ‘And I think you are wrong. A few months ago, you might have been right, but everything changed after the Battle of Poitiers. The French are angry in defeat and the English gloat in victory, even here, in a place where most people have barely heard of a place called France.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The battle has certainly given new life to the conflict.’

‘Which foreign universities did you visit?’ asked de Wetherset. He held up an imperious hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I shall guess. Padua, Montpellier and Bologna, because they are the schools that are most lax about what constitutes heresy. I have been told by more than one Italian medicus that anatomy is an intellectually profitable pursuit, and you always did chafe at the boundaries we set you.’

‘You were cutting up corpses with your foreign colleagues?’ asked Suttone in horror. ‘Anatomy is forbidden, Matthew – by the Lateran Council itself. You are a fool to dabble in the dark arts!’

‘I did not anatomise anyone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I may have witnessed an examination or two, but I was only one of a dozen physicians and surgeons present. And what I learned allowed me to devise a way to alleviate the pain you suffered with the stone last week.’

‘Did it?’ asked Suttone warily. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose might be justifiable under certain circumstances, but please do not do it in Lincoln. Michael and I have our reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if you do that sort of thing in front of the general populace.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the man in the shadows. ‘I imagine anatomy would go down rather well with the general populace. The average man has a fascination for the horrible – until one of his number declares it witchcraft, in which case he will hang you without demur, driven by his innate bigotry.’

‘Allow me to introduce Father Simon,’ said de Wetherset. Simon stepped forward with the kind of smirk that suggested he had already decided the Cambridge men were fools. ‘He has been parish priest at Holy Cross, Wigford for the past twenty years – you will have passed it, if you have been to the city – although he has just resigned those duties for something more worthy of his talents. I hear you are to be made a canon, Brother. Well, Simon and I will be joining you in the prebendal stalls.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Michael, genuinely pleased for de Wetherset. ‘Suttone and I knew there were to be five installations, but no one told us the names of the other three candidates.’

‘Lincoln wants to honour the University at Cambridge with its nominations this time,’ explained Simon. ‘Three canonical appointments will go to scholars: you two and de Wetherset.’

‘You are not a scholar,’ said Bartholomew to the ex-Chancellor. ‘You left Cambridge years ago.’

‘But not before Brother Michael inveigled me the title of Emeritus Fellow,’ replied de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So technically, I am still a scholar. And, although I spent a few months with my family in the Fens, Bishop Gynewell then offered me the freedom of his cathedral library, and I have been studying theology in Lincoln ever since. People have come to regard me as local.’

‘I suppose I can be considered local, too,’ said Suttone. ‘One branch of my family has lived in the city for years, and my grandfather was bishop. I have cousins in service at the cathedral and–’

‘But you do not live here,’ interrupted Simon coolly. ‘That is what is meant by local. Your life is in Cambridge. Mine, however, is here. I have been vicar at Holy Cross for more than two decades, and now I shall serve the cathedral. That is what constitutes a local man, not distant kin.’

Suttone bristled, and Michael hastened to change the subject. ‘You said three scholars were to be made canons, plus Father Simon. Who is the fifth and last lucky candidate?’

Simon’s expressive face darkened. ‘A merchant. He is not a particularly good choice, although at least he is in holy orders – unlike some prebendaries I could name.’

‘You refer to Canon Hodelston?’ asked de Wetherset. ‘Who held the Stall of Sleaford, and created a scandal when he announced in his first Chapter meeting that he had not been ordained?’

Bartholomew was mystified. ‘If he is not in holy orders, then how does he perform his religious duties at the cathedral? Conduct masses and the like?’

‘He appointed a Vicar Choral to do everything,’ explained Simon disapprovingly. ‘He took his vows eventually, but the appointment was a disgrace and it brought shame to the Chapter.’

‘His name was Hodelston?’ asked Suttone. He shot Simon a cool glance. ‘I may not live here, but my kinsmen keep me informed of certain people and events. I am not the stranger you imagine. However, the only Hodelston they mentioned to me was a very wicked fellow – accused of theft, rape, extortion and all manner of crimes – but the plague took him.’

Simon sniffed. ‘That is the man – as I said, his appointment was a disgrace. However, you are not right about the manner of his death. He died during the plague, not of it. He had a seizure with frothing mouth and rigid muscles. Some said it was poison. But few mourned his passing, least of all the Dean and Chapter.’

‘Hodelston is long-since dead, but the cathedral continues to make dubious appointments,’ said de Wetherset unhappily. ‘Flaxfleete will not make a good canon. He was accused of arson, and it was obvious that he only took holy orders when he thought he might be fined. The bishop refused to try him in the Church, though, which was a brave thing to do, and Flaxfleete was obliged to throw himself on Sheriff Lungspee’s mercy. I imagine bribes changed hands, because he was acquitted today.’

‘Flaxfleete?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Kelby’s friend? He is the last canon?’

‘So that is what he meant, when he said he had a second item of good news to share with his friends,’ mused Michael. ‘He said it was something that would see more celebration. He must have been referring to his nomination as a prebendary.’

De Wetherset raised his eyebrows. ‘You have met Flaxfleete? I suppose I should not be surprised. The Guild of Corpus Christi is influential in Lincoln, and he is one of its founding members. The decision was made to install him a month ago, but nothing could be made official until this accusation of arson was resolved. So, he does indeed have two things to celebrate this evening.’

‘Sheriff Lungspee probably acquitted him to level the field after that business with Thoresby,’ said Simon. ‘Thoresby was guilty of threatening to behead Dalderby, and should not have been pardoned. So, because Lungspee favoured the Commonalty over the Guild in that case, he feels obliged to favour the Guild over the Commonalty now.’

‘Miller definitely bribed Lungspee to secure Thoresby’s release,’ said de Wetherset with pursed lips. ‘I heard three white pearls changed hands. So, Lungspee no doubt accepted a similar sum from Kelby to see Flaxfleete freed. Next time, it will be Miller’s turn again. That is one good thing about our sheriff: he is scrupulous about the order in which he allows himself to be corrupted.’

Simon turned to Suttone. ‘Have your informative kin told you about the dissent that is currently tearing our city apart?’ he asked unpleasantly. ‘Or is it something they neglected to mention?’

It was Michael who answered. ‘Of course we know about it. On one side there is the Commonalty, which seems to entail an unlikely liaison between a dozen very rich men and some unemployed weavers. And on the other there is the Guild of Corpus Christi, comprising about fifty merchants.’

Simon bristled at the contemptuous tenor of the summary. ‘I assume you know about the last mayoral election, too?’ he asked, still addressing Suttone. ‘You do not need me to explain what happened – why it made the dispute all the more bitter?’

‘He does not,’ said Michael, earning a pleased smirk from Suttone, who had no idea what Simon was talking about. ‘We know it was won by William de Spayne, since he currently holds the title.’

‘Spayne was delighted,’ said de Wetherset, apparently oblivious to the building tension between Simon and the Cambridge men, ‘because it means he is exempted from certain taxes. Kelby was running against him, and was livid when Spayne was announced the winner. Kelby thought he had won, you see. He had even been to a silversmith and commissioned a seal.’

‘They are all turbulent men,’ said Simon. ‘But I deplore the Guild’s sly campaign of slander against Miller. He may be vulgar, but I admire his generosity to weavers who cannot find work. The Guild does not care that folk starve for want of bread. Flaxfleete is particularly mean in that respect.’

‘Not any more,’ said Michael grimly. ‘He is dead.’

‘What?’ asked de Wetherset, startled, while Simon struggled to mask his own surprise: he was loath to admit that strangers knew something about his city that he did not. ‘Lord! Perhaps God struck him down for lying – it was not Summer Madness that led him to fire Spayne’s storerooms after all. He denied he was even there at first, and only told the truth when he learned he had been seen.’

‘Seen by whom?’ asked Michael. ‘Spayne’s friends? If so, then their testimony probably cannot be trusted.’

‘By travelling Dominicans with no reason to lie for either side,’ replied Simon. ‘They were questioned by both Guild and Commonalty, but it was obvious they were telling the truth. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Flaxfleete did indeed commit a grave crime, and it was a stroke of genius to blame it on Summer Madness.’

‘It certainly was,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It worked.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It may have seen him murdered.’

When Hamo came to collect the empty dishes and make the beds for the night, Bartholomew, Michael and Suttone, with Cynric trailing disconsolately behind them, retired to the chamber on the upper floor. Uninvited, de Wetherset and Simon accompanied them. There the monk casually mentioned his hope of renewing an acquaintance with Matilde – thinking that if Simon was as well versed in his city’s doings as he claimed, then he might have information to share. But although Simon gave the first genuine smile of their acquaintance when he heard her name, he knew no more than that she had once lived in Lincoln and that she had been loved by all. Then Michael gave an account of what had happened when the new keg of wine had arrived at Kelby’s home and Flaxfleete had made the mistake of serving himself first.

‘And you think Flaxfleete was killed because he set fire to Spayne’s property?’ asked Simon of the Michaelhouse men. ‘How can you know that?’

‘We do not,’ replied Michael hastily, unwilling to be associated with that sort of claim. ‘All we are saying is that the possibility should be assessed before it is dismissed.’

‘That is reasonable,’ said de Wetherset. ‘And there are plenty of suspects to choose from. The Commonalty was furious when it learned about Sheriff Lungspee’s decision to acquit Flaxfleete – and Spayne’s sister Ursula was so enraged that she is said to have smashed her favourite chamber-pot.’

‘Ursula does know about toxins,’ mused Simon, ‘but I cannot see her harming a man with one, not even an enemy from the Guild. There was a case six years ago … but I am sure Suttone’s kin will have told him about it, so perhaps he will elaborate for us.’

Suttone glared at him. ‘Their letters dwell on erudite matters pertaining to theology – nothing you would understand. So, I am afraid we shall have to rely on you to provide us with alehouse gossip.’

Simon sneered at him. ‘Canon Hodelston’s wicked life is classified as theology, is it?’ He turned to Michael before the Carmelite could take issue with him. ‘Ursula had a friend with a cough, so she concocted an electuary. Unfortunately, this friend was with child and the potion contained some herb …what was it now? …cuckoo-pint! It was cuckoo-pint. Anyway, the poor woman died, and the midwife said cuckoo-pint should never be given to expectant mothers. It was clearly an accident, but the Guild makes sure Ursula will never forget it.’

Bartholomew was unimpressed. ‘It is common knowledge that powdered root of cuckoo-pint is used to expel afterbirth, and only a fool would give it to a pregnant woman. Ursula should refrain from dispensing tonics if she does not know what she is doing.’

‘But this woman did not tell Ursula she was with child,’ said Simon. He lowered his voice to a prudish hiss. ‘She was not married, you see. Incidentally, it was your friend Matilde who discovered what had happened, and who insisted that the matter be investigated. She was very angry about it.’

Bartholomew could imagine. Matilde had always championed unlucky women, and the death of a pregnant one from a dose of cuckoo-pint would certainly arouse her condemnation.

‘It caused a serious falling out between Matilde and Ursula,’ elaborated Simon. ‘Some folk said it was Ursula’s error that led Matilde to reject Spayne’s offer of marriage – and perhaps was the reason why she left Lincoln so suddenly.’

‘But this is ancient history,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Suffice to say that Ursula has a working knowledge of medicine, and was angry when Flaxfleete was exonerated today. She might well have tampered with his wine.’

‘I do not see how,’ said Suttone. He addressed Bartholomew and Michael. ‘You said she was in her house with the doors barred.’

‘I see how,’ said de Wetherset. He smiled at the monk. ‘This reminds me of the murders we solved in the University – how we sat and reviewed the evidence with our scholarly logic.’

‘How?’ asked Michael, more interested in de Wetherset’s conclusions than his reminiscences.

De Wetherset’s grin faded. ‘I was in the Swan earlier this evening, dining with Master Quarrel – he is remarkably learned for a taverner. Anyway, Kelby had ordered two kegs of wine earlier in the day, but then word came that the Guild was so delighted with Flaxfleete’s acquittal that another barrel was needed. Quarrel’s pot-boy had other work to do first, though, and Kelby’s wine stood by the door for some time before the lad was free to deliver it. Ursula could have tampered with it then.’

‘Not if she was in her house, trying not to listen to the Guild’s revelries,’ pressed Suttone.

‘Perhaps she was not,’ said de Wetherset. ‘You can see the Swan from her home, and it would not take many moments to sneak out, tap the barrel, and add some poison.’

‘She might have killed the entire Guild,’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘They were all celebrating.’

‘I imagine getting rid of all her brother’s enemies in one fell swoop would have been a tremendous boon to her,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Of course, that would have been bad for Lincoln.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘These men do not sound like particularly good citizens.’

‘Because it would destroy the balance between the two factions,’ explained de Wetherset. ‘And the balance is the only thing stopping us from erupting in a frenzy of blood-letting – and I do not mean your kind of blood-letting, Bartholomew. I am talking about murder and mayhem.’

‘What about you, Father Simon?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Have you chosen a side in this dispute?’

‘I do not approve of any city pulled apart by discord,’ replied Simon. ‘However, I dislike the way Miller is denigrated because he is not from an ancient mercantile family, like Kelby’s. I suppose I tend towards supporting the Commonalty because I dislike the Guild’s smug merchants – it costs little to dispense free bread to needy weavers, but they do not bother. Miller does.’

De Wetherset smiled wryly. ‘I stand with neither side, although it may be politically expedient to throw in my lot with the Guild in time. It is favoured by the canons – my new colleagues – you see.’

Simon glared at him. ‘That is hardly an ethical reason on which to base your choice.’

‘It is as ethical as yours – that you feel sorry for an upstart who is shunned by the older families.’

‘But Miller is said to be rich,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Why should Kelby and Flaxfleete take against such a man?’

‘Wealth does not confer breeding,’ explained de Wetherset. ‘Miller is one of the richest men in the city, but you would not want him dining with you – he wipes his teeth on the tablecloth and he spits. And I am not sure his money has been honestly gained. There are rumours–’

‘There are always rumours,’ said Simon coolly. ‘But gossip is for fools and the gullible.’

De Wetherset turned to Michael. ‘You see? Everyone feels strongly about this dispute. All I know is that it is important to maintain the status quo, so neither party seizes power.’

Simon was thoughtful. ‘We all say the same thing about this so-called balance, but is it really true? When a member of the Commonalty threw himself into the Braytheford Pool in a spat of drunken self-pity last Sunday, I held my breath, anticipating the equilibrium would shift and there would be mayhem – the Guild accused of murder, even though Herl’s death was a clear suicide. And there were indeed accusations and recriminations, but they amounted to nothing.’

‘You may have preached here for two decades, Simon, but my opinion counts for something – and I am right,’ said de Wetherset with the cool arrogance Bartholomew remembered so well from the man’s Cambridge days. ‘I say the balance is important, and only a fool would disagree with me.’ He changed the subject before the priest could dispute the point. ‘I was beginning to think you might not arrive in time, Brother. Most canons-elect come a month early, so they can be fitted for their ceremonial vestments. Such fine garments cannot be run up in an afternoon, you know.’

‘The weather is atrocious, and the journey took twice as long as we anticipated,’ said Michael, resenting the implication that he was tardy.

‘De Wetherset has been extolling your talent for solving murder,’ said Simon, with the kind of look that suggested he thought the skill a peculiar one. ‘Will you apply your expertise to Aylmer’s death? I imagine Suttone will want to know who killed his Vicar Choral.’

‘I would,’ said Suttone to Michael. ‘But I do not want you to do it, Brother. It might see us in trouble with the sheriff.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ said Michael. ‘And I have no intention of meddling. I am here to enjoy myself and bask in the glory of my appointment. I do not want to be burdened with secular duties.’

‘Good,’ muttered Bartholomew. He knew who would be asked to inspect the corpse if Michael agreed to help, and he had no wish to examine bodies when he could be looking for Matilde.

‘That is a pity,’ said de Wetherset. ‘The death should be investigated, and I have taken the liberty of informing Bishop Gynewell about your abilities. He is sure to ask for your assistance, Brother.’

Michael glared at him. ‘That was a high-handed thing to have done.’

‘You are about to receive a lucrative prebend,’ said de Wetherset sternly. ‘Surely, you will want to repay that honour by offering Gynewell the benefit of your expertise? If this city has a problem, and it is in your power to eliminate it, then surely you will not deny him?’

Michael continued to glare. ‘That is unfair.’

‘So is life,’ said de Wetherset with an unrepentant shrug. ‘I imagine the bishop will want to see you first thing tomorrow morning, so be grateful I warned you in advance. Meanwhile, Simon and I have elected to share this chamber with you tonight, rather than bed in the hall below. Aylmer was murdered by someone who might still be there, and we have no wish to be stabbed as we sleep.’

‘He was stabbed as he slept?’ asked Suttone in alarm.

Simon shot de Wetherset a withering look. ‘No, he was not. His body was slumped across his bed in a way that made it clear he was inspecting his possessions when he was killed.’

‘It was not his possessions he was inspecting,’ said de Wetherset, sharp in his turn. ‘You cannot leave the truth unspoken, if Michael is to solve this case. He was holding your holy chalice – he may even have been in the process of stealing it – while the rest of us were at our devotions.’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘Aylmer was killed while in the commission of a crime?’

Simon grimaced. ‘We do not know that. He was holding my cup, and perhaps he did have designs on it, but we will never know his intentions, and I am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a priest, and so would have been wary of committing evil acts on sacred ground.’

‘Was he alone when he was attacked?’ asked Michael. ‘Were there any witnesses to his death?’

‘The bells here are very loud,’ replied de Wetherset. ‘I think the Gilbertines installed some especially large ones with intention of out-clanging the Carmelites up the road. The upshot is that once the damned things get going for the dawn offices, it is impossible to sleep. Everyone quit the guest-hall this morning, and either left the priory to begin business in the city or went to attend prime.’

‘Aylmer did not, if he was admiring other people’s property,’ Michael pointed out.

Simon inclined his head. ‘That is true. However, he definitely accompanied us to the chapel, because he walked across the yard at my side. Then I went to stand near the front, so everyone could hear me singing, and I suppose he must have slipped out later.’

‘The killer must have slipped out, too,’ said Michael.

De Wetherset nodded. ‘Of course. But the chapel is dark in the mornings, because the Gilbertines cannot afford many candles. It is impossible to make out the man next to you, let alone identify which of the brethren, nuns and guests were or were not present. Any of them could have stabbed Aylmer.’

‘Except me,’ said Simon firmly. ‘I was singing and had I left, my absence would have been noted.’

‘Is that true?’ asked Michael of de Wetherset.

De Wetherset raised laconic eyebrows. ‘He certainly has a penetrating voice,’ he said, giving the impression he was not as impressed with it as was its owner.

‘How many people are in this community?’ asked Michael, becoming intrigued with the case, despite his resent ment at the way in which it was being foisted on him.

‘There are twelve brothers and fifteen nuns,’ replied Simon. ‘The sisters’ duties revolve around the six or so inmates of St Sepulchre’s Hospital, which is part of the Gilbertines’ foundation. And there are a score of lay-brothers who manage the gardens and the sheep.’

‘One of the brethren – Hamo, this week – conducts a separate ceremony for layfolk in the hospital,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I asked whether he had noticed anyone creeping out to murder Aylmer, but he said he had not. He is not overly observant, despite the fact that he loves to gossip.’

‘I shall repair to the Carmelite Friary at first light tomorrow,’ announced Suttone, horrified by the discussion. ‘It will be safer. And Brother Michael intends to foist himself on the Black Monks.’

‘You will find both convents are full,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Do you think we would stay in a place tainted by murder, had there been an alternative available? Simon and I will be safe with you, though – you cannot be the killers, because you have only just arrived.’

‘True,’ said Suttone nervously. ‘But the same cannot be said for you.’

‘De Wetherset is no killer,’ said Michael with more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Yet surely, you have homes in Lincoln, if you live here? Why not go there?’

‘De Wetherset was lodging with me,’ explained Simon, ‘but my house burned down last month – we should have been more careful when we banked the fire. Unfortunately, every bed in the city is now taken by folk who are here for Miller’s Market, the General Pardon or – as a very poor third – the installation of canons. We have no choice but to stay with the Gilbertines.’

‘This poor town,’ said de Wetherset softly. ‘A century ago, it was one of the greatest cities in the world, but now it is wracked by poverty. The plague did not help, carrying off two in every three of the clergy, and now the Fossedike – the old canal that gives access to the sea – is silting up, and trade suffers sorely. It deserves better than to be befouled by murder.’

‘Two murders,’ corrected Michael. ‘Aylmer and Flaxfleete.’

‘Not to mention the others,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Simon mutter.

Bartholomew slept badly that night for several reasons. He was over-tired from the journey; the bed was hard enough to hurt a back made sore by days in the saddle; he was eager to question Spayne about Matilde; he was disturbed to learn that a murder had taken place in the chamber below where he was tossing and turning; and he was uncomfortable sharing a room with de Wetherset and Simon. He had never liked the ex-Chancellor, and had been relieved when the man had left Cambridge. Like Michael, de Wetherset had relished the University’s intrigues and politics, and loved nothing more than to scheme and pit his wits against the clever minds of rival scholars. Bartholomew often felt Michael had learned rather too many bad practices from the cunning de Wetherset.

He had also taken something of a dislike to Simon. The priest possessed an arrogant self-confidence that suggested he was used to having his own way, and Bartholomew felt he was exactly the kind of man to kill the hapless Aylmer while claiming to be singing psalms. He distrusted him, and was grateful Cynric and his ready dagger were to hand.

‘I am uneasy here,’ whispered the book-bearer in the depths of the night, hearing him shift restlessly. ‘The servants are a miserable lot, who are raising toasts to the man who stabbed Aylmer – they all hated him, although none would tell me why. And I do not like de Wetherset wanting to sleep in the same chamber with us. He is a crafty man, and there will be trouble for certain.’

‘We shall find somewhere else tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not have to stay here.’

‘Unfortunately, we do,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘The servants say these are the last free beds in the entire city. Father Simon was right: folk have flocked here for Miller’s Market and the General Pardon.’

‘How many people were affected by this Summer Madness, then?’ asked Bartholomew, startled to learn the disease might have reached plague-like proportions. ‘And what sort of things did they do?’

‘Theft, robbery, rape, adultery,’ recited Cynric. ‘Every felon in the county is here, determined to buy absolution for crimes committed during August, when the physicians say no man was responsible for his own actions.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the servants say that while we might get one berth elsewhere – if we offer enough money – there is absolutely no chance of finding four together. I do not want to abandon Brother Michael in a place like this. He may need us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They say the bishop is going to order him to look into Aylmer’s stabbing. Gynewell is appalled by an unlawful death in a convent, and wants the culprit brought to justice. We cannot let him do it alone.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘I suppose we cannot.’

Bartholomew was jolted from an unsettling dream, in which Matilde was happily married to de Wetherset, by a discordant jangle that made him leap from the bed and grab his sword. Michael was already awake, and sat on the edge of his own bed, reading a psalter.

‘Easy, Matt,’ he said softly. ‘It is only the bells for prime. De Wetherset said they were louder than normal, and he is right.’

‘It sounded like an alarm at the start of a battle,’ said Bartholomew sheepishly, setting down the weapon before Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon could see what he had done. They were kneeling next to the hearth, whispering prayers of their own.

Michael closed his book and regarded his friend with concern. ‘You have been different since you returned from France – wearing a sword all the time, and drawing it at the slightest provocation. I thought you disapproved of fighting and violence.’

Bartholomew sat back on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I do, Brother, but this city does not feel safe, and you cannot blame me for being wary when a man was stabbed here only yesterday.’

Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘Cynric approves of your newly honed battle instincts – he worries less now he thinks you can look after yourself – but I am not so sure. It is unlike you.’ He saw the physician did not agree, and changed the subject when Cynric approached with a bowl of water. ‘Are you coming to prime? Laymen are not obliged to attend, so you can go back to sleep if you like, although that will not be easy with those bells going. It is enough to wake the dead.’

‘I hope it does not,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘Although at least then you could just ask Aylmer who dispatched him, which would save a lot of time. But what will happen to Queen Eleanor’s innards? Would they wake, too, and slither around looking for the rest of her?’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a lurid imagination you have, Cynric.’

‘It must come from living among the English for so long,’ sighed the book-bearer unhappily. ‘We Welsh do not chop up the corpses of princes, and nor do we have earthquakes or saints crucified by Jews. We were on very good terms with the Jews, so a very great wrong must have been done to provoke them to that sort of behaviour.’

Bartholomew followed him down the stairs and through the hall, where the other guests were either readying themselves for prayers, or lying in their beds with their hands clapped to their ears. The bells were even louder in the yard, and when he tried to tell Suttone that his braes were showing under his habit, he was obliged to shout to make himself heard. And then, as abruptly as it had started, the clamour stopped.

‘All right,’ hissed the Carmelite, adjusting his under-clothing while the physician’s yell still reverberated around the stone buildings. His plump face was scarlet with mortification. ‘There is no need to inform half of Lincoln.’

It was pitch dark and the ground underfoot was frozen hard, although treacherous patches of ice indicated the Gilbertines’ main courtyard was more usually an expanse of soft mud and puddles. The air was bitterly cold, and Bartholomew shivered as he drew his winter cloak more closely around his shoulders. Above, the sky was clear, and thousands of stars glittered in a great dome of blackness. A fox yipped in the distance, and trees whispered softly in the wind.

Bartholomew was used to prime being a peaceful, contemplative affair, where the hushed voices of priests echoed around an otherwise silent church, allowing those participating to reflect on the day that was about to begin. Things were different at the Gilbertine convent. The brethren began by marching in to take their places in the chancel, their prior rattling a pair of wooden clappers as he went. Bartholomew knew lepers sometimes wielded such devices, but he had never seen one employed by a religious community, and especially not that early in the morning. Then there was a peculiar whining sound, and a good deal of hissing. Suttone cried out in alarm, and Bartholomew started to reach for his dagger before remembering that he had left his weapons in the guest-hall, in deference to the general rule against bearing arms in churches.

‘It is the organ,’ whispered de Wetherset, although the Gilbertines’ stamping feet and the prior’s rattle meant he could have spoken at normal volume and not raised any eyebrows. ‘Surely you have encountered them in divine masses before?’

‘I most certainly have not,’ replied Suttone, resting a hand on his pounding heart. ‘Such objects are best left in taverns, where they belong. We have no organs in Cambridge, and nor shall we – especially not once I am Chancellor.’

Bartholomew edged to one side and saw a man operating something that looked like a large pair of bellows. There were more creaks and wails, then a tune of sorts began to emerge. The Gilbertines – men and women together – cleared their throats and stood a little taller. Then the psalm of the day was underway, the Chapel of St Katherine was suddenly awash with such vigorous noise that the physician could not hear himself when he coughed. Suttone leapt in shock at the abrupt cacophony, and Michael started to snigger. Overwhelmed by the volume, Bartholomew moved away, hoping the aisles would render the racket a little less painful. Michael followed, his large frame quaking with laughter.

‘What a row! I thought the Michaelhouse choir was bad enough, with its love of the crescendo, but it has nothing on these fellows. Anyone would think God and His angels were hard of hearing.’

‘They probably are, if they are obliged to listen to this day after day,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be good for the ears. Like the ribauld, it will make men deaf.’

‘Like the what?’

‘The ribauld – a weapon that propels missiles through long tubes by means of exploding powder. The Black Prince had several, and the noise was appalling. The men operating them came to me afterwards, because they could not hear. One never did recover.’

Michael tried to imagine what one looked like. ‘Were they very dangerous to the enemy?’

‘Not as dangerous as they were to us. They regularly blew up or burned people, and I never saw a missile hit a Frenchman. But they were terrifying to anyone who has never seen one. They spit fire and produce black smoke which, combined with the din, was enough to make some men – and not just the enemy, either – turn and run for their lives.’

Michael shook his head. ‘There is something innately distasteful about using exploding devices to harm another person, even the French. The very notion should be anathema to any decent soul.’

Bartholomew nodded, but his thoughts had returned to the noise the Gilbertines were making, and he was considering its implications for Aylmer’s murder. ‘Everyone is bellowing at the top of his lungs. And while Father Simon is one of the loudest, I am not sure he would be missed, were he to slink away and stab a man who sat admiring his possessions.’

‘You do not like Simon, then?’ asked Michael, arching his eyebrows in amusement. ‘There is an entire convent of suspects to choose from, and you pick holes in his alibi.’

‘Because no one else has offered us one yet,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘De Wetherset was cunningly cautious about his whereabouts. All he said was that the Gilbertines make a lot of noise at their offices, which is not the same thing as saying he was here when Aylmer was killed. But no, I cannot say I have taken to Simon. He thinks himself better than you, because he intends to be a residentiary canon, and you will have to be an absent one.’

‘Well, we will not have to put up with him for long. It is Thursday now, and we can be gone a week next Monday – the day after my installation.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘Will you not stay a little longer? It will not look decent to grab the Stall of South Scarle and make off with its prebend the very next morning.’

‘At least I came in person to collect it, which is more than can be said for most of my colleagues. When you were asleep last night, de Wetherset told me that of the forty canons currently in office, only ten have ever set foot in the cathedral. Some live so far away that they might even be dead, for all the contact the dean has with them. They all hire Vicars Choral to do their work.’

‘That is what you plan to do,’ said Bartholomew, not really seeing the difference.

‘But I have made arrangements to hire a local man, a fellow named John Tetford, which should please the dean. The foreign canons appoint their own deputies, and they are not always suitable.’

‘The dean must find it difficult to maintain order. He will need the support of his Chapter, but if most of his canons are abroad, then he will not have it.’

‘I expect that depends on the Vicars Choral. If they are good deputies, his job will be easy enough. My bishop tells me that Tetford will do all he is asked and more, and that he will make an excellent substitute. The dean will probably fare better with him than with me.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Bartholomew, earning himself an offended glare. ‘It is true, Brother. You would be plotting against the dean before the week is out, given your love of intrigue, and he would find himself with a rebellion on his hands, not to mention a rival for his position. He does not know how lucky he is that you are obliged to be in Cambridge. However, none of this tells me why you are so determined to leave Lincoln early.’

‘Aylmer’s murder,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘I do not like the timing of it, and I do not like the fact that he was Suttone’s Vicar Choral. Suttone is opinionated and annoying, but he is a colleague, and I do not want him stabbed while he gloats over his belongings. And nor do I want you in Lincoln when it is full of felons wanting absolution – not with your current penchant for wearing a sword. It looks as though you want a fight. Everything about our situation feels dangerous.’

‘There are the priory’s noblewomen,’ said Suttone, coming to join them before Bartholomew could comment. He pointed to the back of the nave, where the tall woman in the white habit stood with her head bowed as she listened to the Gilbertines’ singing. Her friend, the elderly nun, knelt next to her, holding a candle. Immediately, Michael’s eyes lit with interest, murder and unease forgotten.

‘I wonder if they would appreciate a philosophical exegesis of this particular psalm,’ he mused. ‘As a theologian, it is my duty to educate all who might benefit from my expertise.’

‘I would not think they need your intellectual skills, Brother,’ replied Suttone, apparently unaware of the predatory gleam in his colleague’s eye. ‘Hamo tells me that Dame Eleanor is quite a scholar herself, while Lady Christiana – the younger one – is a highly valued member of the convent.’

‘Because she pays well for the honour of being here?’ asked Bartholomew, who knew how such matters worked.

Wealthy ladies often spent time in religious foundations when their menfolk were not in a position to look after them, and it could be a lucrative arrangement for a priory.

‘I expect that is the main reason,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They say she is also upright, kind and popular with children. And Dame Eleanor, whom everyone reveres because she has devoted her entire life to Lincoln’s saints, thinks the world of her. Eleanor says Christiana is gracious in adversity.’

‘What adversity?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘First she lost her husband in the French wars, then her mother died. Incidentally, her mother was supposed to remarry, too. She was betrothed to that merchant you met yesterday – Kelby – but passed away before he could escort her to the altar.’

‘I would like to meet her daughter,’ said Michael, rather dreamily.

‘You do not have time,’ said Bartholomew, watching him uneasily. ‘First, you have a murder to solve, and secondly, you need to be fitted for your ceremonial robes. And then, as soon as you are properly installed at the cathedral, we are leaving. Remember?’

‘Are we?’ asked Suttone, relieved. ‘Good. I do not want to join the ranks of the dead: Aylmer, Flaxfleete and that wicked man who died during the plague – Canon Hodelston.’

‘I doubt those deaths are connected–’ began Bartholomew.

‘You can think what you like, but I know how I feel,’ said Suttone curtly. ‘And I feel like I want to leave. I shall introduce you to those ladies later, Brother. I see by the way your eyes are fixed on them that you are impressed by their piety.’

‘Oh, I am,’ agreed Michael. ‘Piety is a virtue very dear to my heart.’

By the time the service had been hollered, dawn was beginning to break. It was clear and blue, and the sun was just rising over the flat fields that lay to the east. Every roof was dusted with snow, and the long road that led arrow-straight towards the city was like a gleaming silver ribbon in the gathering light. As the temperature began to rise, a mist formed, and the cathedral sat above it, as though it was hovering. Bartholomew stood by the Gilbertines’ main gate and watched spellbound as the first sunbeams touched the yellow stone and set it afire.

‘It is like Ely,’ said Michael, coming to join him. ‘That floats above the morning fog, too.’

‘Yes, it does. Did you know that the central spire makes Lincoln’s cathedral the tallest building in the world? Yet it is so delicate, it looks as though it is made from lace. Stone lace.’

‘I hope you find Matilde soon, Matt,’ said Michael, beginning to walk to the refectory to break his fast. ‘I do not think I can stand many more of these coarse allusions, in which you compare lovely buildings to women’s under-clothes. Still, it is better than you prancing about with a sword, I suppose.’

He moved away, leaving the physician staring after him in astonishment.

The refectory was a large hall, with separate sections for each rank of inhabitant: Gilbertine brothers, Gilbertine sisters, hospital inmates, layfolk and guests. It was a hive of activity, and almost as noisy as the chapel. Voices were raised in conversation, pots clattered and there was frequent ringing laughter. Servants scurried here and there, carrying buckets of oatmeal and baskets of bread; although it was plain fare, it was plentiful and wholesome.

‘Did you enjoy prime?’ asked Simon, coming to sit next to them. His voice was low and difficult to catch. ‘When I was vicar at Holy Cross, I always came here for the dawn devotions, because I find the ceremony so uplifting. It is good to start the day by praising God with all one’s heart.’

‘You should consider praising Him a little more quietly tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You are so hoarse that you can barely speak.’

Simon regarded him askance. ‘God gave me speech to extol His name, so that is what I shall do with it. It will recover after a cup of breakfast ale – it always does. You might want to try it yourself.’

‘The breakfast ale?’

‘Some heartfelt worship. I saw you skulking in the shadows, muttering the psalm as though you were afraid of speaking the words aloud. Brother Michael was no better.’

‘He is right,’ said Hamo, coming to ensure his guests had enough to eat. ‘The Bible should be shouted to the skies, not whispered at the floor. I suggest you return to the chapel after breakfast and practise a few alleluias. I will come with you, and offer some advice.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew when he left. ‘The entire town is insane.’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘I do not hold with undisciplined piety, either, but it does not mean I condone that sort of language in a convent.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From now on, I shall swear only on unhallowed ground.’

Michael glared at him, not sure whether he was being mocked. ‘Well, just make sure you do.’

Once the food was on the tables, a tremendous rattling ensued when Whatton waved the wooden clappers in the air, and the hubbub of voices died away. The prior, a tall man with a large head, stood and began to intone grace in a voice loud enough to be heard by even the deafest diner. Then he sat, took a spoon in one hand and gestured with the other that his brethren could commence eating.

‘He likes to maintain silence during meals,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘They do not mind guests talking, though, as long as they are not too noisy.’

‘It is better just to eat,’ said Simon, grabbing a pan and helping himself to more of its contents than was considerate. ‘They do not take long over meals, and he who chatters goes hungry.’

Michael needed no further warning, and bent his head to the task in hand, managing to put away a monstrous amount before the prior said the final grace. He seized a piece of smoked pork as the platters were being cleared away, and slapped it in the physician’s hand.

‘It is cold outside, and we have a lot to do today,’ he said. ‘You cannot wander about on an empty stomach, because if you faint, I have no time to help you revive.’

Bartholomew smiled. It was a ritual they went through most days, ever since Michael had declared him under-nourished after his return from France. He was touched by the concern, but was also aware that the monk’s idea of thin was rather different from his own. He tore the meat in half, and they shared it as they left the refectory. They had not gone far before Suttone called them back.

‘I just went to pay my respects to Prior Roger de Bankesfeld, and he said he would like to see us in his solar,’ he said, rather breathlessly. ‘Now.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We can thank him for his hospitality, and inform him that we intend to stay with our own brethren for the rest of our sojourn in Lincoln. The Benedictines will find a corner for us somewhere. I certainly do not want to join the murdered Aylmer in the charnel house by lingering here.’