The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 6

In the still silence of the chapel, Bartholomew watched Michael stalk towards Christiana, and kneel next to her, placing his hands together in an attitude of prayer. Christiana glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and Bartholomew saw her start to smile. Michael was not the most handsome of men, and was too fat to be truly attractive, but he possessed a certain allure that appealed to women. Bartholomew lingered uncertainly, not sure whether to leave them to their own devices – they were both adults, after all – or whether he would be a better friend to Michael by staying.

‘Good evening, Brother,’ simpered Christiana. She turned in surprise when she heard the rustle of Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Doctor! I thought you had gone with Sabina.’

‘So did I,’ said Michael meaningfully.

‘He invited me to pray with him,’ lied Bartholomew, suddenly determined not to go anywhere.

‘I am sure I did not,’ said Michael, eyeing him coolly. ‘And Prior Roger wants you to visit his hospital. There is a perplexing case of tertiary fever.’

‘He said nothing to me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it must be very perplexing indeed, since nobody has tertiary fevers at this time of year.’ He expected Christiana to be irritated by his stubborn refusal to leave, and was surprised to see a flash of amusement in her eyes.

‘Do not stand so far away,’ she said, ignoring Michael’s frustrated grimace. ‘Join us. We can talk about something Hamo told me – that we all have a mutual acquaintance in a lady called Matilde.’

Bartholomew nodded as he approached. ‘Hamo remembers her living in Lincoln six years ago.’

‘I arrived here about a month before Mayor Spayne asked Matilde to be his wife,’ said Christiana. Her expression became distant, as though she was lost in memories. ‘I was preoccupied with my own troubles at the time, but I recall that quite clearly – a woman made an offer of marriage by a man she did not love. It was at that point when I realised the same thing might happen to me, once the King decides I have had long enough to recover from my grief.’

‘Matilde did not love Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How do you know?’

She regarded him in amusement. ‘We women can tell such things, Doctor. Besides, she would have accepted his offer had she loved him, given that he is handsome, rich, kind and gentle. Her standards must be very high. As are mine.’ She included Michael in her next enigmatic smile.

‘You have avoided being trapped so far,’ said Michael. ‘

’Yes, but my period of grace is coming to an end. His Majesty is beginning to be exasperated.’ Christiana sighed. ‘I adored my first husband, and would like to feel at least a modicum of affection for the second. My mother was on the verge of marrying a man she despised, and I saw how miserable it made her.’

‘Kelby,’ said Michael, remembering what Suttone had told him. ‘Unfortunately, she died before the ceremony could take place.’

‘She did not “die”, Brother,’ said Christiana softly. ‘She took medicine to ease a cough, and it killed her. She was with child, you see, but did not tell anyone. She swallowed the electuary she was given, but it contained cuckoo-pint, which is dangerous for ladies in such a condition–’

‘That was your mother?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘We heard Ursula de Spayne had prescribed an inappropriate remedy to a pregnant woman, but no one told us her name.’

Christiana nodded. ‘It was her. Matilde and my mother were friends, and Matilde was furious when she learned what Ursula had done. But, perhaps Ursula was as much a victim as anyone. My mother was deeply unhappy about the match with Kelby, and told me she would rather die than marry him. She would never have taken her own life, so she did the next best thing: she asked Ursula for a tonic, and she neglected to mention her pregnancy.’

‘How could she have known Ursula’s remedy would have such a deadly effect?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘And I do not mean to distress you, but bringing about the premature expelling of a child is not an easy end.’

Tears sparkled in Christiana’s eyes, and she rubbed them away impatiently. ‘She was a devout woman, and saw her suffering as penance for what was so dangerously close to self-murder. She had been caring for the hospital inmates here, so had some knowledge about the medicinal properties of plants. I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she asked for that particular electuary.’

‘If your mother did not love Kelby, then who was the father of her child?’ asked Michael.

Christiana managed the ghost of a smile. ‘That is an ungentlemanly question, Brother! However, not all couplings take place with both parties willing, and my mother was given an unpleasant glimpse of her life to come.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Matilde know about …?’

‘My mother’s rape? I doubt it. It is not the kind of thing one chatters about, and Matilde would have been very angry. She would have said or done something to make matters worse. If you know her, then you will be aware that this is true.’

‘She would not have ignored it,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Did your mother tell you all this?’

Christiana nodded. ‘To warn me against taking a man I do not like. Our lives had been parallel until then – both married at fifteen, and widows ten years later. She urged me to take the veil rather than accept a man who is unworthy, and she told me why. I have shared this with very few people, and I am uncertain why I am confiding in you now. Perhaps it is because you have a kind face, Brother.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Your confidences are safe with us.’

‘It is not really a secret, although you will appreciate the subject is a painful one for me. So, based on her advice, I informed His Majesty that I would rather become a nun than accept a man I do not like, and since the Crown will not benefit financially if I join a convent, he is prepared to grant me a degree of leeway.’

‘There is nothing wrong with life in the cloister,’ said Michael.

‘Maybe not for men, who can enrol at universities and ride across the country to accept lucrative honours. But women are locked away until they grow old enough to be abbesses, at which point they prefer to stay at home by the fire. It is no life for a lady with an enquiring mind.’

‘There are ways around those difficulties,’ began Michael. ‘I am–’

‘Did Matilde tell your mother where she might go, if she ever left Lincoln?’ blurted Bartholomew, certain the monk was about to regale her with a list of ways to enjoy amorous liaisons without being caught, and equally certain he would be no friend if he let him do so.

Christiana dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, and took a deep breath, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘Matilde once expressed a desire to see Cambridge, and she said she had kin in Poitiers.’

‘She is not at either of those places now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

Christiana regarded him with a puzzled frown. ‘You told Hamo that you just hoped to renew an acquaintance with Matilde, but it seems to me that you want to do rather more than that.’

‘Everyone at Michaelhouse loved Matilde,’ said Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, trying to think of a way to reply without revealing too much about his intentions. ‘And we were concerned when she left Cambridge so abruptly. All we want is to be sure she is safe and happy.’

‘She once told us a story,’ said Christiana. Her eyes became distant again, as if she had transported herself to another time. ‘It was about a woman about to be pressed into an unwelcome marriage, but she conspired to disappear so completely that no one ever knew what happened to her. Matilde’s purpose was to show my mother that there was an alternative to life with Kelby, but it also proved to me that she knew how to make herself vanish, too. I was under the impression she had done it before – perhaps even that it was her own story she was telling.’

Bartholomew nodded. It was not the first time he had been warned that Matilde had known what she was doing when she had left Cambridge. And she had once confided to him that she had escaped a betrothal by running away.

‘Disappearing can be useful in a convent,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘A wise monk or nun always knows how to find a quiet spot, away from enquiring eyes.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Christiana, wide-eyed. ‘And how might that be achieved, when one’s every move is watched? Hamo and his brethren are very solicitous of me.’

‘Do you know anything about Aylmer’s death?’ asked Bartholomew, determined to prevent the monk from teaching her sly tricks. Michael shot him an unreadable glance.

Christiana folded her hands in her sleeves. ‘I heard the uproar when Father Simon found the body. My first instinct was to assume Simon had killed him – he is a rough sort of fellow for a priest – but he says he was in the chapel when Aylmer was killed, so I suppose he must be innocent.’

‘Who else do you think might have been responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I could list dozens of men who wanted Aylmer dead, but those with the strongest motive are at the cathedral. They did not want him as a Vicar Choral, and there were fierce arguments in Chapter meetings about it. Here is Sabina, back already. I must leave you, gentlemen.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

She touched his wrist with her fingertips. ‘I have religious duties to attend. I may not have taken holy orders yet, but I still set myself daily chores. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’

When she had gone, Michael gazed at the hand she had brushed, then raised it to his cheek.

When the Gilbertines’ bells clanged to life at five o’clock the following morning, Bartholomew pulled the blanket over his head in a futile attempt to muffle the racket. During a brief interlude, when the ringers took a break, the chamber was filled with Michael’s nagging voice, ordering Cynric to kindle a lamp so he could read his psalter. From his bed, Suttone declared that rowdy bells would bring the next wave of plague, while de Wetherset and Simon seemed to be embroiled in a private battle to see who could issue the most fervent prayers. Going back to sleep was clearly going to be impossible, so Bartholomew forced himself up, exchanging a weary grin with Cynric at his colleagues’ antics.

When the crashing clappers were finally stilled, the Michaelhouse men, with de Wetherset and Simon at their heels, left the guest-hall and crossed the yard, Simon heading for the chapel and the others for the gate. Michael had been serious when he had declared a preference for prime at the minster, while Bartholomew wanted to visit Mayor Spayne as soon as it was light, hoping to catch him before he went out to work.

‘Where are you going?’ cried Hamo, breaking into a run to intercept them. Whatton was behind him. ‘You cannot leave! It is Saturday, and we always have extended singing on Saturdays.’

‘In that case I am definitely going to the cathedral,’ muttered Michael. He cocked his head. ‘Lord! I can hear the racket from here, and all the chapel doors and windows are closed.’

‘And only half the brothers and nuns have arrived so far,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The others are still walking from their dormitories, and have yet to add their voices to the cacophony.’

‘What is that cracking sound?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. Cynric drew his dagger.

‘It is the clapping psalm,’ explained Simon, beginning to slap his own hands together. Hamo and Whatton joined in, and Bartholomew edged away uneasily when Simon began to warble at the top of his voice: ‘O clap your hands together, all ye people; O sing unto God with the voice of melody!’

‘That is the spirit,’ cried Prior Roger, as he emerged from his house. He carried his rattle, and gave it a few experimental shakes. ‘We shall praise the Lord with music and a great multitude of sound! Where are you going, Brother? The chapel is in this direction.’

‘We shall walk in silence,’ declared de Wetherset, after he, Bartholomew and Michael, with Cynric trailing behind, had managed to persuade Hamo to open the gate and let them out. Suttone had been less convincing with his excuses, so was condemned to remain. ‘We have had a narrow escape and should give quiet thanks. What will Roger think of next? Speaking in tongues?’ He shuddered.

The cathedral was a solid, black mass on the skyline, although delicate needles of yellow showed where candles had been lit in some of the windows. A cockerel crowed in the garden of one house they passed, and people were beginning to stir, despite the fact that it was still dark; when dawn came late, some duties needed to be performed by lamplight. The air was warmer than it had been the previous day, and there was a hazy drizzle in the air. It was melting some of the ice, and the scholars took care to walk in the middle of the road, to avoid being hit by falling icicles.

They arrived at the Close, where they were admitted by a sleepy lay-brother. They made their way to the minster, and stepped into the vastness of the nave. The scent of incense and damp wafted around them, and old leaves whispered across the stone floor in the draught from the door. As canons-elect, Michael and de Wetherset were expected to celebrate the divine office with the bishop at the High Altar, while Bartholomew went to listen from the Head Shrine, and Cynric expressed a desire to compare the carving of the imp with its episcopal original. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, and the building was a haven of silence and peace.

It was too early for pilgrims, so the Head Shrine was quieter than it had been the day before, and only three people were present. The sword-wearing priest, Claypole, was asleep, wedged into an alcove with his long legs stretched comfortably before him. Meanwhile, the dissipated Archdeacon Ravenser moved lethargically among the candles, trimming wicks and scraping spilled wax from the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and his complexion yellow, as if he had enjoyed another riotous night with too much wine. Dame Eleanor was kneeling in front of the shrine itself.

‘She has been here all night,’ whispered Ravenser, as Bartholomew approached. ‘Keeping vigil for the Feast of St Lucy, which is today as you will know. I cannot imagine how she stands it. She must be an angel, because I do not think any mere mortal could bear the tedium. Give me a tavern any day.’

Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that the old lady looked a good deal more pert and fit after her night of prayer than Ravenser did after whatever he had been doing. Dame Eleanor saw the two men looking at her, and beckoned them forward. Unwilling to be included in what might transpire to be an invitation to some lengthy prayers, Ravenser hastily busied himself with his candles.

‘Listen to the choir chant the responses,’ said Dame Eleanor softly, when Bartholomew went to stand next to her. ‘Can you imagine anything more beautiful?’

‘It is certainly more tuneful than Prior Roger and his ear-splitting ensemble.’

She frowned when she became aware of Claypole’s lounging posture. ‘That wicked young man is asleep again, and I have woken him twice this morning already! If he went to bed earlier, he might stay awake for the duties he is paid to fulfil. He is lucky Ravenser is of a mind to be diligent this morning.’

‘Is Ravenser not usually diligent, then?’

‘I think he prefers non-secular activities to religious ones, although he has been working very hard this morning. I can only assume it is penance for some sin committed during his latest revelries.’

Bartholomew suspected that Ravenser was simply trying to make a good impression on a woman generally regarded as a saint in the making. With practised movements, the archdeacon laid out the vessels for mass, slapping his hand down sharply when a sudden draught caught the Host and flipped it into the air. He placed a paten across it, so it would not happen again. Dame Eleanor returned to her prayers, while Bartholomew let the choir’s singing envelop him. He could hear Michael’s baritone among the lower parts, and de Wetherset’s creaking tenor. Then there was another voice, this one discordant and jarring. Claypole woke with a start.

‘The dean,’ Bartholomew heard him mumble to Ravenser, ‘sings like a scalded cat.’

Eleanor shot them an admonishing look when they started to guffaw, causing Ravenser to complete his duties and leave hastily. Claypole, meanwhile, heaved himself upright and rubbed his eyes. When a burly canon sauntered past, Claypole went to talk to him, and Bartholomew noticed that while Ravenser’s weapon had been mostly concealed under his robes, Claypole wore his sword brazenly, and did not care who saw the unusual addition to a priestly habit. Claypole and the canon leaned non-chalantly against a nearby wall, and Bartholomew assumed, from their vaguely obscene gestures, that the discussion had little to do with religion.

‘Christiana is their only hope,’ said Eleanor, following the direction of his gaze. ‘When she is here, they at least try to act like men of God.’

‘They seem a quarrelsome rabble,’ said Bartholomew.

The old lady winced. ‘They should be ashamed of themselves. And they will regret their wicked ways when the plague comes again, and those with black souls face God’s judgement. Your friend Master Suttone told me last night that the worst sinners will be struck first.’

She went back to her prayers, so Bartholomew left her and began to wander around the cathedral. The milder weather had not yet percolated inside the building, and it was bitterly cold. He wondered how an elderly woman like Dame Eleanor coped with the chill. Still listening to the music, he passed the spot where Cynric was inspecting Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb, and aimed for the South Choir Aisle, walking briskly in an attempt to warm himself up. Dawn was breaking, but the first glimmerings of light had not yet touched the shadowy corridor, and the only light was from a single brazier.

When he reached the tomb of Little Hugh, he saw Christiana there, lighting a candle. He hung back, loath to disturb her, and watched as she stepped up to the statue and grabbed the flask of holy water that stood behind it. Furtively, she removed a second jar from under her cloak, and emptied its contents inside the first, replacing both vessels smartly when voices echoed along the aisle. Bartholomew ducked behind a pillar as Claypole, John Suttone and Ravenser approached; Christiana dropped quickly to her knees and put her hands together. The three priests loitered in a way that indicated they wanted her attention, shuffling and coughing until she had no choice but to look around. When she did, they vied for her attention like besotted schoolboys.

‘Please,’ she said gently, resting her hand on Ravenser’s arm and smiling sweetly at Claypole and John. ‘I want to pray, and I cannot do it while you three fuss and fidget behind me.’

‘Perhaps we can help,’ offered Claypole, unwilling to be dismissed. ‘We are priests, after all.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you might. I would like to light another candle for my mother, and I would like a wreath of leaves to place on Little Hugh’s statue. The old one is sadly wilted. Would you be kind enough to fetch them for me?’

They shot away to do her bidding, but then she became aware that yet another person was lingering in the shadows. She sighed, and there was a weary expression on her face.

‘Do I have to devise errands for you, too, so I can pray uninterrupted?’

‘Is that what you are doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or are you here to exchange Dame Eleanor’s holy water for something else?’

She grimaced in annoyance. ‘You saw me, did you? Damn! I add wine to her water occasionally, because I have learned that it eases the ache in her legs brought on by the cold. She does not know, and I would rather you did not tell her. She believes a small miracle takes place when it happens – that Little Hugh is watching over her – and I would not like her to think otherwise. Look.’

She handed the jug to him, and while he thought Dame Eleanor would probably disapprove of being deceived, he supposed it was being done with the best of intentions. He tasted the contents, and was not surprised the old lady enjoyed it: Christiana had been generous in her mixing, and there was far more wine than water. It was good quality claret, too, and he supposed it might well help to keep the aches of a cold winter morning at bay.

‘It is very strong,’ he observed. ‘Does she ever fall asleep halfway through the morning?’

Christiana looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, she does, but that is just her age. Is it not?’

‘Reduce the amount,’ he advised. ‘Excesses of wine are unhealthy too early in the day.’

Her face burned red with mortification. ‘I am not doing her any harm, am I?’

‘Not if you practise moderation. Indeed, you may be doing some good.’

She smiled, relieved. ‘Dame Eleanor is the best of friends to me. I was lonely and frightened after my mother died, but she was kind and patient, and taught me to take pleasure in serving the saints in this magnificent cathedral. I do not think I would have survived without her.’

Bartholomew backed away. ‘Then I will leave you in peace.’

The physician continued his circuit of the minster. When he reached the nave, he saw Tetford hurrying towards the chancel, rubbing his eyes as though he had overslept. He was carrying the alb he was supposed to be altering for Michael. Ravenser approached him, fingering his dagger. Tetford’s hand dropped to his own belt, then scrabbled about in alarm when he realised he had forgotten to arm himself. Ravenser whispered something and, with a heavy sigh of resignation, Tetford produced a thick beeswax candle from the satchel he carried over his shoulder. Ravenser snatched it from him and darted towards Christiana, not seeing the obscene gesture Tetford made at his retreating back. Eventually, Bartholomew’s wandering brought him to the Angel Choir again, where he had started. It was possible to see through the carved screen to the sanctuary beyond, and he found Cynric there, looking from Bishop Gynewell to the stone imp in its lofty niche.

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew, before the Welshman could whip himself into too much of a frenzy. ‘Some of the angels have faces similar to living people, too.’

‘But angels are heavenly beings,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘And Gynewell is one of Satan’s imps. Just look at him! His horns are particularly noticeable today.’

Bartholomew wanted to contradict him, but Cynric was right. The bishop had evidently risen in a hurry, and had raked his fingers through his hair to ‘tidy’ it. As a result, the twisted curls at the sides of his head looked very much like horns in the unsteady light of the candles, and the way he hopped about behind the altar did little to enhance a sense of episcopal dignity, either.

‘If Gynewell is a demon, he will evaporate in a puff of smoke when he touches the Host,’ he said.

Irony was lost on Cynric, whose eyes gleamed in eager anticipation. ‘I will stay here and watch, then. I have never seen a devil consumed by flames, and it would make a good tale to tell of a winter night – along with my accounts of Poitiers. Perhaps there will be another earthquake, too, like the one that brought down the old cathedral. It probably happened when Gynewell first arrived. It is common knowledge that the denizens of Hell are hundreds of years old.’

Bartholomew looked through the screen and saw that Michael and de Wetherset were virtually the only ones paying any attention to Gynewell’s mass. The Vicars Choral were clustered around Tetford, who was relating some anecdote about the alb he held; they sniggered loudly enough to attract a stern glare from the dean. The Poor Clerks were sitting against a wall, half asleep, while the choristers – young Hugh among them – darted about in some complex, but relatively soundless, game of their own. They did not even stop when it was time to sing, trilling the notes as they ducked this way and that. Bartholomew could not imagine such antics permitted at Michaelhouse, and suddenly experienced a sharp desire to be back there again, among familiar things and faces.

Eventually, the rite was over, and Bartholomew waited for Michael to emerge. He watched the monk shake his head when Gynewell skipped towards him and asked a question, but then the bishop’s attention was caught by the dean, who was in the process of removing something from the altar. Gynewell took Bresley by the arm and hauled him away to one side. Tetford passed unnecessarily close to them, and made some remark that had the dean blushing furiously. Bartholomew looked away. Lincoln was as bad as Cambridge with its petty quarrels, rivalries and feuds.

‘You should forget you saw that,’ said Tetford, when he reached the physician. He leered slyly, as he stooped to ensure a lock was secure on an oblations box. ‘The dean, I mean.’

‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tetford grinned. ‘With an attitude like that, you would make a good canon yourself. I intend to be one soon. Perhaps I shall be given Brother Michael’s Stall of South Scarle.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Canons are installed for life, so I doubt it.’

‘Maybe he will resign,’ said Tetford with a careless and unconvincing shrug. ‘But now I am a Vicar Choral, there is no reason why I should not aspire to be a prebendary. And, once I am a full member of the cathedral Chapter, I shall do something about that dean.’

‘Something like what?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was a threat on Bresley’s life – and on Michael’s.

‘That is in God’s hands,’ said Tetford, striding away.

As soon as the mass had ended, and the streets were beginning to fill with the dim, grey light of pre-dawn, Bartholomew and Michael went to Spayne’s home. While the monk tapped on the door, then fidgeted impatiently for his knock to be answered – he disliked being kept waiting – Bartholomew stood back and inspected the house. It was a fine building, larger but not as tall as Kelby’s home next door. The window shutters looked new, and were brightly painted.

By contrast, Kelby’s abode was suffering from the same air of neglect that afflicted the rest of the city, and lacked the care that had been lavished on its neighbour. Loose tiles hung from its roof, and its chimney leaned in a way that suggested it might not survive the winter. The whole shabby edifice told a story of a merchant in financial decline – that while the wool trade might have allowed men to secure fat fortunes in the past, it was more difficult to make profits in the present economic climate. Thus Kelby could not afford to have his façade replastered, or even apply a coat of paint to conceal his rotting timbers. Would encroaching poverty among the mercantile classes intensify the feud between Guild and Commonalty? Bartholomew imagined it would, and that jealousy might well induce resentful guildsmen to burn down the storehouses of their wealthier rivals.

And Spayne? Bartholomew examined the mayor’s house more closely, and on reflection decided the gleaming paint-work and new shutters were more indicative of urgent repair than meticulous maintenance. There were scorch marks on the beams at the left side of the building, suggesting a recent conflagration. When he took a few steps to look down the narrow alley that separated the two houses, he saw Spayne’s walls were dark with soot, and the yard at the end of the house contained a burned-out shell. He had assumed the storehouses Flaxfleete had ignited were in some distant place, perhaps near the river, and it was with a shock that he realised they were actually at the back of Spayne’s home. It put the crime in an entirely different category – one that suggested Spayne’s goods might not have been all Flaxfleete had intended to incinerate.

‘Do not tell Spayne the real reason why you want to locate Matilde,’ said Michael suddenly. ‘He may be the jealous type, and might refuse to help you because she slipped through his own fingers.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. His months of searching in France, the Italian peninsula and remote parts of England had taught him that not everyone was inclined to be sympathetic to his quest.

Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Then let me do the talking. Some people are like the traders in the Market Square at home – they have ways of knowing when you really want something, and they raise the price accordingly. I suspect you will learn more from Spayne if the questions are put by someone who is not quite so desperate for answers.’

Bartholomew was sure he was right, and the fact that Lincoln – and Spayne – represented his last hope meant it might be difficult to conceal his true feelings. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said gratefully.

Eventually, the door was answered by Ursula. She gave a cool smile when she recognised her visitors, but stood aside so they could enter, gesturing them into the hall within. It was a fine room, although its proportions were marred by the addition of a heavy pillar near the central hearth, and there was a pan at one end to catch drips from a leaking roof. Windows opened to the front and back of the house, although the rear ones were shuttered, indicating that Spayne probably did not want to look into a yard containing the charred remains of his warehouses.

‘You are probably wondering about that brace,’ said Ursula, although Bartholomew was actually staring at a cushion embroidered in a bold, flamboyant style that was almost certainly Matilde’s, and Michael was admiring a dish of sugared almonds. She pointed to the wooden post. ‘It is to stop the house from tumbling about our ears. When Flaxfleete burned our storehouses, the blaze damaged the roof in our home, too. The weakened timbers are buckling under the weight of the recent snows.’

‘Can you not mend it?’ asked Michael, glancing up uneasily.

‘Not as long as the ice is up there, apparently. The builders say it will collapse if they step on it now, and we are all waiting for a thaw. Only then can work begin to repair it.’

‘Then I hope winter ends early this year,’ said Bartholomew politely, when she paused for sympathy. ‘Is your brother home?’

‘Yes, and he is eager to meet you. He says any friends of a member of the Suttone clan can consider themselves friends of his. He is with a customer at the moment, but will come as soon as he is finished. Meanwhile, he has asked me to entertain you while you wait. Would you like some wine?’

‘Not at this hour in the morning,’ said Michael, lowering his ample rump on to Matilde’s cushion. ‘Ale, if you please. And perhaps a little bread. Unless you have any Lombard slices? Lincoln does produce rather fine Lombard slices – better than Cambridge, I am forced to admit. Did you hear about the death of your neighbour on Wednesday?’

She winced at the abrupt change of topic. ‘Not our neighbour, unfortunately. That would mean Kelby is dead, but we have only lost his henchman, Flaxfleete. Still, the loss will blunt Kelby’s claws. It has not stopped him accusing my poor brother of murdering Flaxfleete, though. He claims Will gave Flaxfleete another bout of Summer Madness, so it is a good thing Will was staying with the Black Monks that night. They will swear he did not leave them, not even for a moment.’

‘How do you think Flaxfleete died?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he had already ascertained the Benedictines were able to do no such thing.

She grinned. ‘I imagine he was struck down by God, because he was going to demand absolution for burning our sheds at the General Pardon, when we all know he was not sorry at all.’

A servant arrived with a platter of pastries, and Michael leaned forward to claim the largest one. ‘Are you sure he was unrepentant?’ he asked, fingers hovering as he made his choice.

‘Of course I am,’ she snapped irritably. ‘He said Summer Madness made him do it, but no other sufferer was seized by a desire to commit arson.’

‘People are saying that you killed Flaxfleete,’ said Bartholomew, tugging the cushion from under Michael and inspecting it more closely. It was definitely Matilde’s handiwork, although it was frayed in places and had been repaired, suggesting it was several years old. ‘Because you have a motive, and it is known that you have dispensed strong substances in the past.’

‘I know,’ she said with a rueful sigh. ‘I made one mistake, and the Guild will never let me forget it. A woman came to me with a cough. She was with child, but did not mention it when she asked for a cure. I gave her a remedy, but it served to bring the babe early and both died. It was not my fault. If she had been honest about her condition, I would never have given her an electuary containing cuckoo-pint.’

‘Flaxfleete was killed with a different poison,’ said Michael. ‘It was–’

‘Cuckoo-pint is not poison,’ snapped Ursula defensively. ‘It just has harmful effects on people in certain conditions. I hated Flaxfleete, but I am not so foolish as to kill him in so obvious a manner. Besides, I heard the toxin was in a wine keg, and while I detest guildsmen with a passion, it would be lunacy to murder them all. I would hang, because unlike Flaxfleete, I cannot claim benefit of clergy.’

‘Neither did he,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was acquitted by a secular court.’

‘Only because there was an outcry from decent folk when he demanded a Church trial. Quite rightly, Gynewell refused to do it. But God struck Flaxfleete down for his wickedness anyway.’

‘God had nothing to do with it,’ said Michael. ‘It was a human hand that put poison in his wine.’

‘Well, it was not mine, and it was not my brother’s,’ stated Ursula firmly. ‘You can search our house from cellars to attics, and you will find nothing to prove us guilty.’

After Ursula’s impassioned declaration, there was an uncomfortable silence, so she went to see what was taking her brother so long. Bartholomew stood in the window, staring across the cobbled street to the corn market, wondering what he would do if Spayne refused to help him. He thought about his own sister’s delight when he had returned from France in October, and how he had been touched by the warmth of the welcome provided by his Michaelhouse colleagues. He had been missed by family and friends, and it had been good to see them again. Would he be content to keep his promise to Michael, and return to the College that had been his home for so many years, or would he always be wondering whether one more journey might earn him what he really wanted?

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ came a deep voice from the doorway.

Mayor William de Spayne was a man who commanded attention. He was tall, well muscled and his thick, red-gold hair and beard were neatly trimmed. His eyes were brown, and the combination of dark eyes and fair curls served to render him outstandingly attractive. His clothes were expensive and well cut, but it was his quiet dignity that set him above the other Lincoln merchants. The moment he walked across the room to greet his guests, Bartholomew understood exactly why Matilde had allowed herself to be courted by such a fellow.

‘We have come from Cambridge,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew said nothing. ‘One of our dearest friends was Matilde–’

‘Do not speak that name!’ cried Ursula, coming to take her brother’s arm protectively as a stricken expression crossed his face. ‘Not in our house. Is this who you meant when you said we had a mutual acquaintance? I would never have invited you in if I had known.’

‘She was … a … ’ Spayne suddenly seemed unable to speak coherently.

‘Will loved Matilde, but she accused me of poisoning that woman I was telling you about,’ said Ursula.

‘The older Christiana de Hauville was betrothed to one of my most bitter rivals,’ explained Spayne in a voice that was unsteady. ‘Ursula was accused of bringing about her death, because Lady Christiana’s demise meant Kelby lost his future wife.’

‘He lost her dowry, too,’ said Ursula spitefully. ‘And that is what really annoyed him.’

‘And his heir,’ added Michael. ‘The dead child is said to have been his, too.’

‘But Christiana did not tell me about that,’ said Ursula bitterly. ‘Her death was not my fault!’

‘All right,’ said Michael. ‘We believe you. However, I fail to see what this has to do with Matilde.’

‘Christiana was Matilde’s friend, and it was Matilde who made the fuss about her death,’ said Ursula resentfully. ‘The whole affair was extremely unpleasant.’

‘Matilde is not … ’ Spayne whispered, blood draining from his face as something occurred to him. ‘You have not brought me bad news about her … health?’

‘She was well when we last saw her,’ said Michael. ‘And as lovely as ever.’

Spayne closed his eyes in relief. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. ‘I could not bear it if she … But you must forgive me. I did not know you came here to talk about Matilde, and hearing her name after so long has been a shock. I… Matilde and I… ’

‘Will believed she would consent to be his wife,’ said Ursula, when he faltered into silence. ‘But she refused him, and left Lincoln the following day. He tried to find her, but she once said she would never be located once she had gone, and she was right. So, she went to Cambridge, did she?’

‘I went to all the places where she had kin,’ said Spayne softly. ‘None had heard from her in years, so I was forced to concede defeat. Is she happy in Cambridge? I hope she is happy.’

‘I think she was,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew still said nothing. ‘But she is no longer there.’

Spayne’s expression was sad. ‘I shall not go after her, Brother. Her abrupt disappearance made it clear that she wanted to sever all ties with me, and I respect her wishes. She is a kind, good woman, and I feel myself honoured that she befriended me for a while.’

‘We were her friends,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘But she left before … she left suddenly.’

Spayne raised his eyebrows. ‘She abandoned you, too? I understand how that feels! And now you are looking for her? Well, I wish you luck, but do not hold too much hope. When she disappears, she does so very completely. I hired men to search the length and breadth of England – not to drag her back and force her to take me, but to invite her home, to live among the friends she had made here. I was even ready to leave Lincoln myself, if she did not want me in the city. But none of my hunters were ever able to deliver the message, so I am here and she is not.’

‘Will you tell us where her kin live?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You may know some that we do not, and she may be with them now.’

‘Why are you looking for her?’ asked Spayne warily. ‘Are you agents for some other jilted man?’

‘No,’ said Michael soothingly, while Bartholomew gripped the cushion and let the monk do the talking. ‘As Matt just said, she was our friend, and we were concerned when she disappeared so suddenly. All we want is to make sure she is safe. We had hoped to find her here, in Lincoln, and we were deeply disappointed when we learned she has not been seen for six years.’

Spayne stroked his beard for a while, regarding his visitors with troubled eyes. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I am sorry, but if she left you, it means she does not want to be found.’

‘We are concerned for her welfare,’ insisted Michael, while Bartholomew gazed at the mayor in dismay. ‘You do her a disservice by not telling us what you know. And besides, she was so happy in Cambridge that every fibre of my being tells me that she wants to be found and encouraged to return.’

‘That may well be true, but I do not know that, and I will not meddle in her life again.’

‘It would not be meddling,’ snapped Michael, becoming annoyed. ‘And she will certainly thank you if you assist us. She left over a misunderstanding of intentions – one that can be rectified just by talking to her for a few moments.’

‘No,’ said Spayne firmly. ‘I will not do it. But tell me about her, and how you came to be close. It warms my heart to learn she found happiness, even if it was not with me. Come and share a cup of wine. Anyone who earned Matilde’s good favour can consider himself a friend of mine.’

Bartholomew did not want to reminisce with one of Matilde’s former beaux, but it would have been churlish to leave, and he harboured the hope that Spayne might let something slip while he talked. Michael was a skilled interrogator, and had an uncanny knack for making people reveal secrets they later wished they had kept. He saw determination in the monk’s face, and knew he would do his best. Michael set to with a vengeance, and encouraged Spayne to talk all he liked. The merchant obliged with an eagerness that showed he still felt his loss very keenly.

As Spayne described his courtship, Bartholomew became aware that he was a man of culture and intelligence. He was also a skilled lutanist and an accomplished dancer, which suggested Matilde had probably had a good deal of fun in his company, too. Bartholomew tried to dislike him, but there was nothing in the man’s manners to offend, and he thought that under other circumstances, he and Spayne might have developed a friendship.

Ursula listened to the fond ramblings with pursed lips, obviously disapproving of the woman who had broken her brother’s heart, but too wise to say anything bad. Michael recounted some memories of his own, which made Spayne laugh. He had a rich, deep chortle that was infectious. Then he asked Bartholomew about his work, and expressed an interest in his treatise on fevers – a vast tome that had taken most of the physician’s spare time before he had abandoned it to search for Matilde. It was still at Michaelhouse, packed in a chest and jealously guarded by his students. Bartholomew was impressed to learn that Spayne was familiar with the work of several Arab scholars, and they began a lively debate about Ibn al-Nafis’s controversial theory regarding the pulmonary circulation of the blood, which sent Michael to sleep and Ursula out to do some shopping.

When she returned, she offered her guests dinner, although not with very good grace. Spayne talked all through the meal, outlining his observations about the furious debate that was currently raging among scholars regarding the nature of Blood Relics – if Christ’s blood was holy, it would have risen with Him at His Resurrection, and it was therefore impossible for cathedrals and churches to possess drops of it in phials. Not all theologians agreed, and the Dominicans and Franciscans had ranged themselves on opposing sides of a schism that threatened to rip the universities apart. Michael had strong opinions about it, but found himself hard-pressed to refute Spayne’s arguments for the other side. Then the monk saw Ursula closing the window shutters, and realised it was nearly dusk.

‘We have been talking all day!’ he exclaimed, jumping to his feet in horror. ‘There was so much I was going to do, not least of which was making sure Tetford has seen to my ceremonial alb. And then there is the small matter of the murder Gynewell told me to investigate. He will wonder what sort of man he is going to install, if he learns I have been debating Blood Relics instead.’

Spayne smiled. ‘You are a scholar, so he should expect you to be diverted by intellectual pursuits.’ He surged forward suddenly, grabbing the monk’s arm and easing him away from the brace near the hearth. ‘Mind the pillar, Brother. The house is quite safe as long as it is in place, but the carpenter says the roof might collapse if we move it. I would not like it jostled accidentally.’

‘I had no idea it was so dangerous,’ said Michael, edging away in alarm.

‘Well, you do now,’ said Ursula unpleasantly. ‘Flaxfleete may be dead, but his legacy lives on.’

Spayne shot her an admonishing glance. ‘There is no need for bitterness. Besides, the carpenter said the roof will be perfectly all right as long as his post is here. Of course, the additional weight of all this snow is not helping, but the rafters cannot be mended until the weather clears, and … I should not burden you with my problems.’

‘And I have a killer to catch,’ said Michael, moving towards the exit.

‘Flaxfleete’s?’ asked Ursula. ‘Good. You can prove I had nothing to do with it.’

‘The feud between Guild and Commonalty is no game of my choosing,’ said Spayne, as he opened the door for them. A blast of cold air whipped in, so he closed it again while he finished what he wanted to say. ‘Kelby has never liked me, but my election as mayor made matters far worse.’

‘He resents Will’s success in the wool business,’ added Ursula. ‘But he does not have the financial vision to make a similar fortune himself.’

‘It is a pity your dispute has drawn the entire city into a maelstrom of conflict,’ said Michael.

‘The rift is years older than me and Kelby,’ said Spayne, startled by the disapprobation in the comment. ‘I only took sides when he started to seduce cathedral officials with free wine. It upset the balance between the two factions, so I threw in my lot with Miller, to make them equal again.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘I have met Miller, and I would not like him holding sway in any town I was obliged to live in.’

‘He may be vulgar, but he spends a lot of money on his Market, all of it to benefit unemployed weavers. And he built six houses in Newport, which he rents at low cost to those without work. The Guild’s only “charity” is buying wine for debauched Vicars Choral to guzzle.’

‘Kelby knows we occupy the moral high ground,’ elaborated Ursula, ‘which makes him hate us even more. Did we tell you how he gloated when Matilde left? He is shallow and mean, and no gentleman would have said the things he did. Personally, I cannot imagine why Matilde rejected Will: he is the richest man in Lincoln, he is handsome, and he has been elected mayor on several occasions – legally elected, not like when Kelby tried to falsify votes and have himself declared the winner.’

‘Ursula, please!’ cried her brother, embarrassed. ‘You make it sound as though Matilde made a mistake, and we both know she did not. She did not love me, so she was wise to decline my offer.’

‘I understand you stayed with the Black Monks on the night when the Guild celebrated Flaxfleete’s acquittal,’ said Michael, changing the subject.

Spayne smiled. ‘I do not mind keeping company with the Benedictines on occasion. It is good to sleep on a hard bed and listen to the bells calling God’s servants to their nocturnal prayers. Do you not agree, Brother?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael, who never encumbered himself with uncomfortable mattresses if there was a way to avoid them, and did not often keep the night offices, either. ‘Did you know Flaxfleete was poisoned?’

‘Was he?’ asked Spayne, while Ursula pursed her lips and glared, as if daring Michael to accuse her again. ‘Poor man. He was always in Kelby’s shadow, but he was not a bad fellow.’

Ursula was contemptuous. ‘His fire cost you a fortune in burned wool.’

‘Enough, Ursula,’ said Spayne tiredly. ‘He is dead, and we should let him rest in peace – and perhaps some of this feud will die with him. God knows I am weary of it. I wish you luck in uncovering his killer, Brother.’

‘Actually, I am not looking into Flaxfleete’s death, but Aylmer’s,’ said Michael. ‘He was to have been the Vicar Choral of our friend, Thomas Suttone.’

‘I heard Aylmer had secured the favour of the Suttone clan,’ said Spayne, stroking his beard. ‘We were all very impressed to learn he had inveigled such noble patronage, but we were astonished, too. He was a member of my Commonalty, but I cannot say he was someone I trusted.’

‘We have been told he was a thief,’ said Michael baldly.

Spayne nodded agreement. ‘Miller was obliged to pay Sheriff Lungspee twice to acquit him of charges of burglary, while he was one of ten men and women named for dishonest dealings at a court in Cambridge. You will know about that, I imagine, since you live there.’

‘It happened long before we became scholars,’ said Michael smoothly, immediately assuming Spayne was fishing for information to pass to Miller, his ally against the Guild. ‘So, we know nothing about it – and nor do we want to. Ancient history does not interest us.’

‘You are very wise,’ said Ursula. ‘Miller does not like anyone discussing it, and he successfully sued Kelby for slander when he once made reference to it in a speech at a Guild dinner.’

Spayne shot her a look that warned her to watch her tongue. ‘De Wetherset told me Aylmer died holding a silver chalice – the one Father Simon intends to donate to the cathedral. Did you know Simon was sold that chalice by a local man?’

Michael nodded. ‘A fellow called Chapman, whom Simon claimed was a Roman relic-seller, but who actually transpires to be one of Miller’s colleagues. One of your colleagues, too.’

‘Chapman is not my colleague,’ stated Spayne firmly. ‘He is a member of the Commonalty, but only because he is a friend of Miller. I would object to his association with us, but he travels a lot, so seldom attends meetings anyway. I decided to let his “election” pass, in the interests of harmony.’

‘Why did you ask whether we knew it was Chapman who sold Simon the cup?’ asked Michael.

‘Because, like Aylmer, Chapman is not always honest,’ replied Spayne. ‘If he did hawk this goblet to Simon, then it is unlikely to be the real Hugh Chalice. I wanted you to know, because it may be relevant to your investigation. I am trying to assist you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael regarded the merchant rather suspiciously.

‘It is the truth, Brother,’ insisted Spayne, noting the monk’s wary response. ‘I have no reason to lie to you. However, you may not find others as helpful. People here are apt to stretch the truth.’

‘Not only here,’ said Michael. ‘I seem to encounter lies wherever I am.’

By the time Bartholomew and Michael left Spayne – and he only relinquished them when they promised to visit him again – the sun had set, and Michael gave up any notion of pursuing his investigation that day. It was late enough that even those merchants who traded by lamplight were beginning to close their premises, and Bartholomew felt the city was oddly deserted as they walked down the hill towards the Gilbertine Priory. The only people out were men he assumed were workless weavers, who did not look as though they had anywhere else to go. Nervously, he wondered whether they were massing to cause mischief – to attack the homes of guildsmen for not supporting them in their time of need.

‘It is Saturday night,’ explained Michael, seeing him glance around. ‘It is always quiet then, because no trading is permitted on Sundays, and shopkeepers tend to shut early. However, it is unnerving to see the city quite so empty, when we have only seen it teeming with folk.’

Bartholomew rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘We should be safe enough.’

Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you thinking of challenging a few night-felons, then? Do you imagine it will ease the frustration you feel over Spayne’s refusal to help you? As I have pointed out before, you have grown rather too eager to don a weapon these days, Matt, and it is unlike you.’

‘I always wear a sword when I travel,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the admonition. ‘And so do most men who value their lives. But I was actually thinking that your habit might afford us some protection, along with the fact that people here are oddly in awe of the Suttone clan, and seem to respect us because we arrived in company with one. I was not thinking of fighting anyone.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Violence has always been abhorrent to me. It used to be to you, too, before you went to war.’

‘I did not “go to war”. I just had the misfortune to be in a place where two armies met. And I assure you it is not an experience I am keen to repeat.’

‘I do not think Gynewell will be very impressed with my investigation so far,’ said Michael, after they had walked in silence for a while. ‘I spent most of the day listening to a merchant lust after a woman who is far too good for him.’

Bartholomew stared at the monk in astonishment. ‘He did no such thing! The memories he shared with us showed them both in a good light.’

‘That is what he wanted us to think, but I could see what was really in his head. He is a mean, bitter fellow, who has decided that Matilde will not find happiness with her friends, because he did not.’

‘I beg to differ. He is still obviously hurt by her rejection, but he is an honourable man.’

‘He is a rascal, and if you were not so determined to believe that Matilde’s taste in men is impeccable, you would see it, too. He is cunning, with a mind like a trap, and the likes of you and I will never catch him out. Did you hear him denigrating Aylmer and Chapman? And they are his friends – fellow members of his Commonalty! If he is so vociferous against men who are on his side, I dread to think what his enemies must be obliged to endure from him!’

Bartholomew was bemused by the force of his convictions. ‘If you found him so objectionable, why did you spend so long in his company?’

Michael sniffed. ‘I wanted to get his measure, and I hoped he might let something slip about Matilde. He is too wily, though, and I was able to deduce nothing. Perhaps we will do better next time.’

‘Next time? You are prepared to see him again?’

‘I would give a good deal to see you content, even spending hours of my valuable time with a rat. Did you hear his excuse for throwing in his lot with that felon Miller?’ Michael’s voice became mincingly mocking. ‘“I wanted to maintain the balance between factions.” Who does he think he is dealing with, to imagine we would be fooled by such rubbish? He is a detestable, odious villain.’

‘He cannot be all bad, or Matilde would not have been his friend.’

‘She is not here, though, is she? Perhaps that is why she left: she found out what he is really like. The wretched man has information that may see you two reunited, and he will not share it, out of simple spite. I shall do all in my power to worm it out of him, but I am not overly hopeful. I suspect the only way we shall ever best him is by resorting to blackmail.’

‘Michael!’

‘Do you want Matilde or not? If she is worth spending months among the French, then she is worth digging around in Spayne’s dubious existence. I see you find it distasteful, so leave it to me. I shall find a way to make him part with his secrets.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew forcefully. ‘You are to be made a canon a week tomorrow. You cannot risk your reputation by engaging in criminal activities. I will not let you. Not even for Matilde.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I shall teach you how to do it yourself. But I do not want to discuss that villain any more tonight. Let us talk about what we have learned of Aylmer instead.’

Bartholomew tugged his mind away from Spayne. ‘He was a member of the Commonalty, and its leaders want his death avenged. And you have discovered that his association with Miller made him unpopular – along with his fondness for other people’s property. Even Spayne could not find a good word to say about him.’

Michael grimaced at the mention of the man he had taken against. ‘What do you think of Langar the Lawyer as the killer? Perhaps he was jealous, because Aylmer visited his lover Nicholas a lot.’

‘Sabina, who detests Langar and who would probably love to see him hang for murder, does not think so. Besides, Aylmer visited Nicholas’s house to see her, not Nicholas.’

Michael was sceptical. He sniffed. ‘So she says, but does she have any evidence to prove Langar’s innocence? No, she does not. And have you considered the possibility that Langar was jealous of Aylmer’s promotion to Vicar Choral, and decided to make sure he never enjoyed it?’

‘That would be self-defeating,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Aylmer had been appointed to a place where he could watch the doings of the Commonalty’s enemies. Langar would never spoil an opportunity that would see his faction with an advantage over its rivals.’

‘Well, you can think what you like, but I am unwilling to eliminate Langar and his cronies just yet. They remain on my list of suspects for the murder, along with Spayne, who–’

‘Spayne?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Now you really are allowing personal dislike to run riot. You would do better looking at the men who live in the place where Aylmer was killed, and who had ready access to him: the Gilbertines.’

‘They are certainly worth perusal,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And Hamo’s alibi is especially dubious, because I spoke to the hospital inmates, and they are unable to say exactly when he arrived to say mass for them. He could well have stabbed Aylmer before attending to his religious duties.’

‘Meanwhile, Whatton is a quiet, unassuming fellow, and no one would notice if he escaped from the chapel. The building is always dark, there is a colossal amount of noise, and everyone is so transfixed by his alleluias that you could probably discharge a ribauld with no one any the wiser.’

Michael nodded. ‘And that conclusion means none of the Gilbertines have a solid alibi. The same can be said for Father Simon, who remains my prime suspect, because it was his cup Aylmer was holding when he died. Why would someone kill Aylmer but leave a valuable chalice with his body? It makes no sense.’

‘De Wetherset is on my list,’ said Bartholomew. He raised his hand when Michael started to object. ‘He lies, Brother. He told you he saw Simon in the chapel that morning, but he could not have done, because he later let slip that he never attends prime with the Gilbertines. And if he cannot vouch for Simon, then Simon cannot vouch for him. What is not to say that he did not catch Aylmer stealing his friend’s cup, and stabbed him?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I suppose he may have learned a few secrets by watching us investigate murder in Cambridge, and he is certainly wily enough to know how not to leave clues.’

‘How will you eliminate some of these suspects?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not like the notion of Michael meddling with such folk. It was different in Cambridge, when there was an army of beadles under the monk’s command and a friendly, understanding sheriff always ready to help. But in Lincoln, they were alone, with only Cynric to protect them.

‘Ask questions, I suppose, although it is difficult to know where to start. I will talk to Simon again, and try to get some proper answers about this chalice. Perhaps that is where the solution lies.’

‘Especially when you consider that drawing on Aylmer’s shoulder. I am certain it is significant.’

‘Aylmer, Nicholas and Flaxfleete. All murdered. Two with poison and one with a dagger. Perhaps if I find the killer of one, I will know who did away with them all.’

Lincoln was swathed in a thick pall of fog the following day, so dense that Bartholomew could not see the Chapel of St Katherine from the refectory next door. He had intended to accompany Michael to prime in the cathedral, but one of the hospital inmates was suffering from a lethargy, and by the time he had finished the consultation, Michael was nowhere to be found and the physician was obliged to endure the Gilbertines’ high mass instead. With gritted teeth, he listened to them howl and clap their way through several psalms, and was shocked when Prior Roger suggested singing in the vernacular.

‘Come on, Doctor!’ he shouted, leaving his place at the altar and coming to mingle with his joyous flock. ‘It is a lovely Sunday, and you are blessed with the ability to raise your voice to the Lord! Sing His praise with all your heart. Alleluia!’

Bartholomew took several steps away when Roger waved his rattle, making a deafening racket that served to make his brethren shriek all the louder. Hamo was yelling so loudly that his voice was cracking, while even Simon seemed slightly taken aback at the fervour exploding around him.

‘I think I would rather–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Is there a particular psalm you would like us to trill?’ asked Roger, almost screaming to make himself heard. ‘Hamo has translated some into English, so the lay-brothers can join in.’

Bartholomew looked longingly at the door. ‘The patient in the hospital will need–’

‘Praise the Lord!’ yelled Roger, almost delirious in ecstasy. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. As soon as Bartholomew was sure it would be a moment before he would open them again, he made his bid for escape, racing up the nave and flinging open the gate to freedom.

‘Steady!’ exclaimed Dame Eleanor, who was passing by outside. ‘You almost had me over.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, slamming the door behind him and leaning on it, in the hope that it would prevent Roger from coming after him.

She cackled her amusement when she understood what was happening. ‘You are not the first man to rush screaming from one of the priory’s Sunday masses. Roger is a very dear man, but his style of worship is not to all tastes.’

‘Would you like me to escort you to the cathedral?’ asked Bartholomew, keen to leave the convent.

She patted his arm. ‘You are kind, but I usually go later on a Sunday, and Christiana has already agreed to walk with me. Do not be afraid that Roger will hunt you out. He will be so engrossed in his ceremony that he will have forgotten about you by now. It is almost time for the organ – yes, I can hear it starting up now – and he always becomes rather animated once that is going.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what Roger might be like, when ‘rather animated’. ‘If ever I do take the cowl, I will never choose the Gilbertine Order.’

‘As far as I am aware, this is the only Gilbertine house that enjoys such passionate worship. There is Michael, about to visit the cathedral for his Sunday devotions. You should go with him, since he is investigating a nasty murder and this can be a dangerous city. He is a good man, so please look after him.’

‘I will try,’ said Bartholomew, watching the monk and Christiana emerge from a building he thought was a disused brewery. Michael was laughing at something she had said, and the physician thought it was no wonder they had been impossible to locate earlier – a defunct brew-house was not an obvious place to look. ‘But I do not think he wants my company at the moment.’

‘He and Christiana are only flexing their wits in bright conversation,’ said Eleanor indulgently. ‘Do not worry about your friend’s virtue. Christiana would never harm him.’

‘It is not him I am worried about.’

She chuckled again. ‘Christiana can take care of herself. She has been repelling passionate suitors for six years, and has become rather adept at it.’

She headed for the gate, and Christiana broke away from Michael to join her. Bartholomew could not help but notice how the younger woman moved her hips in a way that was sure to keep the monk’s attention. Bartholomew went to stand next to him, but Michael only turned to face his friend once the two women could no longer be seen through the mist. He seemed surprised to find Bartholomew regarding him with arched eyebrows.

‘What?’

‘You know what.’

‘I was just making sure Lady Christiana did not slip on ice. The convent yard is very slippery, and it would not do for her to fall and injure herself.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘She is likely to break bones, while old Dame Eleanor would simply bounce back up again. What is wrong with you, Michael? You are like a lovesick calf.’

‘You know nothing of such matters,’ said the monk loftily, ‘or you would not be riding all over the known world in a futile attempt to locate the woman you let slip from your grasp.’

Bartholomew was taken aback. ‘That is an unkind thing to say.’

Michael was unrepentant. ‘It is true, though. Besides, you forget that I am bound by vows of chastity, so do not preach at me. And I am not–’

He stopped suddenly, and when Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, he caught a glimpse of scarlet. ‘Chapman?’ he asked, straining his eyes in the swirling fog.

Michael nodded. ‘Now what would he be doing here, when all the brothers are howling their devotions in the chapel? I doubt he has come to admire the quality of their music. After him, Matt!’

Bartholomew regarded him coolly, still smarting from his remark about Matilde. ‘You go.’

‘Very well.’ Michael began the waddle that passed for a sprint in his eyes, calling over his shoulder as he went, ‘If he draws a dagger, I shall scream. Rescue would be appreciated.’

Rolling his eyes at the brazen manipulation, Bartholomew trotted after him. It did not take long for him to catch up with and then overtake the lumbering monk, and he reached the building around which Chapman had disappeared far more quickly. He stopped, trying to see through the layers of mist. Then he glimpsed a flicker of movement and broke into a run. His footsteps were oddly muffled in the damp air, but they were enough to make his quarry glance behind him. Then there was a flash of crimson and Chapman took to his heels. Bartholomew ran harder, racing past the hospital and into the gardens beyond. Ahead was a gate, and Chapman was in the process of hauling it open when Bartholomew caught him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.

‘All right!’ Chapman shouted, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘I give up!’

‘What are you doing here?’

Chapman glared. ‘I came to see Simon, but he is in the chapel, so I decided to come back later.’

‘If your purpose was innocent, then why did you run?’

Chapman pointed to Bartholomew’s sword. ‘I always flee from armed men.’

‘What did you–?’

Suddenly, there was a dagger in Chapman’s hand, and he slashed at Bartholomew without warning. The physician jumped back, instinctively reaching for his blade, but it was a cumbersome weapon, and not quickly hauled from its scabbard. Chapman’s knife scored the thick material of his sleeve. Then the relic-seller reeled and slumped to his knees, gripping his head. Michael strolled up, wiping mud from his hands. He grinned, to show he was pleased with the accuracy of the stone he had lobbed.

‘I had him,’ said Bartholomew, bending to inspect Chapman and deciding it had been surprise, not injury, that had made him topple. ‘You did not need to break your vow to forswear arms.’

‘A pebble does not constitute “arms”, Matt, and this fellow is a sly fighter. I am not sure you would have won, which I confess pleases me. I was beginning to think you had turned into something of a warrior, and I am relieved to see you still reassuringly inept.’ Michael turned to the relic-seller, who was staggering to his feet. ‘So, we meet again, Master Chapman.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded the felon, trying to resist when Bartholomew removed the dagger from his hand. ‘You have no right to accost innocent men and chase them through gardens.’

‘I daresay you are right,’ said Michael. ‘But are you an innocent man? There seems to be an odd confusion about you. On the one hand, you are Miller’s friend and a member of the Commonalty, but on the other, you have made a living by selling relics to gullible priests. Like Father Simon.’

‘However, there is something peculiar about your dealings with Simon,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Prior Roger has seen you with him – as have I – but Roger did not recognise you as a man who has lived in Lincoln for the past twenty years, while Simon himself told us you were from Rome. Why is that?’

‘I have been to Rome,’ said Chapman sulkily. ‘And I do sell relics on occasion. I sell lots of things, mostly for Miller, who says I have a talent for it. Since I often carry goods of considerable value, it is sometimes prudent to disguise myself, and that is why the prior did not recognise me.’

‘Then does Simon know you as Walter Chapman or as someone else?’ asked Michael.

‘I have never told him my name. He did not ask for it.’

Bartholomew regarded Chapman thoughtfully, not sure what to believe. Lincoln was a large city, so Simon was unlikely to know everyone who lived in it. However, Chapman was a member of the Commonalty, so enjoyed a modicum of local fame, and Prior Roger had noticed something familiar about him. Had Chapman really managed to deceive Simon, who had seen him at much closer quarters? Or had Simon lied?

‘Does Simon know you are a member of the Commonalty?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘I have no idea, and it is none of your business anyway. Stand aside, or I will tell Miller you manhandled me. And you do not want him to think badly of you, believe me.’

‘Tell me about this cup you sold Simon,’ said Michael, ignoring the threat. He put one hand on a nearby sapling and leaned on it, effecting a casually nonchalant pose. Bartholomew saw the whole thing begin to bend under his weight, and icicles and water began to shower downwards.

Chapman flinched when a clot of snow landed on his head. ‘It is not a “cup”. It is the Hugh Chalice – a relic worthy of great veneration. It belonged to the saint himself.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. The tree leaned at a more acute angle, and the monk was obliged to shift his hand to avoid toppling over. ‘We have been told that the Hugh Chalice disappeared while being carried to Lincoln from London, so how can you be sure it is the same one? Or are you the thief who took it from the couriers twenty years ago?’

Chapman was outraged. ‘I am no fool, going around stealing holy things! However, if you must know, I recognised it when it appeared for sale at a market in Huntingdon. I brought it here and sold it to Simon, because Lincoln is where it belongs.’

‘You recognised it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘How?’

‘Because it is distinctive,’ replied Chapman. ‘Old and tarnished, with a carving of a baby. Look for yourselves. It is in St Katherine’s Chapel, awaiting its translation to the cathedral.’

‘That does not answer my question,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How did you know it was the Hugh Chalice? Had you seen it before?’

‘In London,’ said Chapman, licking his lips nervously. ‘I travel a lot, and I saw it in the Old Temple there. That was before the saint made it known that he wanted it brought to Lincoln.’

‘But the saint allowed it to be lost en route,’ said Michael. ‘And I am under the impression that he has permitted a very large number of thieves to lay hands on it.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk uneasily. He was coming dangerously close to mentioning what they knew of Shirlok’s trial, and it was not a good idea to discuss the case with a man who would almost certainly repeat the conversation to Miller.

Chapman gazed earnestly at Michael. ‘St Hugh was angry when it failed to arrive at his shrine – rumour has it that he caused robbers to kill the two careless couriers on their homeward journey. He has rectified matters now, though, and I am the vessel he chose to help him. Brother, please! You will have that tree over in a moment.’

Michael released the hapless sapling, surprised that he had managed to push it so far out of alignment. He tried to tug it upright, but it continued to list, and Bartholomew suspected it always would. While Chapman picked shards of ice from his clothing, Bartholomew addressed the monk in an undertone.

‘Is he telling the truth? Could part of Shirlok’s hoard have appeared for sale in Huntingdon? Huntingdon is not far from Cambridge, where the goods went missing.’

Michael shook his head. ‘It is too much of a coincidence – the goblet stolen after a trial in which Chapman was acquitted, and then appearing in the same villain’s hands two decades later. Besides, he does not look like a truthful man to me.’ He stepped forward to speak to Chapman again. ‘De Wetherset tells me that shortly after your Cambridge trial, a lot of property went missing. Among the items that disappeared was a cup that he says looks remarkably like the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Poor de Wetherset,’ murmured Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I hope you have not put him in danger.’

‘It was the Hugh Chalice,’ said Chapman softly. ‘And it was Shirlok who stole it from the couriers. But then St Hugh intervened. He caused Shirlok to be caught, and everything he had stolen to be seized by the Cambridge sheriff. Then he caused the chalice to appear in Huntingdon when I happened to be there, knowing I would bring it home.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. Did you have anything to do with its disappearance from Cambridge, before it so conveniently arrived in Huntingdon?’

Chapman bristled with indignation. ‘I did not! As it happens, I was detained after Shirlok’s trial, because of a misunderstanding over some other goods, and the cup went missing when I was in still in gaol. I will swear on anything you like – even the Hugh Chalice – that I did not steal it.’

‘What about your co-accused?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or Langar? Could they have–’

‘No!’ snapped Chapman. ‘And they will be furious if I tell them the sort of questions you are asking. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to conduct.’