The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 3

Bartholomew and Michael followed Suttone across the yard and entered the house that comprised the prior’s lodgings. In the half-dark of the previous afternoon, when they had arrived, Bartholomew had imagined it to be a handsome building, but daylight showed that it, like the rest of the convent, was in sore need of repair. Its roof was all but invisible under a cushion of snow, but the shape indicated it was sagging, and its walls were stained with lichen. Stones were missing from the chimney, and the thick white smoke that billowed out suggested a fire had only just been lit – an early-morning blaze was a luxury the prior did not permit himself. Hamo was waiting to escort them up the stairs to a solar that was pleasant despite its cracked plaster and uneven floorboards.

‘Here are the Cambridge men, Father,’ said Hamo, prodding Bartholomew when he was slow to follow the others inside – the physician was trying to finish the pork, not being as adept as Michael at devouring lumps of meat at speed. ‘Michael de Causton, Thomas Suttone and Matthew–’

‘Suttone,’ pounced the prior. ‘Kin to the great Lincoln Suttones. Hamo says you and he may share common ancestors, and he is distantly related to Bishop Oliver Suttone.’

‘Oliver was my grandfather,’ replied Suttone proudly. ‘I have a cousin who has invited me–’

‘Do not think of staying elsewhere,’ said the prior firmly. ‘You are welcome here. The Suttones are a respected family, and it is a privilege to have one under my roof for a few weeks. And I intend to make Hamo our Brother Hospitaller today, too, so the Suttones will know I favour them and their kin. He will be a vast improvement on Fat William, God rest his soul, because he does not eat as much.’

Hamo’s moist lips split in a startled grin, while Bartholomew thought Michael would have to curb his appetite if he did not want to be tarred with the same brush. ‘Thank you, Father,’ stammered Hamo. ‘You will not regret it, I promise, and–’

‘I am sure you will be assiduous,’ said Roger. He sighed. ‘Well, pour us some almond milk, then, man! You are already slacking in your duties.’

Bartholomew studied Roger de Bankesfeld properly for the first time, as the man had been too far away in the chapel and at breakfast. Bartholomew was tall, but the prior was taller – although a good deal thinner – so the overall effect was spindly. He had huge hands with bony knuckles, and big yellow teeth that gave his head a skull-like appearance. He reminded Bartholomew of the grotesque tombs he had seen in southern France, where the sculptors had been overly obsessed with death.

‘We plan to stay only a few days, and–’ began Suttone.

‘It is an honour to receive you,’ said Prior Roger with a grin that did nothing to dispel the skeletal image. ‘Fortunately, there was something of an exodus after Aylmer’s murder yesterday, so we were not obliged to order people to evacuate the best room for you.’

‘That is very kind,’ said Suttone, swallowing uneasily. ‘But there would have been no need for–’

‘I said it is an honour to receive you,’ interrupted Roger with some annoyance. ‘And I meant it. Just because we are on the outskirts of the city, and we are a bit short of funds, does not mean we are less hospitable than the other Orders. Well, I accept that the Dominicans are conveniently close to the Bishop’s Palace, and the Franciscans have that lovely new guest-hall, but that is all irrelevant. We are very pleased you chose us, when you could have gone elsewhere.’

‘The honour is ours,’ said Michael graciously. ‘However, I am a Benedictine and my brethren will expect me to–’

‘You will not want to reside with them,’ declared Roger. ‘They are deeply in debt, and their guests nearly always go hungry. You do not look like a man who likes to go hungry, Brother.’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Michael. ‘But–’

‘And the Carmelite Friary has its drawbacks, too,’ Roger went on, addressing Suttone. ‘It is too near the river and stinks to high heaven. We are upstream, so do not suffer such miseries.’

From the artful way he spoke, Bartholomew wondered whether the stench that afflicted the White Friars was because of something the Gilbertines did.

‘I do not mind a little–’ began Suttone.

‘And they have a rat problem,’ added Roger.

‘That is not as unnerving as a murder problem,’ Michael managed to interject.

Roger waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is the first time we have ever lost a visitor to a killer’s blade, although the other convents have had deaths galore. You are better off here, gentlemen. As I said, we are always pleased to have canons-elect sharing our humble abode.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the glint in his eye that he would go elsewhere if he wanted. ‘Not everyone has been so eager to accommodate us during our long and arduous voyage from Cambridge.’

‘Not everyone knows how much canons are paid,’ Bartholomew was sure he heard Roger mutter. The prior cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. ‘I promise you shall have the best of everything.’

‘You will,’ agreed Hamo. ‘And if another convent offers you something we do not have, tell me what it is and I will get it for you. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He glanced at his prior, to see if he was being sufficiently obsequious.

‘It is our duty to God,’ said Roger. He crossed himself. ‘Praise His holy name. Alleluia!’

‘Alleluia!’ shouted Hamo in reply, raising his hands in the air and gazing at the ceiling.

Suttone nudged Bartholomew with his elbow when he became aware that the physician was more amused than religiously inspired by the demonstration, and then did the same to Michael. ‘Behave yourselves!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘They will think us godless heathens if you stand there chortling at their heartfelt expressions of reverence, and they may tell Bishop Gynewell. We do not want to be ejected from our stalls before we have claimed the money that goes with them.’

‘You are the godless heathen, if you are only interested in the post for its stipend,’ Bartholomew shot back.

‘There she is again!’ breathed Michael, gazing out of the window when he spotted a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He moved to one side for a better view.

‘Lady Christiana and–’

‘And Dame Eleanor,’ said Roger, coming to stand next to him. ‘We are fortunate to have them in our convent. Dame Eleanor is little short of a saint, and her devotion to St Hugh is legendary. She also prays for Queen Eleanor, whose funeral cross stands outside our gate. God rest her soul.’

‘Amen,’ chorused Hamo.

‘We saw that,’ said Suttone. ‘It is a–’

‘The King is grateful to Dame Eleanor for her care of his grandmother’s soul,’ said Roger. ‘And it is always good to have a king pleased with one of your residents. You should engage Eleanor in a discussion about theology, Brother. You will find her sharp-minded and erudite.’

‘And Lady Christiana?’ asked Michael. ‘Will she benefit from a theological debate, too?’

Roger glanced sharply at him, but answered anyway. ‘She lost her husband in the French wars, and the King asked us to look after her until she recovers from the shock. The maintenance he pays for her keep is invaluable, and Dame Eleanor has grown fond of her. They are often together.’

‘There is a lot of traffic on the road outside,’ observed Suttone, not particularly interested in the convent’s females. ‘I have counted six carts in the last–’

‘They are gathering for Miller’s Market,’ said Roger, his face darkening with disapproval. ‘Wagons have been pouring into the city all week, and the event is not due to start for another ten days. Lincoln is bursting at the seams, but still they come.’

‘Very few fairs take place in winter,’ said Suttone. ‘It must be–’

‘I doubt God approves,’ Roger went on. ‘Some will claim Miller is a good man for his generosity, but he did not start his fair out of the kindness of his heart. He did it out of spite.’

‘The poor probably do not mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will prefer a festival to a–’

‘So, we shall have to make sure our singing seduces them away from their pagan diversions,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘A few alleluias will bring them back to their senses.’

‘I warned you,’ Suttone whispered fiercely to his colleagues, when the prior raised his hands towards the rafters and began to sing in a booming voice; Hamo joined in. ‘If you cannot refrain from sniggering, you should leave before he hears you. Say you are unwell.’

Bartholomew was halfway to the door when there was a thundering knock that startled the prior into a blessed silence.

‘Who is that?’ asked Roger, as if the Michaelhouse men should know. ‘I said we were to be left in peace as long as important visitors were with me – and a pair of canons-elect, one of whom is kin to the Suttones, qualify as the most important guests we have had in years.’

The door flew open before Hamo could reach it, and a tiny man bounced inside. He barely reached Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his head was covered in a thick mop of wiry curls, some of which twisted into points at the side of his head and gave the uncanny appearance of horns. His ears were large and round, and when he smiled he revealed several missing teeth. He wore the simple robes of a Dominican, although the purple ring on his finger showed he was one who held an elevated position in the Church.

‘Good morning, Roger,’ he piped cheerfully. ‘It is only me.’

‘My Lord Bishop,’ said Roger with a courtly bow.

Bishop Gynewell skipped across the chamber and presented his episcopal ring for Roger to kiss. He barely reached the Gilbertine’s chest, and the tall prior was obliged to bend absurdly low to reach the proffered bauble. The prelate had not come alone, and was accompanied by a handsome young priest who was weighed down with parchment, scrolls and writing materials. When Bartholomew went to help him, the reek of wine was overpowering. The physician concluded, from the clerk’s liverish appearance, that he consumed a lot of it on a regular basis. There was something familiar about him, and Bartholomew tried to recall where he had seen him before. Then the memory snapped into place: he had been one of the men slumped unconscious across Kelby’s table the previous night. As the physician dived to save a pot of ink from falling to the floor, something hard bumped against his hand. He stepped away smartly, wondering why a man in holy orders should want to conceal a sword under his robes.

‘This is a dangerous city,’ explained the clerk, guessing what had happened. He glanced at the bishop, to ensure he could not be heard. ‘I seldom go anywhere without a blade.’

‘Why would anyone attack you?’ asked Bartholomew. He thought about the conflict that was tearing the city in half. ‘Because you are a Guild member?’

The clerk waved a hand to indicate that was unimportant, and several scrolls pattered on the floor. ‘I am not worried about Miller and his cronies – they do not have the wits to best a clever fellow like me. I am more concerned about my fellow priests; they are where the real danger lies.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Have you not heard what happened to Aylmer in this very convent? He was a Vicar Choral and he was stabbed to death, so do not tell me canons’ deputies are a peaceful band of men. The only way to defend myself is with a sharp sword, and if you visit the cathedral, I recommend you wear one, too.’

He moved away to stand near the door when Prior Roger finished paying homage to his bishop, coincidentally ending up near a tray on which stood several goblets of wine.

‘How are you, Roger?’ chirped Bishop Gynewell merrily, wholly unaware that his secretary was slyly raiding the Gilbertines’ claret. ‘Any more murders today?’

‘No, My Lord,’ replied Roger shortly. ‘It was an isolated incident, as I told you yesterday. And we should not be discussing that now anyway.’ He flicked his head at his three visitors in an indiscreet way that made Bartholomew want to laugh again.

‘Brother Michael, I presume,’ said the bishop, turning to beam at the fat monk. ‘And you must be Master Suttone. I shall soon count you two among my canons, although I was disappointed to hear you have appointed Vicars Choral and plan to return to your University. Well, that is to say, Michael has appointed a deputy. Suttone will have to find another.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Suttone, bowing over the prelate’s hand. ‘This is our colleague Matthew Bartholomew. He is a physician.’

‘I guessed as much from his bag,’ said Gynewell, resting his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder when he stepped forward to make his obeisance. ‘I know the scent of valerian and woundwart when I come across it.’

‘He used those to treat an injured pedlar we encountered yesterday morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop in amazement. ‘You are an observant man, My Lord.’

‘Thank you, Brother; I shall consider that a compliment.’ Gynewell trotted to a chair next to the fire and climbed on to it, folding his legs in a way that made him look more like a pixie than one of the most powerful churchmen in the country. ‘I am surprised you have elected to stay with Prior Roger, rather than with me at my palace. I extended an invitation to you, through Bishop de Lisle.’

‘Did you?’ asked Michael, peeved. ‘He neglected to pass it on. However, I–’

‘The good brother is settled with us now,’ said Roger smoothly. ‘He enjoyed our energetic prime this morning, and will want to repeat the experience tomorrow.’

‘Will he?’ asked Gynewell in surprise.

‘It was energetic,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I–’

‘All our guests find our style of worship uplifting,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘They say it makes a change from the sober muttering of the other Orders.’

‘There was certainly no muttering involved,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, this is the first time I have ever set foot in a Gilbertine House, other than the one in Cambridge and that is a very staid foundation. Are they usually so … expressive?’

‘This is the only convent I know that praises God at such high volume,’ said Gynewell. ‘I cannot imagine it is anything but unique.’

‘We like to make an impact,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Why murmur when you can yell, I always say.’

‘So do fishwives,’ said Suttone in an undertone. ‘And it is not seemly.’

‘May I have a word with Brother Michael alone, Roger?’ asked Gynewell, after several attempts to change the subject had failed, and they were still discussing the Gilbertines’ unusual approach to their devotions a quarter of an hour later. ‘Please stay, Doctor. What I have to say is not private.’

‘No?’ asked Roger, settling himself behind his table. ‘Then I shall stay, too.’

‘It pertains to Cambridge, Roger,’ said Gynewell, prodding the fire with a poker. He added several logs and jabbed them until the flames roared. ‘You will be bored, and I am sure you have a lot to do.’

‘Not really,’ said Roger, leaning back comfortably. ‘And I am always interested in learning about new and exotic locations. I hear Cambridge sits on a bog, just like Ely.’

‘And I hear Lincoln is full of imps,’ retorted Michael, irritated by the dual slur on his town and his abbey. ‘Little ones, which hurl rocks at the choir during masses.’

Gynewell cackled his mirth, and it occurred to Bartholomew that he looked rather demonic himself, with his horn-like hair and gap-toothed grin. ‘The Lincoln imp is a charming folk tale, Brother. But I am starving. Would you mind showing Ravenser here where you buy those lovely red marchpanes, Roger? He can never find the right shop, and I am sure you will not mind obliging your old bishop.’

‘And purchase a few Lombard slices while you are at it,’ suggested Michael opportunistically. He smiled slyly. ‘The Benedictines will certainly provide me with an unlimited supply of pastries if I stay with them. But if the Gilbertines do the same, I shall have no reason to leave.’

Roger stood reluctantly, knowing he was outmanoeuvred. ‘The bakeries will open soon, so I shall see what we can do. However, the Black Monks will not give you Lombard slices, Brother. I told you – they have no money with which to pamper their guests.’

‘And if they did, they would spend it on themselves,’ added Ravenser nastily, swallowing a second goblet of wine before turning to leave.

‘I shall come with you, Father Prior,’ said Suttone. ‘I dislike Lombard slices, and red marchpanes sound unpleasant. I must make sure you buy something I will enjoy, too.’

He, Roger, Hamo and Ravenser left together, and Gynewell grinned conspiratorially at the monk. ‘I see you and I will work excellently together, Brother. Roger is a good man, but I did not want to talk to you while he was listening.’

‘And your clerk, My Lord?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did you send him away?’

Gynewell did not seem to take offence at what was essentially an impertinent question. ‘We do not need a written account of this meeting – not that Archdeacon Ravenser would have made a decent record anyway. Did you see the state of him? He was at a Guild meeting last night, and they can turn very debauched. Poor Ravenser seems incapable of refusing a cup of wine, but I think he drinks to lessen his desire for women.’

‘Perhaps you should try it, Matt,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would be a lot safer than traipsing across half the world hunting them out.’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about Ravenser’s fragile health.

Gynewell glanced at the door. ‘They will not be gone long, so we had better speak while we can. Have you heard about this murder?’

‘You mean Flaxfleete’s?’ asked Michael. ‘We had nothing to do with that.’

‘I know. John Suttone told me you tried to help him. Poor Flaxfleete. He would have made a diligent canon, although I suspect he would have been argumentative in Chapter meetings. But I was not referring to him. I meant Aylmer – Suttone’s Vicar Choral.’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘Yes, I heard about it.’

Gynewell grinned again. ‘De Wetherset says you and Bartholomew were very good at solving murders when he was Chancellor, and thinks you must be even better at it by now.’

‘He is exaggerating, My Lord,’ said Michael unhappily.

‘Perhaps, but Bishop de Lisle also extolled your virtues, and he seldom has a good word to say about anyone. You are exactly the kind of man I would like in my cathedral Chapter, and I hope you will stay with us for a very long time before you leave young Tetford in charge.’

Michael’s smile was pained. ‘Unfortunately, I have pressing duties in Cambridge, and I am obliged to leave the day after the installation.’

Gynewell’s face fell in dismay. ‘So soon? There is so much I want to show you!’

‘I will return,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘In the summer, when the students are no longer in residence, and my own town is quiet. Then I shall spend two or three months here.’

Gynewell’s expression was wistful. ‘That would be delightful, although it seems a long time to wait. Will you help me with Aylmer’s murder? Prior Roger seems content to let the matter lie, but an unlawful killing on sacred ground is a serious matter, and I would like the culprit under lock and key as soon as possible. I shall grant whatever authority you need to investigate.’

Michael frowned. ‘Surely you have your own agents for this kind of thing? De Lisle does.’

‘Of course, but they are busy policing the felons gathering for Miller’s Market, and have no time to look into the death of a man no one liked very much.’

‘He was unpopular?’ asked Bartholomew, his heart sinking on Michael’s behalf. If Aylmer had a lot of enemies, it might be very difficult to locate the real killer.

‘It grieves me to speak ill of the dead,’ said Gynewell. ‘But there is no point in my telling you he was an angel, because he was not. I would not be so concerned, if it were not for this chalice.’

‘What chalice?’ asked Michael.

‘The Hugh Chalice,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It belonged to St Hugh of Lincoln, so is a very valuable relic. Father Simon has offered to donate it to the cathedral when he is installed, but I am not sure we should accept it.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If it really did belong to St Hugh, it will attract pilgrims. And pilgrims bring trade to the city and will leave donations at his shrine. And the shrine is in your cathedral.’

‘I know,’ said Gynewell. ‘But this particular relic has an odd history. The story goes that Hugh was holding it when he died in London’s Old Temple. It stayed there for a hundred and thirty years, until my predecessor, Bishop Burghersh, arranged for it to be brought here.’

‘Burghersh died years ago,’ said Michael. ‘Did his arrangements fail, then? And why is it Simon’s to donate?’

‘It never arrived,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It was stolen on its journey north twenty years ago, and its whereabouts were a mystery until it reappeared in the hands of a relic-seller recently. It was fortunate Simon happened to hear about it, or one of Lincoln’s convents might have snapped it up. However, I cannot help but wonder at the coincidence.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Gynewell shrugged. ‘Let us say I am suspicious. It was missing for two decades, and then suddenly it is about to be presented to the cathedral for no charge. It is too good to be true. In essence, I would like to know where it has been in the interim.’

‘Perhaps it is not the real cup,’ suggested Michael. ‘That is the most rational explanation. You must have come across forgeries in the past.’

‘It is no forgery,’ declared Gynewell with startling conviction. ‘I am absolutely convinced of its authenticity. My dean disagrees, though. He held it in his hands, and said it did not instil in him a proper sense of reverence. I asked him to explain further, but he is not very good with words.’

‘I understand him,’ said Michael. ‘We had some bones in Cambridge a few years ago, which were said to belong to a saint. Only the more perceptive of us saw they were not holy.’

‘The more “perceptive” of us also knew they had been hacked from a pauper,’ added Bartholomew.

‘So, Dean Bresley thinks our Hugh Chalice is not the real one,’ said Gynewell, off in a world of his own. ‘However, I feel with every fibre of my being that he is wrong.’

‘Why mention your dean’s scepticism if you disagree with him?’ asked Michael.

‘You cannot investigate the matter properly unless you are fully informed,’ replied Gynewell. ‘And you should be aware that the chalice has provoked conflict among your future colleagues – the dean doubts its sanctity, but most of the Vicars Choral do not.’

‘Thank you for being candid, My Lord,’ said Michael. ‘But I thought you wanted me to find Aylmer’s killer. What has the Hugh Chalice to do with him?’

‘It is very simple,’ said Gynewell. ‘Aylmer was holding it when he was stabbed.’

It was not long before the door opened and Roger entered with a plate of Lombard slices. Bartholomew was keen to go in search of Spayne, but did not want to offend the prior by racing away the moment he arrived with his victuals. He lingered awhile, then made his escape when Michael announced that he was going to begin his investigation into Aylmer’s murder. Suttone volunteered to help, but the offer was a half-hearted one, and he was visibly relieved when the monk said the best thing he could do was act as Michaelhouse’s ambassador by charming their hosts. Gravely, Suttone agreed to sample the Gilbertines’ pastries, all in the interests of establishing friendly relations between the Cambridge College and the Lincoln convent.

‘I do not want to stay here,’ said Michael resentfully, as they left Suttone to his arduous duties. ‘And nor do I want to investigate a suspicious death.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Spayne tells me where Matilde might be, I would like to leave as soon as possible. I will not abandon you to investigate this stabbing alone, but I do not want to wait weeks before going after her. The delay might see her slip through my fingers again.’

‘We had better get on with it, then,’ said Michael. He sighed. ‘I did not think accepting a prebendal stall would see me inconveniently beholden to a second bishop.’

‘I suppose you can still decline the honour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not think de Lisle will be very pleased if you do, though. He said he had sacrificed a good deal to secure it for you.’

Michael nodded. ‘He was obliged to promote three of Gynewell’s archdeacons to posts in his own See in return.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But to return to the murder, I am under the impression that it is not Aylmer’s death that worries Gynewell. What bothers him is the prospect of accepting the Hugh Chalice if it is implicated in a crime.’

‘How will you begin your work?’

‘By looking at Aylmer’s corpse. It lies in the mortuary chapel, and I was hoping you might spare a few moments to help me. I know you are eager to visit Spayne, but I will come with you to interview him, if you oblige me with Aylmer now.’

‘I do not need you with me when I talk to Spayne.’ Bartholomew was surprised the monk should think he might, given that he had spent the last year and a half making enquiries on his own.

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He may not want to help you – a man determined to marry the woman who rejected him – but he may be more forthcoming with a monk.’

Bartholomew supposed he had a point. ‘Can we see Spayne first, then inspect Aylmer?’

Michael tapped him on the arm with a plump forefinger. ‘You dallied weeks in Cambridge after hearing about Spayne from Matilde’s friend – waiting for term to end so Suttone and I could travel to Lincoln for our installation. Why the sudden hurry?’

‘Because people here knew Matilde, and they have made the search real again.’

‘The trail is still six years old, Matt. Be patient, and do not allow your expectations to rise too high. I do not want you crushed with disappointment again – like that time you heard she had gone to Stamford, only to learn she had not been there in a decade.’

Bartholomew nodded. The monk was right, and he tried to put Matilde out of his mind. He was about to follow him inside a low, dismal building, when he spotted Father Simon’s pockmarked face. The priest was leaning against a disused stable, in earnest conversation with a fellow wearing crimson hose. When a group of lay-brothers clattered towards them, carrying pails of milk and sharing some ribald joke, Simon started in alarm and shoved his companion out of sight, placing a hand over the fellow’s mouth to stop him from speaking. The man put up a token struggle at the rough treatment, but desisted when Simon whispered something urgent. Simon scanned the yard quickly when the cowherds had gone, although he failed to notice Bartholomew watching him. Then he and his companion finished their discussion and parted quickly. Bartholomew was puzzled, wondering why the priest should act so furtively, but then dismissed the incident as none of his business.

‘I was about to start without you,’ grumbled Michael when the physician entered the chapel, as if the delay had been hours rather than moments. The mortuary was small, dark and smelled of mould. Cobwebs swayed on the ceiling, and the floor was slick with slime. ‘Still, you should enjoy this. It will remind you of how you anatomised cadavers with the French all last year.’

‘I did no such thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I suppose there was the occasion when–’

‘You can keep that sort of information to yourself,’ interrupted Michael tartly. ‘I do not want to lose you to an accusation of witchcraft now I finally have you back again. It would be a wretched nuisance. Besides, chopping up human bodies is not a normal thing to which to aspire.’

‘Neither is examining them for your investigations.’

‘That is different,’ said Michael loftily. ‘As I have told you before.’

‘I cannot see in here,’ complained Bartholomew, beginning to resent the wasted time. ‘It is too dark and there are no windows to open.’

‘We will be poring over bodies until sunset at this rate,’ said Michael with an impatient sigh. ‘First you dawdle outside, then the room is too dim.’

‘Well, it is dim,’ Bartholomew pointed out, irritable in his turn.

‘Lord, Matt!’ snapped Michael, as he stamped outside. He continued to rail as he stalked towards the kitchens, oblivious of the fact that the physician could no longer hear him. ‘You are all complaints this morning. Make a start, then, while I fetch a lamp. You should have remembered to bring one yourself. You know perfectly well these places are always gloomy, and I cannot be expected to do everything. You are worse than Doctor Rougham–’

‘Who is Doctor Rougham?’ asked a low, sultry voice behind him. ‘And who is the intended recipient of this bitter diatribe? I hope you will not blame it on Summer Madness. We have not seen a case of that in months.’

Michael spun around and was horrified to see Christiana de Hauville there, a faint smile etched into features that were even more perfect up close than they had been at a distance. Being caught muttering to himself was not how the monk had envisaged their first meeting.

‘I was talking to my colleague,’ he said, trying to repair his dented dignity. ‘He is always slinking off in the middle of conversations, though, and I expect he has gone to the mortuary chapel.’

‘Really?’ she asked, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth; Michael berated himself for gabbling and providing more information than was necessary – information that made him sound slightly strange. ‘What an odd thing to do.’

‘He is a physician and they are apt to be odd, as you will know if you have ever met any,’ elaborated Michael. He was surprised to find himself determined that she should not know he dabbled in such sordid activities as inspecting corpses; he was even more surprised to realise how keen he was to make a good impression. He smiled at her, noting that she was almost as tall as he, which was unusual for a woman. ‘Do you know where I might find a lamp? Matt needs one for … for reading.’

‘I shall arrange for one to be fetched,’ she replied. There was laughter in her voice, although her face was politely grave. ‘I cannot get it myself, obviously.’

‘Why not? Do you not know where they are kept?’

‘Of course. But I do not perform menial tasks, or so the good brothers keep telling me. Were I to go to the kitchens myself, they would chase me out, like a pig among the cabbages.’

‘I would never associate you with pigs,’ said Michael chivalrously. ‘Or cabbages. But we all need to perform menial tasks occasionally, because they keep us from the sin of pride.’

‘Is pride a sin?’ asked Christiana. ‘I am a noblewoman, and it is considered a virtue in my family.’

‘I am the son of a knight myself,’ said Michael, unwilling to be thought of as common. ‘But I forswore my earthly family when I took holy orders. Perhaps that is why the vows are in place – to ensure we do not confuse filial obligation with something deadly to the soul. Do you have any intention of taking the veil?’

She smiled and he saw white, perfect teeth in a face that might have belonged to an angel. ‘I have not decided, Brother. It depends on what the future holds.’

She adopted a helpless pose that indicated she needed assistance, and suddenly there were three brothers and a lay-sister hurrying to see what she wanted. She asked for a lantern and all four scurried towards the kitchens, one sprinting so fast that he missed his footing and took a tumble. When the remaining three reached the door, there was almost an exchange of blows as each fought to enter first.

‘Bless them,’ she said, watching with a fond smile. ‘They are so good to me. Perhaps I will take the veil, since I love this place so much; the people are far kinder here than they are in the world outside. Thank you, Hamo. It was very kind of you to do so much running on my behalf.’

Hamo backed away with a silly grin on his face, panting and bowing furiously, while Michael lit the lamp. Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.

‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’

Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’

‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.

Bartholomew studied Christiana covertly, taking in the fact that her eyelashes were darkened with charcoal, which had the effect of making her skin appear fashionably pale, and the tendrils of gold hair that curled attractively from under her veil were not random escapees, but ones that had been carefully tailored for maximum effect. He could tell from her posture that she fully expected to be the centre of attention. But, he reflected wryly as he glanced around him, people were looking at her, and he was among them. He gave his complete attention to the wick, oblivious to the fact that she then used the opportunity to return the scrutiny.

‘Have you been here long?’ asked Michael, aware that Christiana’s interest had moved to a man who was slimmer and far better-looking than himself. Not that it would do her much good – for the physician, there was only one woman.

‘Since my husband was killed,’ she replied. A tremor in her voice suggested it still pained her. ‘I am here until either the King finds another suitable match or I become a nun. I am torn between wishing His Majesty would hurry up, and hoping he never finds a replacement, lest he imposes on me a man I do not like.’

‘That is why I took holy orders,’ confided Michael, making Bartholomew glance at him in surprise. He had never asked Michael’s reasons for taking the cowl, and had always assumed a sense of vocation had led him to do it. ‘My family had in mind a match that would have made me unhappy. I have never regretted my decision.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘You do not find the life a lonely one?’

‘Not at all. I have many friends, and there are ways to alleviate loneliness.’

‘The lamp is lit,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly seized with the awful premonition that the monk was about to tell her how to break vows of chastity without being caught. ‘Come on, Brother. There is not much oil, and we do not have long before it burns out.’

‘Would you like me to hold it for you?’ asked Christiana, looking from one to the other with wide blue eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, and I have never seen anyone read in the mortuary chapel before. I lead a dull life, so I am always eager for new experiences. Even peculiar ones.’

‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and trying to guide him away from her.

But it needed a lot more than a tug to shift a man of Michael’s bulk. He resisted, and Bartholomew heard stitches snap open. Humour sparkled briefly in Christiana’s eyes, but was quickly masked.

‘Actually, we are going to pay our respects to Aylmer,’ confessed Michael, freeing his arm and clearly preferring Christiana’s company to his grim duties in the chapel. ‘I did not want to burden you with information about corpses, but perhaps I was being overly protective. You must forgive me.’

She smiled, and Bartholomew was forced to admit she was lovely, although he felt it a pity that she thought so, too. He glanced at Michael, and was alarmed to note how flushed the monk’s face had become – and how it wore an oddly dreamy expression Bartholomew had never seen before.

‘I shall forgive you, Brother, although only if you agree to tell me no more fibs. I know exactly what you are doing: Bishop Gynewell has asked you to investigate Aylmer’s murder.’

The monk’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How do you know? Gynewell spoke in confidence.’

‘Hamo was listening outside the door. The news is all over the convent now, and it will be all around the city by noon.’

‘Damn,’ swore Michael. ‘I had hoped to carry out my commission discreetly.’

Christiana rested an elegant hand on his arm. ‘It may not be a bad thing, because now people will know on whose authority you ask your questions. Of course, it may also serve to make the killer more dangerous. You should take special care, Brother.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Michael with an unreadable smile. ‘In all I do.’

‘And so am I,’ she replied, while Bartholomew looked from one to the other with growing unease, sure messages were passing between them that he did not understand. ‘I shall say a prayer for you. Perhaps you might care to join me at my devotions? I am usually in the Lady Chapel after vespers – not tonight, because there is a vigil for Little Hugh at the cathedral, but I will be there tomorrow.’

‘I am sure we shall find plenty to pray about,’ said Michael with one of his courtliest bows.

Bartholomew watched him leer appreciatively as Christiana walked away. ‘She is a ward of the King, Brother,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And you are a monk. This is not a good idea.’

‘Are you warning me against praying?’ asked Michael archly. ‘In a chapel? Really, Matt!’

‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Your quest to find Matilde has led you to assume that every man is consumed with lust. I assure you that is not the case, especially in those of us who have sworn vows of chastity. If you are worried, come with me tomorrow. You will witness nothing amiss.’

‘I shall, then,’ said Bartholomew, equally cool. He was not astute when it came to romance – his failure to propose to Matilde before she had given up on him was testament to that – but even he had read something in the exchange between Michael and Christiana, and he disliked being considered a fool by his friend.

Michael was not amused. ‘You had better examine this corpse, or it will be a skeleton before you provide me with any answers.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘I would like that very much, but your lamp has just run out of oil.’

Brother Michael was not Lady Christiana, and it took him considerably longer to locate fuel for the lantern than it would have done if she had been with him. Eventually, a woman from the kitchens offered to help, filling the device with oil and even carrying it to the mortuary chapel, claiming it had a tendency to spill if not handled with a certain expertise. By the time she and the monk reached the building, Bartholomew was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands in an attempt to keep warm in the bitter wind. Michael turned to her.

‘Thank you, madam. My colleague is about to conduct an examination, as you no doubt know, since everyone else seems aware of my business here, and you will not want to be a witness to that, I assure you. I have seen him do it a hundred times, yet he still possesses the ability to make me shudder.’ He glanced coolly at Bartholomew, to indicate there was a double meaning to his comment.

‘I do not mind.’ She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a lined face and a matronly wimple. ‘I doubt he will do anything I have not seen before.’

‘He might,’ warned Michael. ‘He has been to Padua, where they are said to practise a macabre form of scholarship called anatomy.’

‘I know nothing of the black arts, but I have seen my share of death. It holds no fears for me.’

Michael regarded her curiously. ‘Do you work in the priory hospital, then?’

The woman snorted her disdain. ‘You obviously think I am one of the lay-sisters. I am not. My name is Sabina Herl, and I am here because my parish priest gave me a week of labour as penance.’

‘Penance for what?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘Do not be afraid to tell me. I am a man of God.’

‘Lord, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with you today?’

‘It was a man of God who got me in this mess in the first place,’ she remarked acidly. ‘I was caught kissing him behind the stables, and scouring greasy pans is my punishment.’

‘What happened to the man of God?’ asked Michael.

Sabina nodded towards the mortuary chapel. ‘He is in there, although I do not think our tryst had anything to do with the fact that he was stabbed. Poor Aylmer always was an unlucky fellow.’

‘Lord!’ gasped Suttone, hurrying up to join them. ‘I have just been eating those cakes with Prior Roger. I am not sure he is quite sane.’

‘He is probably preoccupied,’ said Bartholomew, acutely aware that Sabina was listening. While he was more than happy to move elsewhere for the duration of their stay in Lincoln, he did not want it to be because they had insulted the head Gilbertine.

‘No, he is insane,’ said Sabina matter-of-factly. ‘A good many people are in this particular convent, which is why my confessor selected it as the place of penance.’

‘Penance for what?’ asked Suttone immediately.

‘Seducing your Vicar Choral,’ replied Michael.

Sabina looked the Carmelite up and down. ‘So, you are the scholar who offered Aylmer that post. We were all rather surprised, since he has always been something of a rascal.’

‘He was a good man,’ objected Suttone. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’

She smothered a smile. ‘And when did you last see him?’

‘I suppose it was on his tenth birthday,’ admitted Suttone. ‘But he wrote to me often.’

She laughed openly. ‘Those letters were for you? He had a good deal of fun with them. He fabricated some outrageous lies, but did not imagine for a moment that anyone would believe him.’

‘We must be talking about a different man,’ said Suttone stiffly. ‘My John Aylmer was short, with red hair and a thin scar on his eyebrow, from where he fell from an apple tree as a lad.’

‘There is only one John Aylmer,’ she said indulgently. ‘People will tell you he was wicked and dissolute, but you should not believe everything you hear. He had his faults, true enough, but who does not? And I do not kiss just anyone behind the stables – not even if a man offers me a penny.’

‘How about two?’ asked Suttone.

‘We should be about our work,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether Suttone was making her an offer or just soliciting information. Suddenly, the body in the chapel seemed like a haven of peace in a stormy sea, because at least he knew what he was doing with corpses.

Sabina turned her attention to Michael. ‘And you, Brother? Who is to be your deputy?’

‘John Tetford. He comes highly recommended by the Bishop of Ely himself. In fact, de Lisle insisted I hire him; I actually had no choice in the matter.’

Sabina smiled, suggesting she thought Tetford would not be much of an improvement on the man Suttone had picked. ‘And now you are going to discover who killed poor Aylmer. Well, it will not be easy.’

‘Do you have any ideas?’ asked Michael.

She shrugged. ‘The killer could be anyone. Aylmer was found dead on his bed in the guest-hall. I expect you noticed the dark patch underneath it. I scrubbed as hard as I could, but the stain proved impossible to remove. Hamo says the blood of a murdered man never comes out easily. It taints wood and stone, just as it does the hands of a killer.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Michael wistfully. ‘It would make my work so much easier. However, I suspect that particular mark would come off, with a little effort on your part.’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘Perhaps, but it does no harm to let folk know a man died under unusual circumstances there. Were you aware that he was stabbed in the back with his own knife, Brother?’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I recognised it. Most priests carry weapons in Lincoln, partly because of this feud that is pulling the city in half, and partly because some of the Vicars Choral do not like each other.’

‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That means he was either taken by surprise or he did not think he had anything to fear from his killer. Either way, it does not sound as though there was a struggle, especially if he was left holding this chalice.’

Sabina regarded him appraisingly. ‘De Wetherset says you have examined the bodies of murdered men in the past, and that you are good at ascertaining what happened to them – as is clear from the conclusions you have drawn without even looking at Aylmer. Do you hire out your services?’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Because Aylmer’s is not the only corpse currently residing in this mortuary chapel,’ she replied unhappily. ‘There is another, and I would very much like to know how he died.’

Bartholomew regarded Sabina uneasily, not liking the notion that there had been other suspicious deaths in the place where they were obliged to stay, or that de Wetherset had been telling strangers about his expertise with cadavers. ‘Another man has died in this convent?’

‘No, he was found in the Braytheford Pool. That is the expanse of water where the River Witham meets the Fossedike,’ she added, when the physician looked blank. ‘It is not far from here.’

‘The Fossedike is Lincoln’s route to the sea,’ elaborated Suttone, proud of the local knowledge he had gleaned from talking to the Gilbertines. ‘But Hamo told me it is silting up. Money has been raised to clear it, but the Guild and the Commonalty cannot agree about how it should be done, so the work is never started.’

Sabina was disgusted. ‘And meanwhile, the city grows ever more poor. Have you seen how many weavers cannot find work? We will all starve if we have no access to foreign markets.’

‘Lincoln is a Staple town,’ Suttone went on, boasting now. ‘That means imported staple goods – like wool, grain and timber – must come here, so Lincoln can claim certain taxes. However, they cannot come if the canal is blocked, and there is now fierce competition from better-sited ports like Boston.’

‘Our mayor, William de Spayne, is a Boston man,’ added Sabina, ‘which gives that horrible Guild another reason to hate him. They say he is pleased Lincoln is suffering, because it means more wealth for his Boston kin. But we are moving away from the point here. If you inspect the second body in the mortuary chapel, Doctor, and tell me exactly how he died, I will give you a penny.’

‘You will have to offer him more than that,’ said Suttone disdainfully. ‘He has been with the Black Prince in France and was rewarded with some plunder. He returned relatively wealthy, and no longer needs mere pennies.’

‘Hamo said you are a University physician, so why were you in France?’ asked Sabina. ‘Was it anything to do with a lady called Matilde? Hamo told me you were asking after her whereabouts, and she once told me she had French kin. Were you there looking for her?’

‘He was not, madam,’ said Suttone, startled by the assertion. ‘He is a scholar, and such men do not hare off to foreign countries in search of women. He went to learn the art of dissection, because it is forbidden in our own universities.’

‘Have you seen Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew of Sabina, before Suttone could make him sound any more sinister.

Her expression softened. ‘Not in six years. She left after she declined Spayne’s offer of marriage, although she was a fool to reject him. He is handsome, rich and will make an excellent husband.’

‘He has never wed?’ asked Michael.

She shook her head. ‘Many ladies have tried to snare him, but he is not interested – Matilde broke his heart for ever. But we were talking about France. Did you know Lady Christiana’s husband was killed in France? And that is not the worst of it.’

She pursed her lips, waiting for them to invite her to elaborate. Bartholomew did not, because he felt Michael was already too interested in Christiana de Hauville, while Michael demurred, despite his burning desire to hear what Sabina had to say, because he did not want to give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him ask. Thus there was a long pause, until Suttone, shooting his colleagues a puzzled glance for their lack of curiosity, put the necessary question.

‘Her mother – another Lady Christiana – was in almost exactly the same position as she is in now,’ said Sabina. ‘Her husband was killed in a fight with Scots, leaving her without protectors. She spent a decade in this very convent before a suitable match was found, although the King’s idea of “suitable” was that vile Kelby. Now it seems her daughter is destined to follow the same path.’

‘Such is the lot of women who marry soldiers,’ said Suttone preachily. ‘Personally, I think this war with the French has gone quite far enough, although it is probably treason to say so. I cannot even remember what started it now, or why it has continued for so many years.’

‘Neither can most of the men who are fighting,’ said Bartholomew, not without bitterness.

‘So, you made a fortune with the Black Prince,’ said Sabina, eyeing his warm winter cloak and sturdy boots. Her eyes lingered on the hem that was unravelling on his tunic. Fine his clothes might be, but he wore them carelessly, and it was clear they would not remain in pristine condition for long. ‘I heard Poitiers was very fierce.’

Bartholomew nodded briefly. He did not want to think about it, knowing that if he did, it would play on his mind for the rest of the day – and worse, long into the night. ‘Who is the dead man you want me to inspect?’

She was startled by his abrupt acquiescence. ‘You will help me?’

He nodded again, ready to do almost anything to change the subject. ‘If you like.’

Sabina and Michael followed him inside the dark chapel, this time with the lamp lighting their way. Suttone started to return to the guest-hall, but saw his path would intercept that of Prior Roger, who waved in the kind of way that suggested he might be invited to take part in the next daily office. Abruptly, the Carmelite scuttled inside the mortuary, preferring the company of the dead to spending more time in the company of a man he considered odd. He found his colleagues at the far end of the building, where there was a makeshift altar. Two bodies lay under clean blankets in front of it. ‘That is Aylmer.’ Sabina pointed at the one on the left. ‘The other is Nicholas.’

‘Aylmer first,’ said Michael, when the physician started to move towards the other. ‘You may decide you have had enough after one, and I need all the help I can get.’

Bartholomew peeled back Aylmer’s sheet and began. As he did so, he realised he had not examined a body for signs of suspicious death in eighteen months, although he had seen hundreds of corpses in France. Briefly, he wondered whether he might have forgotten some of the skills he had so painstakingly acquired, but it was not many moments before he found his hands working automatically, repeating what they had done so many times before.

First, he assessed Aylmer from a distance, looking at his clothes, hands and footwear. Aylmer had been a beefy, redhaired man in his late forties, which surprised him – he had supposed Vicars Choral were younger. He was clean-shaven, but there were bristles on his jowls that gave him a disreputable appearance. There was a curious crease in the tip of his nose, essentially dividing it in half, and Bartholomew regarded it thoughtfully, aware of a distant memory stirring. When nothing came to him, he resumed his survey. Aylmer’s hands were smooth and soft, suggesting he performed no manual chores, although the additional absence of calluses caused by writing implements made him wonder what the man had done to earn his keep.

‘How old are most Vicars Choral?’ he asked, while he ran his fingers through Aylmer’s hair, assessing the skull for tell-tale dents or bumps.

‘It varies,’ replied Michael. ‘Tetford is twenty-three, which is about average for a secular cathedral like this. Aylmer does seem old to be offered such a post, because the pay tends to be low, and most clerks act as Vicars Choral while they are waiting for something better to come along. However, sometimes nothing ever does, and they are doomed to perpetual poverty.’

‘Aylmer was the son of my father’s bailiff,’ supplied Suttone, trying to be helpful. ‘He was a bright lad, and I promised to advance his cause. Unfortunately, I have not been in a position to do much until now. I invited him to study with me a few years back, but he would not hear of it.’

‘He was not interested in scholarship,’ said Sabina. ‘Most men consider it a waste of time, and most women agree. After all, you cannot eat a book, can you?’

‘He had trouble with a sheriff a few years back,’ Suttone went on, ignoring the slight to his chosen profession. ‘He said it was a misunderstanding, and I believe him. I invited him to be my deputy, because he already lived in Lincoln, and I wanted to make good on my promise at last. How did he die, Matthew? I would like to know it was not my patronage that brought it about.’

‘Your kindness to an old friend had nothing to do with his demise, Father,’ said Sabina, before the physician could answer. ‘You can rest easy on that account.’

‘You sound very sure,’ said Michael, regarding her appraisingly.

‘I am sure,’ she replied. ‘I may not have known him for as long as Master Suttone, but I suspect I knew him rather better. The promotion made him happier than I had ever seen him, and had nothing to do with his death. You can blame the dubious business he embroiled himself in for that.’

‘What kind of dubious business?’ asked Michael.

She shrugged. ‘I dare not say much, but bear in mind that he was a member of the Commonalty and a friend of Adam Miller – and Miller’s dealings are not always legal or ethical.’ She raised her hand in protest when the monk started to ask something else. ‘I am sorry, I can say no more.’

Bartholomew ordered the others away before he removed Aylmer’s clothes. It was not right to let Sabina watch what he was doing, and Michael was becoming restless – he did not want the monk’s impatience to rush him. He opened Aylmer’s mouth and shone the lamp down his throat, then moved the neck to test for signs of strangulation. Then he turned the body over and inspected the wound in its back. Making sure no one was watching, he took a surgical knife and inserted it into the hole, moving it gently to assess the depth to which the killing blow had penetrated. When the blade disappeared to the hilt, he pulled it out in distaste. Whoever had stabbed Aylmer had delivered a powerful stroke.

He was setting all to rights again when he became aware of a blemish on the point of Aylmer’s shoulder. He moved the lamp to inspect it more clearly, and saw the kind of mark soldiers sometimes scratched on to themselves with needles and ink. It had clearly been made years ago, and Aylmer’s physique had changed, so the original cup had probably been taller and thinner than the squat bowl depicted now. Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A cup – and it was identical to the mark he had seen the day before, when he had loosened Flaxfleete’s clothes in a futile attempt to save his life.

‘Aylmer died of a single wound from a sharp implement,’ Bartholomew said, after calling Michael, Suttone and Sabina back. ‘The blade was long, so I suspect it was a dagger, rather than something a man might use at the table.’

‘His own knife,’ said Sabina. ‘As I told you.’

Suttone was sceptical. ‘He had just been made a Vicar Choral, so why would he carry such a weapon? The Church frowns on priests bearing arms.’

Sabina issued a derisive snort. ‘First, Aylmer’s association with the Commonalty meant he was not popular with men like Kelby and Flaxfleete, and he would have been a fool not to take steps to protect himself. And secondly, the cathedral can be dangerous. Ask any of its priests.’

‘Archdeacon Ravenser was wearing a sword when we met him earlier today,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Are you sure you should accept a stall here?’

‘No,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Lord! This was meant to be a pleasant, relaxing diversion, and it transpires that Lincoln is even more turbulent than Cambridge. And your examination has told me nothing I did not know already, Matt. Is there nothing new?’

Bartholomew shook his head, reluctant to discuss the curious drawing in front of the others. The convent was a hotbed of gossip, and he did not want people to know the cup depicted on Aylmer’s shoulder was the same as the one on Flaxfleete’s – at least, not until he and Michael had considered the significance themselves.

‘Now look at Nicholas,’ said Sabina in a low voice. ‘If you please.’

Bartholomew removed the blanket, and saw Nicholas had been older than Aylmer by about a decade. He had been well built, with soft white hair and old burns on his hands and arms that suggested he had worked habitually with hot materials. He had been dead longer than Aylmer, and there were signs of corruption around his mouth.

‘Tell me what happened to him, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew, while he inspected the man’s hands.

‘I thought that was what I was paying you to do.’

‘I mean tell me about the last time you saw him, or what you know of his final movements.’

‘He went out for a drink four nights ago, and he never came home. The next day, he was found floating in the Braytheford Pool. He was my husband, and I would like to know whether he flung himself into the water or whether someone pushed him.’

Bartholomew stopped raking his fingers through the corpse’s hair and stepped away. ‘Your husband? Then I cannot do this while you are watching.’

She shot him a humourless smile. ‘Your sensitivity does you credit, but it is unnecessary. Nicholas and I wedded for convenience, not affection. When my first husband died, I hoped to find love a second time, but I never did. So, when Nicholas suggested an arrangement, I accepted.’

‘An arrangement?’ echoed Suttone distastefully. ‘Marriage is a sacred union blessed by God, not something you organise in the marketplace.’

‘Oh, really, Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whoever told you that? Look at poor Lady Christiana, waiting for the King to find her a match she hopes will not be too abhorrent. And she is just one of many.’

‘Continue your tale, madam,’ said Michael, before Suttone could defend himself. ‘You and Nicholas arranged to marry. Why? Were you short of funds?’

‘Yes. I was a seamstress to Master Dalderby, but he dismissed me when he found out I had friends in the Commonalty – Dalderby is a member of the Guild, you see. I needed a home, and Nicholas wanted a wife prepared to turn a blind eye to his eccentricities, so a liaison between us was the perfect solution. We enjoyed a comfortable, if separate, existence for years.’

‘What kind of eccentricities?’ asked Michael.

She grimaced. ‘It is not right to speak ill of the dead, especially when they lie in front of us. Suffice to say that if Nicholas had been a better silversmith, and if the cathedral artisans had not contrived to take his best customers, then things might have been different. He was a good man, but the city’s dispute turned him resentful and sour. He let it spoil his health.’

‘Has the feud damaged other men, too?’ asked Michael. ‘Or just Nicholas?’

‘Oh, it has damaged others all right,’ said Sabina. ‘Some have died in odd circumstances, some have felt compelled to commit wicked crimes against rivals, some are moved to make false promises to God – offering to be upright souls when it is obvious they will fall at the first hurdle. Like Aylmer.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer did what? Died in odd circumstances, committed wicked crimes or made false promises.’

‘All three, Brother. I was fond of him – and might have taken him in preference to Nicholas, had he not been in holy orders and loath to break his vows with marriage – but I was not blind to his faults. He engaged in more than his share of dishonest activities, but claimed he had a change of heart in the last month – when he was offered the post of Vicar Choral – and was going to make amends. However, he had said such things before, and we all knew it was only a matter of time before he reneged. He was a weak man, at heart.’

Bartholomew was becoming impatient, eager to be on his way to meet Spayne. ‘So, Nicholas was found in this lake,’ he said. ‘Was he floating in the middle, or washed up on the banks?’

‘Floating. He had been drinking in the Swan tavern – not somewhere he should have been.’

‘Why not?’ asked Suttone.

‘Because the Swan tends to be frequented by guildsmen, while the Commonalty favours the Angel. He probably went to torture himself by watching the cathedral silversmiths spend their ill-gotten gains. Perhaps someone took against him being there, and decided he should not do it again.’

‘You think he was murdered?’ asked Michael uneasily.

She raised her hands, palms upwards. ‘I do not know. Kelby, who was also in the Swan that evening, told Bishop Gynewell that Nicholas had been maudlin, and talked about tossing himself in the river. And now the priests will not bury him unless they know for certain that he did not commit suicide. So I asked for a few days’ grace to find out, which is why Nicholas is here. I do not want him in unhallowed ground without good reason.’

‘What do you think happened to him?’ asked Michael. ‘What are your suspicions?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not have any: I just want the truth. Was it suicide, because he was low; murder, because he had annoyed someone while in his cups; or accident, because he had swallowed too much ale and staggered off the path? I just want to do the right thing.’

Bartholomew sent them away again before restarting his examination, which met with relief from Suttone and annoyance from Sabina, who wanted to see how her money was being spent. Michael said nothing, and the physician supposed he intended to use the time to assess what they had learned regarding Aylmer. He watched them step outside, then turned his attention to Nicholas.

It was often difficult to determine a cause of death, but he had discovered that drowned men often foamed at the mouth when he pressed on their chests. He pushed now, and watched bubbles emerge from between bluish lips. Nicholas had certainly drowned, although it was not possible to say whether by design or accident. He pushed again, trying to detect the scent of ale. It was not there, but something else was: a pungent, fishy smell. With a start, he suddenly remembered something that had been said at Kelby’s celebration, by the priest John Suttone. John had mentioned how he had detected a rank odour on the body of a man who had died in the Braytheford Pool – a man called Nicholas Herl. Simon had mentioned the death of a man called Herl, too, saying he had expected it to shift the balance of power between Guild and Commonalty, and result in bloodshed.

Bartholomew removed the corpse’s clothes, noting an unnatural swelling of the feet and a hint of rot – Nicholas had endured a severe bout of Holy Fire, and its symptoms were still evident. The condition was a painful one, so it was small wonder the man had been morose and unhappy. As he was replacing the garments a few moments later, Bartholomew spotted a scar on the point of the shoulder. It was not like the drawings on Flaxfleete and Aylmer, although it was in the same place. He bent to inspect it more closely.

‘I doubt his arm will tell you anything useful, Doctor.’ Sabina’s voice was so close behind him that he jumped in alarm and almost dropped the lamp.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. Suttone was with him. ‘I told her to stay outside, but she wants to make sure she is getting her money’s worth. She slipped past me when Hamo distracted us with some Lombard slices.’

‘What made this mark?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing at it.

She frowned. ‘I have never noticed it before, but then we never saw each other naked. It is recent, though, because it is still raw. However, during the last month, Nicholas was busier than he had been over the past five years combined, labouring in his workshop all hours of the day and night. It will be a burn, caused by spitting metal, like the ones on his hands. So? How did he die?’

‘He drowned,’ said Bartholomew, handing Michael the lamp and straightening Nicholas’s limbs.

‘I know,’ said Sabina. ‘What I need you to tell me is whether it was accident, murder or suicide.’

‘I have some questions first. Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’

She regarded him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

‘How badly?’

‘He needed to be tied up, to stop him from biting himself, and the only place he became calm was the church. We prayed to St Anthony and he recovered, although he was never fully well after. Why?’

‘Did he have trouble breathing? Dizzy spells? Pains in his chest and arms?’

‘All those.’ She gazed at him. ‘But how do you know? He never told anyone but me and his friend Will Langar. And what does it have to do with his death, anyway? The Madness was months ago.’

‘There is a theory that Holy Fire – Summer Madness – is caused by a toxin, which accumulates in the body and eventually causes a fatal imbalance of the humours. I suspect your husband ingested a large quantity of this substance in August, and it has remained inside him – his swollen feet tell us he was still suffering from its effects. When he swallowed more of the poison, it killed him.’

‘Summer Madness is caused by poison?’ she said doubtfully. ‘How can that be true, when we all know the Devil is responsible? And even if you are right, how could more of this poison have got inside him? No one else has suffered from the Madness for months now.’

Bartholomew shrugged, not looking at Michael, who was drawing his own conclusions about the substance that had now killed two men. ‘I have no idea. However, Nicholas’s initial dose seems to have been a large one – as evidenced by your description of his illness, the swelling still remaining in his feet, and his continued dizziness. In addition, I suspect he had a natural weakness in his blood that would have made him especially susceptible to the ravages of Holy Fire.’

She was confused. ‘I do not understand what you are saying. He drowned and he was poisoned?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The substance was strong on his breath, so he swallowed it shortly before he died. Then, faint and weak, he probably toppled into the water and drowned.’

‘But this does not help,’ she objected. ‘We still do not know where I can bury him.’

‘Then think about Nicholas himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘If he had wanted to commit suicide, would he have known where to obtain this poison? And would he have been aware what its effects might be on a body already weakened by its last encounter with Holy Fire?’

Slowly, her face broke into a smile. ‘No. He was a simple man, sometimes stupid, and would never have invented such a complex way of doing away with himself.’

‘Then you are left with accident or murder, but he can go into hallowed ground, regardless.’

She seemed relieved. ‘I shall go to my priest this morning, and order him to bury Nicholas in the churchyard. I think he only made a fuss in the first place because I refuse to lie with him.’

‘I hope this is not the same vicar who ordered you to work here, as penance for kissing Aylmer,’ said Michael. ‘That would make him a hypocrite.’

She grimaced. ‘He has never bothered to hide his failings. But I should not be telling you this, Brother, because he is John Tetford. Your Vicar Choral.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, as she flounced from the chapel and Suttone regarded him rather smugly. ‘Just when I think matters cannot slide any further into the mire, I learn unpleasant details about my deputy. It seems we both made poor choices, Suttone.’

‘Indeed we did,’ said Suttone. ‘However, there is something about Sabina Herl that makes me feel she is not telling you the whole truth about her husband’s death. It would not surprise me to learn that she slipped him poison, then was sorry when she learned he was to be buried in unhallowed ground.’

‘What shall we do, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, once Suttone had gone. ‘Tell the sheriff that Nicholas and Flaxfleete both died from ingesting the same substance? Flaxfleete’s wine came from the Swan tavern, and that was where Nicholas went drinking on the night of his death.’

Michael shook his head. ‘From what we have been told of Sheriff Lungspee, it is better to keep out of his way. He is corrupt and everyone knows it. Folk even admire him for taking bribes with commendable even-handedness. Lord, Matt! What a place!’

‘Poison is not the only association between Nicholas and Flaxfleete – and Aylmer, too. There is a drawing of a cup on Aylmer’s shoulder, which is identical to the one I saw on Flaxfleete.’

‘A cup?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And there is a scar in exactly the same place on Nicholas. The wound was made recently, but dark lines are still visible underneath it. You can see for yourself. It looks as though there was a mark, but someone – presumably Nicholas himself – attempted to scratch it off.’

Michael leaned down to inspect it. ‘It might be a chalice.’

‘When I tried to loosen Flaxfleete’s clothes to help him breathe, he asked me not to. I am under the impression that he wanted his mark to stay hidden – that keeping it concealed was important to him.’

Michael straightened slowly. ‘And you say his drawing and Aylmer’s are identical?’

‘More or less. I have seen soldiers disfigure themselves with signs like these, as a declaration of fraternity. But Aylmer and Nicholas were members of the Commonalty, and Flaxfleete was a member of the Guild, which means they were rivals, not friends. It makes no sense.’

‘And it is odd that three men with a cup on their arms should die in mysterious circumstances just when the Hugh Chalice miraculously reappears after two decades, too.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping on the bristles. ‘Did you believe Sabina when she said she could not recall how Nicholas came by his injury? They were husband and wife.’

‘She also said theirs was an odd marriage, with no affection. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and they never enjoyed each other’s body.’

Michael shook his head. ‘There is a lot we are not being told here. And I do not like it.’