The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 5

Michael and Bartholomew left the Swan and walked up the hill towards the cathedral. Bartholomew gazed at it, admiring the way it loomed above the city, dominating its steep, narrow streets. Then he skidded on some rotten vegetable parings, and focussed his attention on the road instead, noting that there seemed to be more unemployed men in the upper reaches of the city than there were lower down. They clamoured at the scholars as they passed, offering labour in exchange for food.

As they ascended, Michael began to pant like a man twice his age, and even Bartholomew was forced to admit that the climb was a stiff one. They passed a group of pilgrims attempting to make the journey on their knees, and Michael remarked tartly that reaching the summit on foot was penance enough. Several took him at his word and stood in relief.

‘I think Quarrel was telling the truth,’ said Bartholomew, waiting while the monk caught his breath. ‘You could see his was a respectable tavern, and he would not risk what must be a good living to dispatch someone like Nicholas. If Nicholas had been stabbed in an alley, I might say Quarrel had rid himself of an unwanted customer, but he would never do it by poisoning a man’s ale. And I do not think he tampered with Kelby’s wine for the same reason.’

‘I am inclined to agree. So, someone else must have taken advantage of the unattended barrel. Kelby was drunk, and probably did not order the third keg discreetly, so the killer would have known exactly where it was going. I can only assume that one of the Commonalty did it, intending to strike a fatal blow at the Guild. Or should we assess Ursula de Spayne’s possible role a little more carefully?’

‘Did she have time? She was answering the door to us when the barrel would have been poisoned.’

‘Actually, she was not. First, Quarrel said the wine sat by the door for an hour before Joseph delivered it, so she may have already done her worst by the time she spoke to us. Secondly, she took ages to reply to your knock, so perhaps she was still out – in the process of slipping through her back door – when you were trying to summon her to the front.’

‘So, she saw the keg, guessed it was destined for Kelby, and slipped the poison – which she just happened to have with her – inside? Then she re-stoppered the barrel so no one would notice it had been broached, and dashed home to talk to us about noisy neighbours?’

‘Well, someone must have had poison to hand.’

‘She was not breathless,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And she would have been, had she been racing up and down these hills. I do not think it was her.’

‘Then perhaps it was her brother,’ said Michael. ‘I met a fellow Benedictine yesterday, and he maintains very strongly that Spayne was at his priory from about two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. But when I pushed him, he admitted that they were busy with sacred offices all day. In essence, Spayne could have slipped out, doctored the barrel and returned with no one the wiser. Thus Spayne has no real alibi, and he and his sister are the obvious suspects for Flaxfleete’s murder.’

‘How could Spayne have known that Kelby would want more wine, and that the keg would be left in a place where tampering was possible?’

‘He lives here, Matt. He probably knew exactly what Kelby had ordered – Kelby may even have told him, just to gloat. And Quarrel strikes me as a man of habit, so it would not take a fortune-teller to know that he would haul his keg from his cellar and leave it for his lad to deliver.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I do not see Matilde making friends with a murderer.’

‘Perhaps that is why she declined to marry him,’ suggested Michael. ‘She found out what he was really like, and fled Lincoln while she could.’

Bartholomew turned to another matter that had puzzled him. ‘You told de Wetherset that the property recovered from Shirlok – and presented at his trial as evidence of his guilt – went missing immediately afterwards. How did you know that?’

‘How do you not? It was a huge scandal, and the whole county talked about it for weeks after.’

‘I was probably back in Oxford by then. What happened?’

‘The goods disappeared on the day of the trial, although they were not actually missed until the various owners contacted the sheriff some weeks later, demanding to know why they had not been returned. The sheriff had dispatched them on a wagon, but none reached their intended destination. Searches were made, but nothing was ever recovered.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘When I was looking at Shirlok’s body in the castle bailey, I recall seeing a cart being loaded with the items he had stolen. There was property relating to the other cases that had been heard that day, too. The sheriff wanted it all off his hands as quickly as possible. He ordered the jurors to help with the heavy work, but they objected strenuously, and the only one he actually snagged in the end was de Wetherset – who was furious about it.’

‘So, you saw Shirlok’s ill-gotten gains leave the castle?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It was all very chaotic, because a few of the acquitted felons had been kept in gaol until the trial – obviously, the sheriff had not trusted them to appear on their own recognisance. They were being released at the same time, and there was a lot of fuss and noise. It was only when they had all gone that Shirlok made his own bid for freedom.’

‘So, any of these villains could have made off with the property at that point? It was being piled into a wagon under their very noses?’

‘The sheriff drew a line in the mud with his boot, separating the cart from the milling crowd in the bailey, and said he would shoot anyone who crossed it.’

‘Was he serious?’

‘Oh, yes. The jurors’ refusal to help with the loading had put him in a foul mood, and he was a surly man at the best of times. He was itching to vent his temper on someone. Had Miller or anyone else put so much as a toe over his line, he would gladly have loosed an arrow.’

‘So, Miller and his friends could not have taken the hoard, then?’

‘I sincerely doubt it. The sheriff was watching them like a hawk.’

‘Well, someone did – and whoever it was found himself in possession of the Hugh Chalice, as well as a chest of stolen property.’

‘Assuming this cup is the Hugh Chalice, Brother. De Wetherset does not seem to think so.’

‘Perhaps he will change his mind once he sets his “special skills” to work – especially if the bishop is convinced of its sanctity. He will not want to annoy his new prelate.’

Eventually, Bartholomew and Michael reached the top of the hill, where they passed through the gate that led to the Bail – the plateau that housed the minster and the castle. The Church had ensured its property was better defended than its secular counterpart, and its precincts were surrounded by a high, crenellated wall that was relatively new and in good repair. The resulting enclosed area, known as the Cathedral Close, was massive, and contained not only the minster itself, but two churches and a chantry; the chapter house; cloisters; offices for the dean, precentor, treasurer and sacrist; and living accommodation for the canons, Vicars Choral, choristers, and the clerks and scribes who undertook the onerous task of overseeing the largest diocese in the country.

Dominating all was the cathedral. From a distance, its nave and chancel had appeared low, dwarfed by the tower with its soaring spire, but Bartholomew saw this was an illusion, and the main body of the building was actually impressively lofty. He began to walk around the outside, gazing up at the mighty buttresses, the intricately carved pinnacles, and finally the ancient frieze on the splendid west front. Michael went with him, for once voicing no objection to the extra walking.

When they had finished admiring the exterior, they entered the building through a gate near the south transept, and were immediately assailed by the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, along with the musty smell of damp: somewhere, a roof was leaking. Bartholomew gazed at the ceiling high above, a celebration of colour and carvings. The vaulted nave drew the eye to the chancel screen, which was a joyful jumble of gold, red and blue, and everywhere the stone eyes of saints and angels watched the people who came to pray, do business, chat to the priests or shelter from the cold weather. Michael led the way towards the central crossing, his footsteps echoing in the great vastness of empty space.

‘I always feel so tiny in places like this,’ he whisper ed. He was not easily awed, but Lincoln’s grandeur had impressed him. ‘They tell me I can enjoy as many Lombard slices as I like, because however large I grow, I will always be insignificant.’

‘Go and stand next to a beehive then,’ suggested Bartholomew practically. ‘That should curb any abnormal desires to eat enough to fill a cathedral.’

‘You have no sense of the magnificent,’ said Michael irritably. ‘This is a building fit for God, and I am honoured to be one of its canons.’

‘It is splendid,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Especially those two rose windows.’

‘Bishop Gynewell told me they are meant to represent eyes. The Bishop’s Eye faces south, inviting in the Holy Spirit, while the Dean’s Eye looks north and shuts out the Devil.’

‘You had better not mention that to Cynric, or he will turn it all around and have the bishop ushering in Satan. He has taken a dislike to Gynewell.’

‘Cynric is a superstitious fool, and so are we for letting him talk us out of a sojourn at the Bishop’s Palace. It would be far safer – no one has been stabbed in Gynewell’s guest-hall. God’s blessings, madam. I hope the saints were not too distressed over your late arrival this morning?’

Bartholomew turned to see Dame Eleanor standing nearby, and noted the way her eyes twinkled with amusement at the monk’s mild irreverence. ‘They seem to have survived the inconvenience, thank you. I have just finished my devotions at the Head Shrine and am about to tend Little Hugh.’

‘I am ashamed to confess that I have been too busy to inspect these famous sites so far,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps you might show us now? Can we accompany you to Little Hugh?’

Obligingly, Eleanor took them to the South Choir Aisle. Several pilgrims knelt next to a large stone sarcophagus, and the floor around it was carpeted with leaves and dried flowers. It comprised two sections: a sealed tomb-base, containing Little Hugh’s bones, and an ornately carved canopy above. The canopy was topped by a wooden statue of a child bearing the marks of crucifixion; the relevant parts were picked out in red paint, and were graphic enough to make Bartholomew wince. Pilgrims had left gifts of jewels, coins and prayers scribbled on scraps of parchment; they had been shoved through the canopy’s carved tracery, and could be seen piled untidily within.

‘I sweep up every day,’ whispered Dame Eleanor, gesturing to the vegetation-strewn floor. ‘But I have not had time to do it this morning, hence the mess. Meanwhile, the priests are supposed to collect the written prayers from inside the shrine, because they are the only ones allowed to touch them. They read them aloud, then burn them on the altar, to send them heavenward. All the other oblations go straight to the treasurer, who is trying to raise enough money to repair the roof in the north transept.’

‘What is that?’ asked Michael, pointing to a pottery flask that stood just behind the statue. ‘Do pilgrims leave offerings of wine for the boy, then?’

Eleanor passed it to him. ‘Holy water, Brother. The bishop gives me a jug of it each week. Some I sprinkle on the shrines I have undertaken to serve, some I dab on particularly needy pilgrims, and some I sip when I feel the need for God’s strength inside me. I am nearing seventy years of age, and attribute my good health to the saints and holy water. Will you make a petition to Little Hugh?’

Bartholomew backed away. There was something about the tomb that he did not like, and he was uncomfortable with the notion that the child’s ‘crucifixion’ had been used to justify a massacre of innocent Jews. ‘I would rather see the other shrine,’ he said evasively, trying not to hurt her feelings. ‘Bishop Hugh’s.’

St Hugh of Lincoln had not died a grisly death, like so many others who had been canonised, but he had been a good man, whose honour and integrity had been a bright blaze in a dark world. His massive tomb stood near the High Altar, but his cranium had been separately interred in the Angel Choir – a peaceful area east of the sanctuary, which Hugh had built himself. The Head Shrine was a grand affair surrounded by rough wooden railings, to keep eager pilgrims at bay. It comprised a large, solid plinth topped by a richly decorated chest that held the skull itself. The chest was fitted with handles, so the relic could be removed from its base, and carried about in religious processions. Pilgrims clustered around it. Some knelt quietly, others issued demands for cures, and others still thrust hands and arms through its stone pillars in an attempt to get as close to the saint’s mortal remains as possible. Many had lit candles, and the Angel Choir was full of their wavering light, which turned honey-coloured stone to gold. Several clerics were present, both at the Head Shrine and the nearby Visceral Shrine of Queen Eleanor. Among them was Archdeacon Ravenser, the bishop’s debauched scribe. He was in the process of removing a thick white candle from his sleeve, which he then passed to a Vicar Choral in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilled of pickpockets. After a moment, he produced a second one, and then a third, all of which were lit and set in pride of place on the altar dedicated to St Hugh. Michael frowned before disappearing for a few moments. When he returned, his expression was stern.

‘The High Altar seems to be missing three of its best candles,’ he said sharply, having slipped up behind Ravenser without being heard. The archdeacon jumped in shock at the voice so close to his left ear. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Ravenser, quickly regaining his composure. ‘John Suttone is in charge of the High Altar this week. I expect he forgot to collect them from the sacristy. Right, Claypole?’

His friend, a toothy fellow who wore a sword openly with his religious vestments, nodded. ‘We are only the poor souls detailed to look after St Hugh’s head – in a corner of the cathedral so draughty that the Host blows all around the altar.’

‘It is a grim part of the building,’ agreed Ravenser, rubbing red eyes and looking as though he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘That old lady in the Gilbertine habit who escorted you here – Dame Eleanor – says the wind is St Hugh’s spirit, chilling all those with evil hearts. She says it never cuts through her, implying she has a pure one, I suppose.’

‘Well, she does,’ said Claypole. ‘And that is why it is unreasonable for her to expect us to follow her example. We are mere mortals, and her standards are impossibly high.’

‘You do not look as though you try very hard,’ said Michael, looking them up and down.

Before either could reply, the choir started to sing, and the voices of boys soared through the chancel, complimented by the lower drone of Vicars Choral and canons. Bartholomew glanced up at the carvings of angels high above, and his imagination led him to wonder whether it was celestial voices that rang so beautifully along the ancient stones.

‘The dean is not warbling, thank God,’ said Claypole, cocking his head to one side. He grinned at Michael. ‘We can tell, because none of the glass is vibrating in its frames.’

‘The dean sings like an old tom cat,’ laughed Ravenser.

‘But you must excuse us. It is time to say prayers for the canons who died in the plague – which was all except two, Brother.’

He walked away and Claypole followed, leaving Bartholomew staring after them uneasily. Ravenser’s words had sounded vaguely like a threat. Michael was not paying any attention to the archdeacon and his crony, however; he was listening to the music.

‘It makes me see what a long way from perfection I am with my own efforts at Michaelhouse,’ he said wistfully. ‘My choir will never sing like that.’

‘These are professionals,’ Bartholomew pointed out, not liking to admit the monk was right: the Michaelhouse chorus could rival the Gilbertines for enthusiasm, but without the benefit of any redeeming talent. ‘Do not underestimate yourself, Brother; you have performed little short of a miracle already.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out suddenly to grab someone in the process of darting behind a pillar, apparently as part of a game of hide-and-seek. His captive wore the blue gown of a chorister, which, added to his mop of golden curls, gave him a cherubic appearance.

‘Where does Mayor Spayne live?’ asked the monk mildly, lifting the boy so his feet dangled in thin air. Michael was a strong man, and held the struggling lad as though he was as light as a kitten.

‘Oh,’ said the chorister sheepishly, recognising him and promptly abandoning his startled bid for freedom. ‘Did I point you in the wrong direction, sir?’

‘You did,’ said Michael evenly. ‘Now why would you do that?’

‘It was not you I meant to annoy,’ said the boy, hanging quite comfortably at the end of Michael’s outstretched arm. ‘It was Flaxfleete. I do not like him, even though he is a member of the Guild and they give us marchpanes on the first Sunday of every month.’

‘Was a member,’ corrected Michael. ‘He is dead, so will not be dispensing sweetmeats again.’

The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘Truly? Was he so angry with you for calling at the wrong house, that he challenged you to a fight? With swords? Or perhaps one of those new ribaulds they are using in the French wars? I would like to see men do battle with a pair of those!’ He jerked in the air as he made several violently descriptive gestures with his hands. Michael set him back on his feet.

‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘I am a monk, so I do not carry arms.’

The boy shot him a look that told him to try his claims on someone more gullible. ‘Our canons and Vicars Choral are also men of God, but they would never think of leaving home without a weapon. I am going to have a sword when I am fourteen.’

‘You do not intend to take holy orders, then?’ asked Michael, amused.

The boy shot him another withering look. ‘I am going to be a philosopher. Dame Eleanor tells me I have sharp wits, and will do well at a university.’

‘And how will owning a sword help you with your studies?’

The boy smiled cheerfully. ‘I will be able to defend my arguments better if I have a sharp blade.’

‘You will do well at a university,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think some of my students feel the same way.’

‘Tell me why you have taken a dislike to Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘And why you send innocent victims to his door, just to annoy him.’

The boy shrugged, unabashed. ‘I liked Aylmer, because he let me pick cherries from his trees last year. Flaxfleete hated Aylmer, so I hated Flaxfleete. Besides, Flaxfleete only became a priest because he thought he might hang for arson otherwise. He was a snivelling coward, not a true man at all.’

‘Why did Flaxfleete hate Aylmer?’

The boy shrugged again. ‘Probably because Aylmer was Miller’s friend, and Flaxfleete is Kelby’s. Adults take their squabbles very seriously, although they should just challenge each other to a duel and have done with it. That is what I would do.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Michael, watching him parry and thrust with an imaginary weapon.

‘Hugh Suttone.’ He pointed to the High Altar, where John Suttone – the cleric they had seen at Kelby’s celebration – was sweeping the floor. ‘That is my brother. He is the Clerk who Rouses the People, and this week he is in charge of the High Altar.’ There was pride in his voice.

‘We are friends of your cousin,’ said Michael. ‘The one who is to be installed as a canon.’

‘Thomas,’ said Hugh, with clear disdain. ‘My brother was offended when Thomas picked Aylmer to be his Vicar Choral. He said it should have been him. Do you think Thomas will choose John now Aylmer is dead? We were talking about it this morning, and John said the situation was looking a bit more hopeful.’

Michael tapped him gently under the chin. ‘Possibly, but you should not say this to anyone else. You may make people think John killed Aylmer, just to get his appointment.’

‘He did not, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought the same thing, you see, so I asked him, but he said he has killed no one. He never lies, so he is definitely innocent. Excuse me, Brother. The dean is coming, and I do not want him to lecture me about running in church when I am supposed to be singing.’

He was gone in a flash, leaving Michael quaking with astonished laughter. ‘I should hire him to help me with my investigation. There is something to be said for blunt questions.’

‘Yes, but perhaps not that blunt, Brother.’

Deans were the men who headed a cathedral’s hierarchy, and the office was thus an important one. Lincoln’s was a short man with a perfectly round head, which was bald with the exception of a thin fringe around the sides and back. His eyes were oddly small for the size of his face, which made him appear furtive. A strange clanking sound emanated from his robes as he walked, and Bartholomew saw Hugh dart from the shadows to grab a coin that appeared to have rolled from the dean’s person. He expected the boy to keep it, and was surprised when he trotted to the Head Shrine and dropped it through the railings. Dame Eleanor saw the gesture, too, and patted his shoulder encouragingly.

Three waddling canons intercepted the dean before he could reach Michael and Bartholomew, and the intense, whispered discussion that followed looked as though it might continue for some time, so the two scholars took the opportunity to visit the High Altar while they waited for it to finish, admiring the glitter of gold from a vantage point near Little Hugh’s shrine. When he spotted them, John Suttone came to pass the time of day.

‘I saw you with my young brother,’ he said, with a humourless smile that made him look very like Michaelhouse’s Suttone. ‘He is a rascal, so I hope he was not insolent.’

‘Not today,’ replied Michael. ‘Although the last time we met, he sent us to Kelby’s house when I had actually asked him for directions to Spayne’s.’

John grimaced. ‘He cannot help himself where mischief is concerned. I am sorry I did not make myself known when you tended Flaxfleete on Wednesday, but I had no idea who you were. Bishop Gynewell tells us you have been asked to find Aylmer’s killer – hopefully before the installation ceremony. Is it true?’

Michael nodded. ‘And young Hugh tells me you are not the guilty party, despite the fact that you have a powerful motive – you might benefit from Aylmer’s untimely death.’

John looked alarmed. ‘I have killed no one! And you are wrong to think I have a motive. Cousin Thomas overlooked me once, and there is no reason to suppose he will not do so again.’

‘What about your cathedral colleagues? Do any of them have a reason to kill Aylmer?’

John was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! Most of us prefer the Guild to the Commonalty – an honoured few have even been invited to join its ranks. Conversely, Aylmer was a fully fledged member of the Commonalty, and so naturally people here distrusted him.’

‘Was their “distrust” enough to see him killed?’

‘I imagine so.’ John’s expression became a little spiteful. ‘Will you talk to them all? There are thirty Vicars Choral, ten Poor Clerks, twelve choristers, and a dozen chantry priests. Oh, and there are eight archdeacons, too. You will be busy, Brother.’

‘I have faced greater challenges in the past,’ said Michael, unperturbed. ‘But the dean has finished talking to those three fat canons now. We have not met, so will you introduce us?’

John made a choking sound that Bartholomew assumed was a smothered gulp of laughter at the monk’s description of his new colleagues – or perhaps it was a gasp of disbelief that such a portly fellow should so describe men who were, after all, considerably slimmer than him.

‘His name is Simon Bresley,’ said John, controlling himself. ‘He and the bishop are the only cathedral men who do not stand against the Commonalty. Gynewell refuses to be drawn to either side, while Bresley often accepts invitations to dine with Miller and his cronies.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Ask him – the rest of us do not understand it at all. Dean Bresley, may I present Brother Michael? And this is his friend Doctor Bartholomew, who tried to save Flaxfleete two nights ago.’

Bresley nodded a polite greeting, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘The music,’ he explained, when Michael asked if anything was amiss. ‘It is so beautiful this morning that one might be forgiven for forgetting that it emanates from the throats of devils.’

John gave another of his grim smiles, as if anticipating what was coming next, then turned to Michael. ‘Some of my High Altar candles were stolen this morning, and I need to replace them. Please excuse me.’

‘Devils,’ repeated the dean when he had gone. ‘And by “devils” I mean Poor Clerks, choristers and Vicars Choral. They may sing like angels, but they swear, fight, spit, talk through the divine offices, and carry swords under their robes. They are more like pirates than men of God.’

‘These are serious charges,’ said Michael. ‘As a canon, I shall speak out against such practices.’

Bresley gazed at him with burning hope. ‘Will you? It would be nice to have someone on my side in the war against sin. Just last week, I was obliged to fine Ravenser and Claypole for rape and being absent from their duties – both very serious matters.’

Bartholomew gazed warily at him. ‘Especially the rape. Who was she?’

‘One of the ladies who lives in the Close,’ explained the dean. ‘There are several of them, and they save the Vicars Choral the bother of going into the city after dark for their vices. Listen!’

Michael cocked his head, although the music was insufficient to distract Bartholomew from his horror at the dean’s revelations. ‘Simon Tunstede’s Gloria,’ said the monk. ‘My favourite setting.’

‘How is it possible that such a heavenly sound can come from such wicked creatures?’ asked the dean. He led them to the Angel Choir, and pointed to the pier above the Head Shrine. ‘One such fiend was turned to stone many years ago.’

Bartholomew started in shock when he saw the carved imp. ‘That is Bishop Gynewell!’

‘Hush!’ breathed Bresley, looking around uneasily. ‘You are not the first to have noticed the similarity, but he does not like it. It is coincidence obviously, since the imp lived many years before Gynewell was born. However, no prelate appreciates being told that he bears an uncanny resemblance to a demon, so watch what you say.’

‘It is a rather unsettling likeness,’ said Michael. ‘No wonder he is sensitive about it.’

‘Cynric will feel vindicated,’ murmured Bartholomew, still gazing up at the statue. ‘He will see it as proof, right down to the horns.’

‘It is a pity you plan to be a non-residentiary canon, Brother,’ said Bresley. ‘You look like the kind of man who knows how to keep order among unruly clerics. I understand you are a proctor.’

Michael nodded. ‘And if my University is ever suppressed, or I despair of scholarship, I shall come here and teach you how to control spirited young men.’

‘Then I shall write to the King immediately, and ask him to put an end to the studium generale at Cambridge,’ said Bresley with a tired smile. ‘God knows, I could do with you.’

‘I am sure the bishop told you that I have been charged to investigate Aylmer’s death,’ said Michael. ‘Do you have any ideas regarding his killer?’

Bresley shook his head. ‘Although Aylmer’s appointment was unpopular with virtually every cleric in the minster. They interpreted it as a sign that Miller had started the process of invading their domain.’

‘I am told you side with Miller,’ said Michael.

‘I have attempted to befriend him, in the hope of reducing the animosity between the two factions. Some folk claim I betray my colleagues by taking such a stance, but they are wrong. Indeed, Miller’s company at dinner is invariably an ordeal. He is not mannerly, and I am obliged to endure spitting, teeth-wiping, nose-picking and belching in my quest for an end to the hostilities.’

‘So you did not mind Aylmer’s nomination as a Vicar Choral?’

‘On the contrary, I minded very much. While such a move could have ameliorated the trouble between Guild and Commonalty, in this case it would have made matters very much worse. Aylmer was debauched and dishonest, and would not have made a good deputy – although he probably would have fitted in with his new colleagues well enough, given time. Like attracts like, after all.’

‘Did anyone else object to him?’

‘The Guild, obviously. They also thought it was the Commonalty’s way of clawing into their territory. Kelby and Dalderby complained to the bishop, but Gynewell told them the decision belonged to the relevant canon. It is fortunate for your friend that he is a Suttone. Everyone likes the Suttones, and will forgive them a good deal.’

‘I understand you have voiced an opinion about the Hugh Chalice,’ said Michael, turning to another matter. ‘You are wary of its sanctity, unlike your bishop.’

The dean nodded unhappily. ‘Gynewell said he could feel the holiness emanating from it, but I could not. I still had the urge to … well, suffice to say that I think it is just a goblet.’

‘The urge to what?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It does not matter. When – if – the real Hugh Chalice does come to Lincoln, I shall know it.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

Bresley grabbed the monk’s arm suddenly. ‘Hell’s teeth! Look who is heading our way! I must bid you good morning, gentlemen, because I have no wish to talk to him this morning.’

Dean Bresley was gone before Michael could open his mouth to say he had not finished asking questions, and his place was taken by a grinning priest with freckles and an arrogant swagger. His clothes were of the finest quality, and he wore spurs on his boots, which sat oddly with his monastic attire. So did the sword that was concealed – but only barely – under his fur-lined cloak.

‘Brother Michael, I presume?’ he said, bowing. ‘I am John Tetford. You were kind enough to appoint me as your Vicar Choral. Did you like our singing? I was the solo tenor.’

‘Very nice,’ said Michael. ‘Why are you carrying that weapon in a church?’

‘Because I might meet Ravenser,’ replied Tetford, unabashed by the censure in Michael’s voice. ‘He is in here somewhere, and you will not want me run through before I can take up my duties.’

‘Why does Ravenser mean you harm?’ Michael’s expression was cold and angry, and Bartholomew saw that his first real foray into his new cathedral had left him far from impressed.

‘There was a misunderstanding over a lady,’ replied Tetford with a careless grin. ‘It will not happen again, not now I know what kind of man she allows in her bed. I have standards, you know.’

Michael eyed him balefully. ‘You confess to enjoying women now, as well as to harbouring violent feelings towards your fellow clerics?’

‘Self-protection, Brother. And I will not attack Ravenser unless he attacks me first. However, I shall cut back on the encounters with the fair sex, if it makes you happy.’

‘Yes, you will,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I have standards, too, and if I find you breaking any of the cathedral’s rules, I shall dismiss you and appoint another deputy.’

‘You can try,’ said Tetford insolently, ‘but I doubt my uncle will allow it.’

‘Your uncle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The Bishop of Ely,’ explained Tetford. ‘Well, he refers to me as his nephew – along with my several cousins – but the reality is that he has no siblings of his own, so I am sure you can guess the real nature of our relationship. He will not cast stones.’

‘De Lisle will not favour you for long if you bray about his youthful indiscretions,’ said Michael icily. ‘He is ambitious, and will not let a “nephew” stand in his way. So, behave yourself – unless you want to be branded a bastard, and prevented from holding any sort of office in the Church.’

Tetford turned sullen. ‘You are a tedious man. Uncle said you were fun, but I do not think I shall invite you to my alehouse of an evening. You can go somewhere boring and respectable instead, like the Swan.’

Michael tried not to gape. ‘You run a hostelry?’

‘The Tavern in the Close. It is a lively place, only ever frequented by clerics – and the occasional lady, of course. Gynewell and the dean keep trying to close it down, but they will never succeed. People enjoy it too much, even the dean, on occasion. Everyone needs fun from time to time.’

‘You have until next Sunday to mend your ways,’ said Michael, struggling to regain his composure. ‘You will shut the Tavern in the Close, resist female company, and decline strong drink. If you do not, I shall appoint another Vicar Choral. De Lisle will not object when he finds out why.’

‘He already knows my foibles, Brother,’ said Tetford smugly. ‘You and I can have a contest of wills if you like, but be warned that you will not win. You would do better concentrating on finding out who killed Aylmer. I assume Gynewell asked you to oblige him with an investigation? He told me at breakfast yesterday that he intended to do so.’

‘He told you?’ asked Michael in patent disbelief. ‘Why would he do that? He seems a decent man, and I do not see him wasting time in idle chatter with lowly Vicars Choral.’

Tetford did not seem offended by the insult, but his grin faded and his voice dropped to a murmur. ‘Do not tell my colleagues this, but I liked Aylmer – he was fun. So, I asked Gynewell what he planned to do about the murder. At the same time, I happened to mention what Uncle has told me about your investigative skills. You had better find Aylmer’s killer, Brother, or I will not be the only one disappointed.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael unmoved. ‘And who else will have me quaking in fear, pray? Gynewell certainly did not issue threats when he gave me this commission, and Bishop de Lisle is too far away to care whether I succeed or fail.’

‘I refer to Adam Miller. He and his Commonalty hold a lot of power in this town. You will not want to begin your new appointment by annoying them, and Aylmer was one of their number.’

‘Then how do you know they did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘A falling-out among thieves?’

‘They are not thieves,’ said Tetford, glancing quickly behind him, to see whether anyone had heard. ‘They call themselves merchants, so watch the name-calling, please. Langar sued the last man who referred to Miller as a felon, and the courts forced Kelby to pay an entire year’s profits to make reparation for the insult.’

‘Langar,’ mused Michael. ‘He is–’

‘I suppose you might have come across him, if you were in Cambridge two decades ago,’ interrupted Tetford before Michael could say what he knew. ‘He was a law-clerk at the castle there.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘If I recall correctly, a clerk called Langar advised the Justice over the Shirlok case, and–’

Tetford flung out a hand to silence him, looking around in alarm. ‘Do not even whisper that name in Lincoln! Everyone knows that a man called Shirlok made untruthful allegations against Miller and some of his friends in Cambridge, and was hanged for it, but Miller is sensitive about the incident, even today. Not even his deadliest enemies dare mention it these days, and if you want to see your University again, I recommend you follow their example.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It was not the trial we were discussing, though: it was Langar. How did he come to leave his post with a Justice to work for a “merchant”?’

Tetford remained uneasy. ‘I was told the Justice died shortly after Miller’s acquittal, and Langar decided to enter private practice instead. He came to Lincoln, and is Miller’s legal adviser. Can we talk about something else?’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘This is becoming very complicated. There are connections everywhere, and I cannot decide which are significant and which are irrelevant.’

Bartholomew was troubled. ‘This might be important, though. If Langar was involved in the Shirlok trial, then he knew Aylmer twenty years ago.’

Tetford was clearly unsettled by the discussion. ‘If you must ignore my advice, then at least keep your voices down. It is Friday, and the members of the Commonalty always come to light candles at about this time. Miller might hear you, and while I shall be more than happy to inherit your prebendal stall when he kills you, my uncle will be sorry to learn you dead and I do not want him upset.’

Michael glared. ‘I doubt someone like you will ever be installed as a canon. But time is wasting, and I have a lot to do today. I was told to come here for a fitting. Where are the vestments?’

Tetford gestured to a nearby tomb, over which several garments had been slung. ‘It is my responsibility to find you something suitable and arrange for any necessary alterations. I was expecting someone smaller, however, and I am not sure we have anything big enough for you.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is your Chapter composed of insignificant men with no stature, then?’

‘It is not your height that is the problem,’ explained Tetford bluntly. ‘It is your width. Try on this alb, Brother. It is the largest we have.’

Glowering indignantly, Michael stepped forward and allowed Tetford to put the garment over his head. Albs were ankle-length robes with wide sleeves, but the one Tetford gave Michael barely reached his knees and was embarrassingly snug. Bartholomew looked away, not wanting to be seen laughing.

‘I cannot wear this,’ objected Michael, aghast. ‘It would not be big enough for Little Hugh!’

‘It is tight,’ agreed Tetford. He was thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. ‘I know a lady who is very skilled with a needle. She might be able to take a few strips from an old altar frontal, and make this longer and wider. She is rather good, and no one will notice her repairs, especially if we all drink to your health the evening before the installation. No one notices much after a night in my tavern.’

Michael glared at him. ‘If this is just an excuse to visit women with my blessing, I shall not be pleased. You may see her – although not at night, obviously – but I shall expect to be presented with an alb that fits. What about my almuce? Canons are supposed to wear fur-lined almuces.’

Tetford rubbed his chin as he considered the garment that covered a priest’s shoulders. ‘I had better discuss that with Rosanna, too.’ He held up a green item with gold trimmings. ‘However, you will like this. It is the special cope of Deuxevers cloth.’

Michael slipped into it, and was relieved when it fitted. ‘At last! I was beginning to think I might have to go through the ceremony stark naked.’

‘I found it in a chest belonging to a canon who died several years ago. It was in the attic of my alehouse, so do not be too damning about such places. If I had not been an innkeeper, I would not have found the box, and you might well have gone to the Stall of South Scarle in a state of nature.’

‘Who was this canon?’ asked Michael. ‘I shall say a mass for him tomorrow.’

‘I doubt even your prayers will save Hodelston from the fires of Hell,’ said Tetford cheerfully. ‘He was a dreadful fellow, well past redemption.’

Michael hauled the garment from his shoulders and hurled it away. ‘Hodelston? He died during the Death! And you hand me his cope to wear? Matt!’

‘You cannot catch the plague from clothes after all these years,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true. ‘And I was under the impression that Hodelston did not die from the pestilence anyway.’

‘He was probably poisoned,’ agreed Tetford, picking up the cope and thrusting it into the monk’s reluctant hands. ‘And you are not in a position to be choosy, Brother, so just be grateful we have found something that fits. Well, we are finished just in time, because Miller is coming this way and he is making gestures that suggest he wants to talk to you.’

‘Perhaps he is, but I do not care to meet him,’ said Michael, beginning to move in the opposite direction.

Tetford grabbed his arm. ‘I am fond of my uncle, so I shall give his spy some good advice: do not run, because Miller will assume you are afraid of him. And he has a nasty habit of extorting money from timid people. Master Miller! Good morning.’

‘Maybe it is,’ replied the man who had approached them. He sounded cagey. ‘Or maybe it isn’t. It depends.’ He leaned to one side and spat on the cathedral’s fine stone floor.

Instinctively, Bartholomew went to stand next to Michael, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Adam Miller was squat and heavy, like a bull, and the three people at his heels carried enough weapons to equip the English army. Bartholomew recognised all four, although they were older than when he had last seen them. Miller had suffered most from the ravages of time. His skin had turned leathery and he had lost all his teeth except four yellow lower incisors; what little hair that remained was white.

Behind him stood the man Shirlok had named as Walter Chapman, a skinny fellow in his red hose, who looked just as disreputable as he had in Cambridge two decades before. Bartholomew wondered what Simon had been thinking of, to buy a relic from someone like Chapman, since everything about him screamed that he lived on the wrong side of the law – just like Miller, in fact.

Next to Chapman was the man who had kept the record of the Cambridge trial so many years ago, the ginger-haired clerk called William Langar. He had clearly done well for himself, because he was by far the best dressed of the quartet, and his fingers were adorned with so many rings that Bartholomew could only suppose he hired a scribe to write for him now. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and Bartholomew had the sense that he was deceitful.

The last person was a burly matron with a square face and small eyes, who gripped a stave as though she was considering braining someone with it. Lora Boyner, thought Bartholomew, recalling the way she had yelled her innocence when Shirlok had made his accusations. In all, they were a disreputable crowd, and he sincerely hoped they would not remember him.

‘This is Brother Michael,’ said Tetford, bowing and grinning in a way that suggested he was terrified. Bartholomew wondered whether he knew about Miller’s exploitation of faint-hearted men from personal experience. ‘And his colleague Bartholomew. I would introduce you to their friend, Thomas Suttone, but he is not with them, and–’

‘Thank you, Tetford,’ said Langar softly. ‘You may leave us now.’

Miller spat again when Tetford had scuttled away. Bartholomew itched to reprimand him, but there was something about the easy way the man held his weapons that stopped him. Miller might be old, but the physician sensed he was still a formidable fighter, and there was no point in starting a brawl he would not win by asking him to gob outside. He suspected the man’s cronies were equally adept with their weapons, with the possible exception of Chapman, who just looked like a petty thief.

‘I understand you have instigated a special market, for the poor,’ said Michael pleasantly, when no one else said anything. ‘What a charming notion. December is cold and gloomy, and it is heart-warming to hear of merchants being generous in such a cheerless season.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miller, revealing his four fangs in a smile. His eyes remained cold. ‘I had to do something, because people were frightened of me, and it was becoming difficult to get anything done.’

‘Fear has its advantages,’ said Langar in a sibilant hiss that was infinitely more sinister than his friend’s gravely tones. ‘It means people are willing to do whatever we ask. However, it also means that sometimes they are so nervous, they make mistakes. And that is a nuisance. I suggested the Market as a good way to alleviate the problem.’

‘It is working,’ said Chapman. ‘The unemployed weavers love us now. Unfortunately our largess has had unforeseen consequences: other folk have flocked to the city to take advantage of our generosity, and it is proving difficult to exclude villains.’

‘I am sure it is,’ murmured Michael, thinking that Chapman was probably in a good position to recognise them, since he was so clearly one himself. It occurred to him to ask how he had come by the Hugh Chalice, but decided Chapman was more likely to be persuaded to tell the truth when his friends were not looming protectively around him. ‘Why are people so afraid of you?’

‘Because those who displease me have accidents,’ replied Miller darkly.

‘And he is very easily displeased,’ added Lora in a voice that was even deeper than Miller’s.

‘If you take our meaning,’ said Chapman, fingering his dagger.

‘But I did not come here to make threats,’ said Miller. Langar stared at his shoes and the physician was under the impression that he was trying not to laugh at his friends’ crude tactics. ‘I came to ask if you know who murdered Aylmer. He was my friend, and I was vexed when I heard he had been stabbed. I want the culprit.’

‘I have not identified the killer,’ replied Michael. ‘But then I have barely started my investigation.’

‘You sound confident, though,’ said Langar thoughtfully. ‘Are you?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I shall do my best.’

Miller spat again, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘When you find the rogue, I shall expect you to tell me his name immediately. Before you tell the bishop.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Michael, startled.

Miller sighed in a way that suggested he thought the monk was stupid. ‘Because if the culprit is a clerk – and Aylmer had plenty of enemies in holy orders – the rogue will claim benefit of clergy. I do not want to traipse to some remote monastery to stick my dagger in his gizzard. I want to do it here.’

Michael raised his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘You want me to confide in you, so you can murder him if he is a priest? And you are asking me to do this in a cathedral? A sacred House of God?’

‘Yes,’ said Miller, bemused in his turn. ‘What part do you not understand?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘I shall bear your request in mind.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miller. ‘I appreciate your co-operation and will do something nice for you in return. I learned from Sheriff Lungspee that a favour deserves a favour, and it is a lesson that has served me well. Or would you prefer money? It is your choice.’

‘Neither,’ said Michael, affronted. ‘Canons-elect do not accept bribes.’

Miller was as offended by the response as Michael was by the offer. ‘No canon – elect or otherwise – has refused them in the past, and I do not like my generosity rejected.’

‘We shall give you time to reconsider,’ said Langar, keen to avoid a confrontation that would serve no purpose. ‘And while you investigate Aylmer’s death, I shall look into Nicholas Herl’s. Both were members of the Commonalty, and we are determined to know what happened to them.’

‘His wife told us what you found when you inspected Herl’s body,’ said Miller to Bartholomew. ‘We are grateful for your help. Are you fastidious, like the monk, or will you accept a reward?’

Bartholomew heartily wished he had declined Sabina’s request. ‘There is no clear evidence of foul play,’ he said, avoiding the question. ‘Herl’s death may have been an accident.’

‘I concluded the same, in the light of your findings,’ said Langar. He gave a humourless smile at Bartholomew’s surprise. ‘Your monk is not the only one with the wits to unravel mysteries.’

Chapman grinned at the scholars. ‘Langar was a law-clerk, and knows many cunning tricks. It was his cleverness that made us what we are today – combined with Miller’s talents, of course.’

Bartholomew suddenly became aware that Langar was studying him rather intently. ‘You look familiar,’ said the lawyer. ‘I know you hail from Cambridge, but have you been there long? John Suttone told us his cousin was a fairly recent arrival, and I know from Tetford that Brother Michael has only been there a decade. But what about you?’

‘He and I became Fellows at almost the same time,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘He studied at Oxford first, then Paris.’

Langar was too clever to be misled, and regarded the physician thoughtfully. ‘No, I never forget a face, and you were in Cambridge when ten good people were accused of wicked crimes by a rogue called Shirlok. I was a clerk at the time, employed to keep records for the Justice. But Miller, Aylmer, Lora, Chapman and dear Nicholas suffered from Shirlok’s mean tongue.’

‘You forgot to mention Sabina,’ said Chapman, while Miller’s face creased into a bleak scowl. Bartholomew saw Tetford had been right to warn them against discussing the trial: it was still a sore point with the man. ‘Shirlok tried to indict her, too.’

‘I did not forget,’ said Langar coldly. ‘I just choose not to utter her name. Hateful woman!’

‘Shirlok named my poor brother, Simon, too – God rest his sainted soul,’ said Miller angrily. ‘And three others, also now dead. It was a wicked business, but right prevailed, and we were released. Thank God for English justice.’

‘Amen,’ said Bartholomew, drawing on his recent experience with the Gilbertines and ignoring the startled look Michael shot him. He intended to follow Tetford’s advice and stay well away from discussing the case with Miller, especially given his own suspicions about the ‘English justice’ that had been meted out that day.

Langar continued to stare. ‘It was a painful incident for Master Miller, so I am sure you can be trusted not to mention it to any guildsmen. They know what happened, of course, but there is no point in giving them cause to resurrect the matter.’

‘There is nothing to mention,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘It was a long time ago, and we are more interested in what happened to Aylmer this week. Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’

It was Miller who replied. ‘Dean Bresley might have done it, to prevent him from becoming a Vicar Choral. Aylmer was a bit of a thief, you see, and holy men take against thieves, which is unkind. After all, Jesus was crucified with two of them, and they all went to Heaven. Then there is Bishop Gynewell, who also objected to Aylmer on moral grounds.’

‘Gynewell would hardly have asked me to investigate, if he was the culprit,’ said Michael, deciding not to comment on Miller’s singular interpretation of the scriptures.

Langar gave a sly smile. ‘Or he might have asked you to investigate specifically to conceal his guilt. Do not take everything at face value, Brother.’

‘It was Hamo,’ said Lora with malicious satisfaction. ‘He disliked Aylmer being in his convent, and asked Prior Roger to eject him. Roger was going to do it, too, until we passed him a few coins.’

‘And there is another possibility,’ said Langar. ‘Prior Roger, killing an unwanted guest after Aylmer’s nonrefundable rent had been paid. Roger needs money desperately, but he also has a duty to preserve his convent’s integrity. And even Aylmer’s best friends cannot tell you he was a saint.’

‘Then there is the sanctimonious John Suttone,’ added Miller. ‘There is no way he can be as ethical as he would have everyone believe. It would be unnatural. And his fellow priests would kill their own grandmothers for a penny. Although I understand that position, because my grandam–’

‘We have other suspects, too, beside clerics,’ interrupted Langar, before Miller could incriminate himself. ‘Dalderby is angry with us, because Thoresby was acquitted of threatening to behead him.’

‘And Kelby would do anything to hurt me,’ said Miller. He spat again. ‘He once called me a pugilist. I had to ask Langar what it meant, and was offended when he told me.’

‘Of course,’ said Chapman helpfully, ‘if the killer manages to confound you, Brother, you can always eavesdrop at the General Pardon, and see if anyone confesses to the murder.’

‘The killer will never confess here,’ said Miller scornfully. ‘No felon wants the cathedral priests to know about his most intimate crimes. I certainly do not.’

‘God’s teeth,’ breathed Bartholomew when they had gone. ‘That was unpleasant! Miller, Chapman and Lora are bullies in positions of power, and I am not surprised they are obliged to hold fairs to win people’s favour. But Langar seems dangerous. I imagine Chapman was right when he said Miller’s coterie rose on the back of his cunning. Miller might be the man who appears to be in charge, but I will wager anything that the real master is Langar.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Langar is sly, but there is no great strength in him. He may be full of ideas and plans, but it is Miller’s brutality that keeps them going. Regardless, I see why de Wetherset said we would not want to dine with them: the minster is awash with spit.’

‘I wish Langar had not recognised me from Shirlok’s trial. I told you there was something corrupt about that day, and I imagine that is the reason they ordered me not to mention it to anyone here.’

‘Very likely, so take Cynric with you if you go out after dark. We do not want you stabbed to ensure your silence. I intend to leave Lincoln as soon as I can, and your murder would delay me.’

‘I am pleased you have my welfare at heart, Brother.’

‘Always, Matt. Always.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by the danger he felt they were in, and wanted to analyse logically what they had learned. It was already late afternoon, and there was not much daylight left, so they began to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory, discussing the case as they went.

‘I wonder if Gynewell knew what he was asking when he ordered me to find Aylmer’s killer,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Or perhaps he dislikes the notion of having a canon foisted on him who is an agent for a rival bishop, and hopes the investigation might see me killed. Meanwhile, Langar’s concern over what you might have seen in Cambridge all those years ago indicates that you are probably right when you say there was something odd about the verdict.’

‘No one else seems suspicious of it, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tales in Lincoln seem to revolve around the fact that they were accused in the first place, not about the legitimacy of the acquittal. We should ask de Wetherset what really happened that day. He must know the truth – he was a juror.’

‘No, we should not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That might tell Miller you are asking questions about the incident. Besides, de Wetherset told us Miller invited him to dinner, and it sounds as though they had a merry old time convincing each other of their mutual harmlessness.’

‘Or money exchanged hands in return for de Wetherset’s silence. He was very indignant when I asked whether he had been bribed, and that level of outrage is often indicative of a guilty conscience.’

‘Or indicative of the fact that you had just accused him of being corrupt. He was a University Chancellor, Matt, and while you may not have liked or trusted him, there are moral boundaries across which some men will not pass.’

‘However, they may not be the same limits as those set by honest men,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But you are right: there is no point in quizzing de Wetherset, because he will not give us truthful answers anyway. Why should he, when admitting to corruption might mean his stall is withdrawn?’

‘And more importantly, he may tell Miller about your interest, and that is something we should definitely avoid. This may come as a surprise to you, but you are my friend, and I do not want to lose you to an assassin’s dagger. You must leave de Wetherset and Miller alone.’

‘They are both connected to Aylmer, Brother. How will we solve his murder if you plan to keep clear of them? And there is the Hugh Chalice. I still do not understand how that fits into your case, although I am sure it is significant, since Aylmer was holding it when he died.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder why he did that. It belonged to Simon, not him.’

‘The consensus seems to be that he was going to steal it.’

‘Right. And that means the murder may have nothing to do with Miller or his shady acquittal, and more to do with the fact that someone objected to Aylmer laying sticky fingers on a sacred object.’

‘Simon is the obvious candidate. He says he has an alibi in his singing, but he does not.’

Michael agreed. ‘The Gilbertines work themselves to such a state of ecstasy that I doubt they have the faintest idea what anyone else is doing.’

‘Did you notice that de Wetherset has changed his story? What he told us initially – that he attended prime with Simon in the convent on the day of Aylmer’s murder – was not what he said this morning. Today he claimed he had joined the Gilbertines on his first day as a guest in their priory, but found it too noisy, and has opted for something quieter ever since. Ergo, he is lying about something.’

‘I wondered whether you had picked up on that. Now, why he would tell us untruths?’

Bartholomew pulled his cloak more closely around him when a snowflake spiralled down and landed on his cheek. A second followed, and he saw they were in for another cold night. Dusk was on them, and lights were already burning in the Wigford houses. They passed the Church of the Holy Cross, and he saw the blackened shell of the priest’s house in its graveyard. He recalled that de Wetherset had lived with Simon before a blaze had driven them to take refuge with the Gilbertines.

‘Cynric made some enquiries about that in the taverns,’ he said, nodding towards the ruin. ‘Sheriff Lungspee was able to deduce that the cause was accidental – a brazier had been left burning by mistake. Simon and de Wetherset managed to escape with their belongings, and Simon’s successor is lodging with a relative until the house can be rebuilt.’

Michael glanced at him. ‘You sound unsure. Do you think they let the fire rage deliberately?’

Bartholomew shrugged, then nodded. ‘The inferno made everyone sorry for Simon, and he was immediately offered a prebendal stall. You have to wonder whether he had been promised such an honour, but it was taking too long to come, so he drew attention to himself with a misfortune – a misfortune that did not cost him any of his possessions, given that he still had plenty of money to buy the Hugh Chalice.’

‘And I am sure Chapman charged him a princely fee,’ mused Michael.

‘Perhaps de Wetherset is willing to lie for Simon because he was warned of the conflagration and it saved his life. Or perhaps it was de Wetherset’s carelessness that caused the fire.’

‘Possibly, although I still cannot see him engaging in such unsavoury activities. However, none of this is relevant to Aylmer – unlike the Hugh Chalice. Shall we go to see it?’ Michael’s voice was oddly casual. ‘We are almost at the Gilbertine convent, thank the good Lord. It is cold out tonight. Can you see that frost sparkling on the Eleanor Cross?’

Bartholomew glanced at it, and remembered poking icicles off Matilde’s eaves with a broom handle – she had been afraid they might fall and hurt someone. He wondered whether she had recruited someone else to do it now, and whether she would be settled with another man when – and if – he ever found her. Suddenly, the night seemed colder and darker, and his prospects of happiness bleak.

The physician followed Michael through the Gilbertines’ main gate, where they were saluted cheerfully by Hamo, and then across the yard to the chapel. The ground was frozen hard, and dusted with new snow. Inside, candles and lamps gave the chapel a cosy feel, although the air was frigid, and his breath billowed in front of him. Then he saw why the monk had been so keen to inspect the chalice. Vespers had just ended, and one of the congregation had lingered to say additional prayers.

That evening, Christiana de Hauville’s slender form was accentuated by a tight, front-laced kirtle, and her fret – the net that covered her hair – was of gold. Although she was kneeling, she still managed to adopt the current fashionable posture for women, with abdomen thrust forward and back curved, which was meant to reveal them as ladies of breeding and style. Because all the Gilbertines had gone to their refectory for something to drink, Bartholomew could only suppose the display of courtly deportment was for Michael’s benefit. The monk’s expression was unreadable as he made his way towards her, and Bartholomew watched uneasily.

Christiana was not alone, however. When the monk would have gone to kneel next to her, a figure stepped out of the shadows and intercepted him. It was Sabina Herl. She held a basket over her arm, and looked bored and cold.

‘I have been told to act as chaperon,’ she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she was not very happy about it. ‘Dame Eleanor is still at the cathedral, and Hamo says that Lady Christiana should not be here alone in the dark, despite the fact that this is a convent, and you would think she would be safe.’

Bartholomew saw a grimace of genuine annoyance flick across Christiana’s beautiful face, and supposed she had objected to the Brother Hospitaller’s cosseting, too.

‘I see,’ said Michael, hands folded in his wide sleeves. ‘Well, she is not alone now, because I am here.’

Sabina was amused. ‘I do not think Hamo would accept you as a suitable substitute for Dame Eleanor, Brother. But why did you come? To pray? To admire the Hugh Chalice?’

Before the monk could reply, Christiana stood, took the cup from the altar, and came to hand it to him. Their fingers touched briefly, before she returned to the cushion on which she had been kneeling. She was clearly aware that she cut a fine figure from behind, because her hips swayed provocatively and she did not need to look around to know Michael’s eyes were fixed appreciatively on them.

‘What do you think?’ asked Bartholomew. The monk regarded him askance. ‘Of the chalice, Brother! What do you think of the chalice?’

Michael tore his attention away from Christiana’s trim shape, and looked at the goblet. ‘It is very small, and too tarnished to be handsome, although someone has tried to buff it up. Is it silver?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea how to tell. However, I do know that some kinds of tin can be made to gleam like precious metals.’

Michael turned the cup over in his hands. ‘Even if it is silver, it is thin and light, and I doubt it is worth much for its weight alone. Is there a carving on it? My eyes are not good in dim light.’

‘It is worn, but I think there might be a child with a halo around its head.’

Michael squinted at it. ‘As Simon told us so condescendingly, a Baby Jesus etched on a chalice is often associated with St Hugh – it is one of his icons. I suppose that might mean it is authentic.’

A shadow suddenly materialised at the physician’s side. It was Cynric. Michael leapt so violently that the goblet flew from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Christiana turned to gape at him, and Sabina issued a shriek of alarm, so the monk hastened to cover his clumsiness by pretending he had done it on purpose.

‘It is silver,’ he pronounced authoritatively, bending to retrieve it. ‘See how easily it dents?’

‘Be careful, Brother!’ breathed Cynric, round-eyed with shock. ‘St Hugh may not like his relic tossed about like a turnip. Of course, it is probably a fake, but you would be wise to be wary, nonetheless.’

‘You should not creep up on people like that,’ hissed Michael irritably, once Christiana had turned back to her prayers. ‘And how is it that you are suddenly in a position to make declarations about the authenticity of sacred cups?’

‘I have a good sense for what is holy,’ objected Cynric, hurt by the reprimand. ‘And a good sense for what is unholy, too. Speaking of unholy, did you see Bishop Gynewell’s statue in the cathedral? It is in the Angel Choir, looking longingly at Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb. It is probably trying to work out how to get inside and earn itself a meal.’

‘Gynewell does not like to be reminded of the similarity between him and the imp,’ said Michael. ‘So you had better keep your thoughts to yourself, unless you want to feel the end of his pitchfork.’

‘You think he might attack me?’ asked Cynric, appalled. ‘He is definitely one of Satan’s own. Master Quarrel of the Swan tavern told me that the fellow likes so much hot spice in his food, it is inedible to mere mortals. And he wears a Dominican habit to conceal his tail.’

‘Quarrel told you that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Not the bit about the tail,’ admitted Cynric. ‘That is my own conclusion. You see, I have been in alehouses all afternoon, listening to gossip for you about Aylmer. Since I was there, I decided to ask a few questions about Gynewell, too. I went to the Swan first, then the Angel. The Swan is preferred by guildsmen, and the Angel is frequented by the Commonalty.’

‘What did you find out?’ asked Michael. ‘About Aylmer, I mean, not Gynewell.’

‘He arrived about twenty years ago – a few weeks after Miller – and immediately started work as Miller’s scribe. Then Langar came, and was better at clerking, so Aylmer elected to dabble in various other trades instead, but was never very successful. Apparently, he always said he was in holy orders, but no one believed him, so he was obliged to take his vows again a month ago. He was accused of theft, see, and needed to claim benefit of clergy. It is all wrong, if you ask me, and there will be a rebellion. People do not like priests tried by different rules to the rest of us.’

‘So you have been saying for years,’ said Michael, well aware of Cynric’s seditious sentiments. ‘What did he steal?’

‘A cup,’ said Cynric. ‘It may have been the Hugh Chalice, but the men at the Swan could not be sure. The fellow who lodged the complaint was Flaxfleete, but he withdrew his accusation when the property was returned. Word is that the bishop did it.’

‘Did what?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘Stole whatever it was that Aylmer was accused of taking?’

‘Returned it to its rightful owner,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘And the other thing I learned was that Aylmer was good at Latin, and mocked priests who were not. They did not like that at all, apparently, especially John Suttone and Simon. I shall try listening to gossip in a few more taverns tomorrow.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Miller suspects I witnessed Shirlok’s trial, and Michael’s investigation has a dangerous feel to it. You will not be safe in these places.’

Cynric regarded him askance. ‘I can look after myself. The only thing I fear is Bishop Gynewell. So, I had better say a few incantations, to ward him off.’

While he went to kneel next to Christiana, Michael approached Sabina, who was rubbing chicken droppings off the eggs in her basket. ‘You are freezing,’ he said sympathetically.

She nodded, blowing on her hands. ‘I do not understand how Lady Christiana can kneel for so long in here. Dame Eleanor is the same. They both spend hours at shrines and in chapels.’

‘You said you were ordered to work at this priory as penance for kissing Aylmer behind the stables,’ said Michael. ‘How long did you say you had known him?’

‘I did not confide that particular detail. Why? Would you like to steal a few kisses from me, now he is not here?’

Michael glared at her. ‘How long have you known Aylmer?’ he repeated.

She sighed. ‘We were friends for years. He was fond of Nicholas, and often visited our house.’

‘But your Nicholas died before Aylmer did,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘So Aylmer could not have been killed by that jealous husband.’

Sabina’s expression was wry. ‘Especially not by that one. Nicholas loved Langar, not me.’

‘Nicholas was Langar’s lover?’ asked Michael, startled.

Suddenly, Bartholomew had the answers to several questions – why Sabina had never seen the scar on her husband’s shoulder, and why she had been willing to marry a man she did not love. Nicholas had given her a home; she had reciprocated by providing him with a respectable image; and they had both gone about their separate lives unfettered. And the physician recalled Langar’s angry reaction when Sabina was mentioned earlier that day; the lawyer had been envious of the relationship Nicholas had shared with his wife, regardless of the fact that it had almost certainly been chaste.

‘You and Nicholas were still friends, though, which is why you are keen to know how he died,’ he said. ‘And you also mentioned that you would have preferred to marry Aylmer, but he was in holy orders. He took his vows a month ago, when he was accused of stealing from Flaxfleete.’

She shook her head. ‘He retook his vows a month ago. He was in holy orders for more than two decades, although he lived a riotous life, and few believed he was a priest. That is why he would never marry me; he said it was a step too far along the road of sin. However, Langar’s affair with Nicholas should tell you why he is investigating that death, and why he is happy to let you find Aylmer’s killer. He cannot do both, and has chosen the one that is important to him.’

‘Could Langar have killed Aylmer?’ asked Michael. ‘Perhaps he thought it was Aylmer who gave Nicholas the poison that saw him topple into the Braytheford Pool and drown.’

‘Aylmer did not hurt Nicholas, because he was with me that night, and Langar knows it. Hence Langar did not kill Aylmer, which is a pity for all of us. It would have made for a neat solution, and once Langar is gone, Miller and the Commonalty will fall. I would love to see Langar hang.’

‘That is an interesting reaction from a woman who was accused of dire crimes at Miller’s side,’ said Michael. ‘De Wetherset told me. I am sure you recall that he was one of the jurors.’

She stared at the floor. ‘It is true, to my shame. Aylmer always said he wanted to escape from Miller and his cronies, but he never did anything about it. I have, though. I no longer take part in their evil dealings, and I am becoming a good daughter of the Church.’

‘A good daughter who kisses ordained priests behind the stables?’ remarked Bartholomew.

She pulled a face at him. ‘I am human, with human failings. None of us is perfect.’

‘Did Aylmer seem different before he died?’ asked Michael, not very interested in her feeble attempts to walk the straight and narrow.

She nodded. ‘He was thoughtful – contemplative. He was moved by the offer of Vicar Choral, and I think he was going to do his best for Master Suttone. He was weak, though, and the likes of Ravenser and Tetford would have urged him to mischief before long, so I doubt his good intentions would have lasted. I loved him dearly, but he was not a man for self-restraint.’

‘What about the other flaws in his character,’ said Michael, ‘such as his dishonesty?’

‘He did steal, on occasion,’ she admitted. ‘But I was working on that.’

‘Working for how long?’ asked Michael archly. ‘You have known him for at least two decades, given that you were both named by Shirlok in Cambridge.’

‘Shirlok,’ she repeated softly. ‘There is a name from the past!’ She shivered, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

‘I will guard Lady Christiana while you go to the kitchen with Cynric and Matt for a hot posset,’ offered Michael generously. ‘It is cold in here, and your fingers are blue. Do not worry about propriety – her virtue will be quite safe with me. I am a monk, after all.’

‘But you are also a man, and Hamo said–’

‘Hamo will not mind me playing chaperon,’ asserted Michael firmly. ‘I am a Benedictine, so my morals are above reproach. Go to the kitchens, child, and warm yourself before you take a chill.’

Sabina hesitated only a moment before nodding her thanks, and Bartholomew thought he saw a sparkle of tears as she turned to leave. He wondered whether she was touched by Michael’s ‘thoughtfulness’, or whether she still grieved for the deaths of old friends. Obediently, Cynric rose to escort her, although Bartholomew was not so easily dismissed. He hovered in the shadows.

‘Do not gulp your posset,’ called Michael after Sabina, as he moved towards his quarry, ‘or it will do you no good. And I am in no hurry to leave.’