The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 7

The mist seemed thicker than ever as Bartholomew and Michael left the Gilbertine Priory and began to walk to the cathedral for High Mass. It encased them in a cocoon of grey-white, so they could not even make out the churches and houses to either side of the road, and fine droplets clung to their clothes and hair. Bartholomew could taste the fog in his mouth, touched with a hint of wood-smoke, although it was missing the malodorous taint of the marshes he had grown used to in Cambridge. Michael was reviewing what they had learned about the chalice and its travels, but the physician’s mind was fixed on the various diseases and ailments that might be carried in such a miasma. It was a long time since he had lost himself in a reflection of medical matters; mostly, he thought about Matilde in his free moments.

They reached the Cathedral Close, where the bells were pealing, announcing that Bishop Gynewell had arrived and was ready to begin the sacred rite. Michael went to his place in the chancel, and Bartholomew stood in the nave to listen to the singing. That day, the music was sporadic in quality and volume, and he saw why when he noticed that a number of those supposed to be taking part in the ceremony were actually wandering about on business of their own. Tetford was with Master Quarrel of the Swan and money was changing hands – Michael’s Vicar Choral was laying in supplies for his tavern. Tetford saw the physician watching and turned away.

Young Hugh, cherubic in his gown and golden curls, was racing up and down the aisles with several friends, chased by a flustered-looking man who was evidently the choirmaster. The boys considered it fine sport until Dame Eleanor, abandoning her customary spot at the Head Shrine, beckoned them towards her. She spoke a few quiet words that had them hanging their heads in shame before traipsing obediently towards their exasperated teacher. Hugh lingered uncertainly, so she added something that made him grin, then sent him after his cronies. Bartholomew saw Claypole observing the episode with a malicious smile, hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Nicholas Bautre was made choirmaster two years ago,’ he said when the physician approached. ‘He is worthless, and I should never have been dismissed in his favour.’

‘You were dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

Claypole looked sullen. ‘I lost my clothes and all my vestments at the gaming table. It was my own fault – I should have chosen the white stones over the black. Dean Bresley decided to make an example of me, and had Bautre appointed in my place. It has been disastrous for the cathedral, because Bautre cannot even get the boys to stay put during the mass, let alone teach them music.’

‘They have a poor example in the adults,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not many clergy are in their places, either. They are either in the nave doing secular business, or they have not bothered to come at all.’

Claypole shrugged. ‘It is the dean’s responsibility to maintain discipline, so you can blame him. He is a sanctimonious fool! What is wrong with the odd game of chance of an evening?’

‘Presumably, he has a problem with you arriving for your duties with nothing to wear.’

Claypole pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is in no position to preach, given what he does in his spare time. Perhaps he appointed Bautre because he knew the choir would run amok, and it means his own voice can be heard. He is singing now.’

Bartholomew winced as a response was issued several tones too high, creating a discordant clash that had the other choristers faltering uncertainly. ‘Lord help us!’

Claypole grinned. ‘I had better get back to St Hugh’s head before Dame Eleanor admonishes me again. The dean can ride me all he likes for insolence and irregularity, but I do not like it when she does it. She has a knack for making me feel ashamed – and she might tell Lady Christiana.’

He moved away, but was intercepted by Ravenser, who was weaving up the nave in a manner that suggested he was drunk. He leaned heavily on Claypole, and laughed raucously at some joke of his own making. A woman joined them, and Ravenser whispered something that made her slap him.

It was some time before Michael emerged from the chancel. His face was bleak. ‘The dean has just given me a complete catalogue of offences committed by Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks. It seems I am about to be installed in a den of vice. And speaking of vice, here is my deputy.’

‘Your alb, Brother,’ said Tetford cheerfully, flinging a garment at Michael in such a way that it landed on his head. ‘Rosanna could not believe the dimensions I gave her, and is keen to meet you for herself. I intend to introduce you.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Michael, hauling the vestment from his face. ‘I am not some prize bull, to be produced on demand for the entertainment of women of easy virtue. And you agreed to give them up, if you recall. Or had you forgotten my threat to dismiss any assistant whose character is tainted?’

Tetford snorted his disdain. ‘Which saint will you hire, then, Brother? Dame Eleanor? She is the only one around here who reaches your lofty standards. What do you think of the alb?’

Michael glared at him, but declined to waste his breath with further recriminations. Bartholomew stepped forward and helped him hoist the garment over his shoulders. The length was good, and the seam was barely visible thanks to some talented sewing, but it was nowhere near large enough around.

Tetford took it back with an unkind snigger. ‘Rosanna will think I am playing a game with her when I say it needs to be made bigger still. Or would you rather I abstained from her company, and you can be installed as it is? It makes you look fat, so I would not recommend it.’

‘It will take more than a morning away from women to save your sinful soul,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am not fat, I have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘Massive ones,’ agreed Bartholomew obligingly. ‘Will the alb be ready in time for the ceremony? There is only a week to go.’

‘It will be tight – and I do not mean the alb,’ said Tetford. ‘Christ in Heaven!’

Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode away with the robe over his arm. Bartholomew turned quickly, and saw Ravenser and John Suttone coming towards them. Although he was obviously inebriated, Ravenser had still remembered to arm himself, and he fingered his dagger as he nodded a cool greeting to the scholars.

‘My Vicar Choral seems nervous of you, Ravenser,’ remarked Michael. ‘I told him to disarm, but I can see from here that he is wearing a sword under his habit.’

‘He should be nervous,’ said Ravenser, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Tetford hurrying away. He began to follow, drawing his sword as he did so and calling over his shoulder, ‘There are rules in the Cathedral Close, and he broke them.’

‘What rules?’ asked Michael of John, watching Tetford break into a run. Ravenser lumbered after him, but it was not long before he gave up the chase, putting his hand to his head as if the exercise had been too much for the delicate state of his health. ‘Would they be the monastic ones of chastity, obedience, humility and poverty?’

‘Tetford has certainly broken those,’ replied John, watching his colleagues’ antics in distaste. ‘And you can add theft, fornication and insolence, too. But in this instance I think Ravenser refers to who has rights to a certain lady. It is anathema to me, of course. I do not indulge in licentious behaviour.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Would you like me to tell our friend Suttone about his cousin’s virtuous character? He is looking for a new Vicar Choral, now his original choice is murdered.’

John regarded him icily. ‘I am naturally virtuous. It is not something I enact simply because there is a post of Vicar Choral on offer. Good morning, Brother.’

‘Poor Dean Bresley,’ said Bartholomew, while John stalked away, head in the air. ‘If all his clergy are like the ones we have met, his life must be like a foretaste of Hell.’

‘Speaking of Hell, here comes the bishop. Or is it the stone imp from the Angel Choir?’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Gynewell, skipping towards them. His curly hair gleamed in the dull morning light, and so did his eyes. ‘Have you found Aylmer’s killer yet? The dean said you questioned some of the Vicars Choral after High Mass.’

‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘However, my task has not been made easier by the fact that you were not entirely open with me. It would have been helpful to know that Aylmer was a member of the Commonalty and that he was friends with unsavoury men like Adam Miller.’

Gynewell was rueful. ‘I see you have questions, but this is not the place to talk. Come to my house, and we shall discuss it there.’

The Bishop’s Palace was a sumptuous set of buildings that stood in the shadow of the cathedral. It boasted a stately hall with a great vaulted undercroft, which was the prelate’s private residence, while a range to the west held rooms for the clerks and officials who managed his diocese. The complex stood on a series of terraces that afforded fine views of the city, while the cathedral loomed protectively behind. The palace was made from honey-coloured stone, and its thick walls and sturdy gates suggested its builders had an eye to security, as well as to beauty and comfort. It formed a stark contrast to the shabby poverty of the town that huddled outside its well-tended grounds.

‘A tavern would have been more convenient, My Lord,’ said Michael irritably, as he followed Gynewell down a narrow path with steep stairs that provided a shortcut between palace and minster. The dampness of the fog made it slippery, and it was not an easy descent. ‘I understand the Close is rather well supplied with them.’

‘I am a bishop,’ said Gynewell archly. ‘I do not frequent alehouses – and especially not the Tavern in the Close, which is more brothel than hostelry.’

Once they reached the bottom, he led the way to a fine hall. At the far end was a massive hearth, in which a fire blazed so fiercely that it was difficult to approach. The window shutters were closed against the winter cold, and flames sent shadows dancing around the room, giving the impression that some of the figures in the wall-tapestries were alive and moving. None of the hangings depicted religious scenes, and some were openly pagan. Bartholomew glanced at the diminutive bishop uneasily, then realised he was allowing himself to be influenced by Cynric’s prejudices.

Gynewell headed straight for the fire, where he climbed into a throne that was placed directly in front of it, waving his guests to a bench on one side. Both bench and chair were well supplied with cushions, all of them red. The bishop leaned down and took a bell in both hands, giving it a vigorous shake that made Bartholomew afraid he might burst into song, like the Gilbertines. After a moment, the door opened, and young Hugh marched in.

‘Yes, My Lord?’ the lad piped, doffing his hat.

‘It is your turn for bishop-duty, is it?’ asked Gynewell amiably, raising one of his short legs to cross over the other as he basked in the heat. Bartholomew wondered how he could stand it. ‘Or have you been assigned an additional spell of servitude for some act of mischief?’

‘Dean Bresley was cross because I accidentally dropped Master Bautre’s music in the stoup,’ said Hugh. ‘And the ink ran, so he cannot read it, which means we cannot practise the Te Deum today.’

‘I understand there is an archery practice this afternoon at the butts,’ said Gynewell with a grave expression. ‘You will have to go there, instead of singing Bautre’s latest composition.’

‘What a pity,’ said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. ‘What would you like me to fetch you, sir?’

‘Some wine – hot, of course. And a few of those red cakes the baker delivered yesterday. Oh, and bring my pitchfork, will you?’

Hugh left obediently, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop with renewed unease. ‘Pitchfork?’

Gynewell leaned forward to prod the fire into even greater fury, then sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Red cakes are best served toasted. Bishop de Lisle knows my liking for them, and he once gave me a miniature pitchfork, just for that purpose.’

When Hugh returned, heavily laden with a tray of wine and nasty-looking pastries, Gynewell showed off his ‘pitchfork’. It was the length of a man’s arm, and beautifully crafted to mimic the double-tined tools used for moving hay. Its handle was bound in crimson leather, to prevent the user from burning himself, and Bartholomew suspected de Lisle had considered the gift an excellent joke.

They had done no more than be served a cup of scalding wine, so liberally laced with spices that it turned Bartholomew’s mouth numb, when there was a tap on the door. It was the dean. He sidled in as though he was about to burgle the place, eyes darting everywhere. He jumped guiltily when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.

‘Come in, Bresley,’ said Gynewell genially, waving the dean to the bench and presenting him with a cup of wine. Bartholomew saw it was a wooden vessel, rather than one of the set of silver goblets with which he and Michael had been provided. ‘You know you are always welcome.’

‘I am not sure I want to be welcome in this company,’ muttered the dean unhappily. ‘Tetford has just informed me that Brother Michael plans to hold a wild celebration in his tavern the night before his installation. He said Christiana de Hauville has been invited, because the good Brother has developed an improper liking for her. However, Lady Christiana is a woman, so should not be in the Close after dark. It is not right.’

Michael regarded him in open-mouthed shock, while Gynewell speared a pastry with his fork and began to cook it.

‘I have tried on several occasions to shut that den of iniquity,’ said the bishop, ‘but each time I issue an order of suppression, Tetford finds a way to circumvent it. Still, I shall prevail in the end. I have better resources and infinite patience. Try one of my cakes, Brother.’

He passed a smoking morsel that the monk accepted without thinking, more concerned with the slur on his character than with food. ‘My Lord, I harbour no impure thoughts about Christiana de Hauville. I hope you do not believe these wicked aspersions.’

‘She is an alluring woman,’ replied Gynewell, ‘and lesser men than you have been smitten with her charms. But I shall trust you, if you say you are made of sterner stuff. Do you like the cake?’

Michael took a bite mechanically. ‘You will find me as pure as the driven–’ His protestations of innocence stopped abruptly, and his face turned dark. He reached for his wine, took a gulp, then started to choke. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, but Michael flapped him away.

‘The red cakes are full of pepper,’ explained Bresley dolefully, watching the monk’s sufferings with unhappy eyes. ‘And the bishop is the only man in Lincoln who can stand them. I should have warned you, but my mind was on other matters. I am sorry.’

‘I suppose they are an acquired taste,’ admitted Gynewell, regarding the puce monk anxiously. ‘Are you all right, Brother? Shall I summon Hugh to bring you something else to drink? Water?’

Michael shook his head, tears streaming down his face, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Your water is probably full of brimstone. Do you consume nothing normal men deem edible?’

Gynewell regarded him in a way that suggested he thought the question was an odd one. ‘I dislike bland flavours. If you are going to eat something, you may as well taste it, I always say. You should try my devil’s eggs. Now those are highly spiced.’

‘You refer to him as your Devil?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Gynewell stoked up the fire. ‘Shall we talk about Aylmer’s death? I am a busy man, and do not usually spend my valuable time chattering about victuals.’

Michael recovered once Hugh had brought a jug of ale from the kitchens. When it arrived, it was so cold there was ice in it, and Gynewell shuddered in distaste as the monk sipped. He dismissed Hugh for the day, waving away the lad’s gratitude, while Bresley regaled the company with a gloomy litany of the various vices enjoyed by the residents of the Cathedral Close. When his lips had regained some feeling, Michael brought the discussion back to his enquiry.

‘My Lord,’ he said huskily. ‘You were about to explain why you had neglected to mention Aylmer’s association with criminals when you asked me to investigate his murder.’

‘Aylmer was a member of the Commonality,’ acknowledged Gynewell, while Bartholomew held his breath, expecting the bishop to take umbrage at the admonitory tone. ‘Then Suttone wrote to offer him the post of Vicar Choral. He was moved to tears. He came to me and said he intended to renounce his evil ways, and was determined to live the life of an honest man.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Actually, I did,’ replied Gynewell, choosing to ignore the dean’s derisive snort. ‘He immediately left Miller and took a berth in the Gilbertine Priory – the convent farthest from Miller’s domain.’

Michael was exasperated. ‘But this is relevant! It means Miller may have killed Aylmer, because he was angry at being rejected by a man he had known for years.’

‘That assumes Miller knew about Aylmer’s change of heart,’ said Gynewell. ‘And Aylmer confided in no one here but Bresley and me.’

‘He told Sabina Herl,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘So, what is to say he did not mention it to other members of the Commonalty, too?’

‘Sabina is different,’ argued Gynewell. ‘She has also moved away from Miller, and is trying to forge an honest life. Aylmer probably asked her how to go about it.’

‘I seriously doubt Aylmer shared his plans with the Commonalty,’ said Bresley. ‘They were delighted when they heard one of their own was to become a cathedral official, and would not have been pleased had he then told them he planned to end their association. I imagine he intended to live quietly in the Close until they forgot about him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Miller is keen to know the identity of Aylmer’s killer, so perhaps you are right – he did not know he was in the process of being abandoned. If he had, he would not care about vengeance.’

‘Bresley did not believe Aylmer was sincere,’ said Gynewell, glancing to where the dean was inspecting the wooden cup with more than a casual interest. ‘And he argued against the appointment.’

‘Were there similar objections to me choosing Tetford?’ asked Michael uneasily.

Bresley nodded. ‘Plenty. And now you have met him, you will understand why.’

‘Tetford was Bishop de Lisle’s choice,’ said Michael. ‘Not mine.’

‘I suspected as much,’ said Gynewell. ‘They are clearly kin, and de Lisle is famous for his nepotism. I doubt Tetford will stay with us long, though; he will leave the moment something more lucrative is offered. That is the advantage of Vicars Choral – they can be promoted if they are a nuisance, preferably to another diocese. Do not worry, Brother. We shall send him to Ely in a few weeks and so be rid of him.’

Michael scrubbed at his eyes. ‘You are very kind – to me and to Tetford.’

Gynewell shot him a mischievous grin. ‘I was young once, Brother, and all Tetford needs is a firm hand.’

‘You will not succeed in taming the fellow,’ warned Bresley. When Bartholomew looked at him, the wooden cup was nowhere to be seen. ‘He is beyond redemption.’

‘Have you heard anything about Flaxfleete’s demise?’ asked Michael. He saw the surprise in the bishop’s face at the change of subject, and hastened to explain. ‘I believe the deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer and Nicholas Herl might be connected.’

Gynewell raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, there are two tales circulating regarding Flaxfleete at present: the Guild maintains that Ursula de Spayne poisoned him, and the Commonalty just as firmly assert that he died from a recurrence of his Summer Madness.’

‘His affliction was unusually severe,’ added Bresley helpfully. ‘The other victims only harmed themselves, but Flaxfleete was compelled to commit arson in his delirium.’

‘What about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael.

Gynewell tugged thoughtfully on one of his horns. ‘Herl was probably a suicide, who drank too much, then threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. He never really recovered his health after his bout of Summer Madness, so no one was surprised when he was found dead. Langar and Sabina have been petitioning me to bury him in a churchyard. They say he was out of his wits, so not responsible for himself. I think I shall oblige. I dislike the Church’s inflexibility where self-murder is concerned.’

‘Three deaths within a few days of each other,’ said Michael. ‘And I understand there have been others, too.’

Gynewell thrust another cake on his pitchfork. ‘There have, but this is a large city and men are mortal. Not every demise is suspicious.’

‘Canon Hodelston,’ said Bresley. ‘Rapist, burglar, extortionist and liar. His was the first odd death, although no one mourned his passing. He was even more evil than my current batch of priests.’

‘That was seven years ago, Bresley,’ said Gynewell impatiently. ‘It cannot possibly have a bearing on Aylmer, and saying it does will lead Brother Michael astray.’

‘Herl, Flaxfleete and Aylmer had a mark on them,’ said Bartholomew, watching the bishop eat the smoking delicacy. ‘A cup, which looked as though it had been scratched into their skin years ago. Do you know anything about that?’

Gynewell exchanged a bemused glance with Bresley. ‘Do you mean the kind of sign that is inflicted voluntarily, or a brand that was not?’ asked the dean.

‘It was probably something they agreed to,’ replied Bartholomew, sounding more certain than he felt. ‘I suspect it symbolises membership of some secret fraternity.’

‘If these scars were confined to Herl and Aylmer, you might be right,’ said Gynewell. ‘They were certainly the kind of fellows to cut themselves in a demonstration of manly affection. The problem is Flaxfleete: he hated the Commonality, and would never have associated himself with them. If it was a cup they marked on themselves, do you think it was something to do with the Hugh Chalice?’

Bresley’s tone was wistful. ‘That went missing years ago, and has not been seen since.’

‘I told you the dean and I disagree about this,’ said Gynewell to Michael. ‘I believe the one Father Simon intends to give us is genuine. Bresley does not.’

‘I wish it was real,’ said Bresley morosely, ‘but I feel nothing when I hold it, except something that should not be there. So, it is still missing, as far as I am concerned. Simon says he bought it from a Roman relic-seller, so we have been unable to question the fellow ourselves.’

‘Actually, he had it from Walter Chapman,’ supplied Michael. ‘Miller’s red-legged friend.’

Gynewell’s jaw dropped. ‘Then the Hugh Chalice is the only genuine thing he has ever handled, because he usually deals in fakes. The Commonality would disagree, but I am afraid it is true.’

‘No wonder I have the sense that it is just a cup,’ said Bresley. ‘And not even a very nice one.’

‘This is all very perplexing,’ said Gynewell with a frown. ‘But if Simon’s chalice did come from Chapman, then I wonder if Chapman heard about it – and then somehow acquired it – because of the stink Flaxfleete made about its disappearance. That makes sense.’

‘Not to me,’ said Michael. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Gynewell tossed the remains of the cake into the fire, where it disappeared in a flurry of sparks. ‘A month ago, Flaxfleete accused Aylmer of breaking into his house and stealing a silver cup. However, Aylmer’s dishonest history does not mean he was responsible for every theft in the town, so I went to speak to Flaxfleete, and he agreed to drop the charges.’

‘But it might have been true,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer could have stolen the goblet from Flaxfleete, then given it to his friend Chapman to sell to Simon.’

Gynewell shook his head. ‘Aylmer did not steal the cup, because I found it in the cathedral crypt. I took it back to Flaxfleete – not realising it was the Hugh Chalice, of course – which is why he was willing to withdraw his complaint against Aylmer.’

‘But Chapman’s attention might have been drawn to the goblet because of the fuss Flaxfleete made about its loss,’ surmised Bresley. ‘He recognised it as something that could be hawked to a gullible fool who would believe it was a relic. So, he stole it from Flaxfleete after you returned it.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘I am confused. Are you saying Flaxfleete had the Hugh Chalice first? It was stolen from him – possibly by Aylmer – and was found in your crypt? You returned it to Flaxfleete, on the understanding that all charges against Aylmer would be forgotten, and it next appeared when Chapman sold it to Father Simon a month ago?’

‘Yes,’ said Gynewell. ‘That is an accurate summary of its travels, as far as I understand them. However, I suspect Flaxfleete did not know it was the Hugh Chalice, either, or he would have made a far greater commotion when it went adrift.’

‘Thank God he did not,’ murmured Bresley fervently.

‘I never liked to ask Flaxfleete how the cup had gone from him to Simon,’ said Gynewell. ‘I was afraid that if I did, it might give him an excuse to harass Aylmer again, and I did not want trouble.’

‘He never made a second complaint of theft,’ said Bresley. ‘So we must assume that either he did not notice Chapman had taken it from him, or he died before he could tell anyone about it.’

‘Or he was poisoned to make sure he remained silent permanently,’ said Gynewell soberly.

‘Perhaps we can go back a little,’ said Michael, breaking into their discussion. ‘You say you found the chalice in the crypt? What was it doing there?’

‘Perhaps it wanted to be in the sacred confines of our cathedral,’ said Gynewell, in a way that made Bartholomew certain he was not telling the truth. ‘These relics have a habit of making their own way to the places where they want to be. Have you seen it yet? Did you feel the sanctity it oozes?’

‘I did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘I think Simon has been cheated.’

‘Hear, hear,’ murmured Bresley.

‘The Hugh Chalice is genuine,’ said Gynewell in a voice that suggested further debate was futile. ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Michael spent much of the day in the Close, questioning clerics about Aylmer. Bartholomew kicked his heels restlessly, not sure what to do. He was eager to ask questions about Matilde, but did not know who to approach. Then he recalled that the cathedral would keep records of the masses it was paid to conduct for the souls of the dead, and wondered whether Matilde had commissioned any. It was a feeble hope that she might have bought prayers for some hitherto unknown friend or relation, but he was desperate and willing to try anything. He obtained Gynewell’s permission to trawl through the minster’s accounts, and was conducted to the library, where details of the cathedral’s business arrangements were stored on great dusty scrolls.

He soon learned the task was a hopeless one, but persisted anyway. While he scoured the rolls with a growing sense that he was wasting his time, he overheard a group of canons discuss the growing bitterness of the town’s poor. The weavers were beginning to mutter more loudly against the selfishness of the Guild, and the canons were terrified that Miller’s Market might end in a riot. If that happened, then the minster and its clerics might become targets, too, because of their friendly relations with the Guild.

Bartholomew left with the sense that Michael could not have chosen a worse time to be installed, and was uneasy enough that he went to the town butts to practise his shooting. He had the awful feeling that his fighting skills might be needed, although he was relieved the monk was elsewhere, and not in a position to comment on his new-found preoccupation with martial pursuits. He was not surprised to see Hugh and his fellow choristers there – or to note that their aim was considerably better than many of the adults – but he had not imagined archery was something to be enjoyed by cathedral officials. There were so many clergy jostling for a turn that the townsfolk found it hard to break through them, and there was a good deal of bad feeling. And when Miller and his cronies arrived, it was only a matter of time before someone was shot.

The victim was a guildsman, and Bartholomew recognised him as the fellow who had been sent to fetch the sheriff when Flaxfleete had died – there were not many men in the city who sported large orange beards. His name was Dalderby, and he howled pitifully, despite the fact that it was only a flesh wound. His friends formed a protective cordon around him, and Bartholomew saw they carried some very expensive and sophisticated weapons. So did their allies from the cathedral.

They were solidly outnumbered by the mass of poor folk, headed by members of the Commonalty, but the balance was redressed by the fact that few of them were armed. They had shared bows when they had practised their shooting, and there were not half a dozen weapons among the entire mob. Bartholomew supposed, from their hungry, sullen expressions, that they were the same unemployed weavers who gathered in the streets to ask for work each day. He eased to the back of the crowd when it looked as though a harmless Sunday pursuit was about to turn dangerous.

‘You must make your peace with God, Dalderby,’ announced a surgeon, after a cursory glance at the wound. He was a nondescript fellow with long, greasy hair, who had been standing with Miller when the ‘accident’ had occurred. Bartholomew assumed he was a member of the Commonalty.

‘Does he have time for such a lengthy process, Master Bunoun?’ asked Langar. An expression of deep concern was etched into his face, so no one could castigate him for being facetious. ‘His crimes are very great, and it would be terrible for him to meet his Maker only part shriven.’

‘I could prolong his life with an elixir,’ declared Bunoun importantly. ‘And, if he pays me in gold, I may be able to work a miracle. What do you say, Master Miller? Should I attempt to save him?’

Everyone waited in silence as Miller pondered the question, spitting from time to time. Bartholomew itched to inform Dalderby that the wound was not mortal – that it only needed to be bound with a healing poultice for a complete recovery – but he knew better than to interfere.

‘For the love of God, man!’ cried Kelby, when Miller’s inner deliberations extended longer than was kind. ‘Do you want another death on your conscience? Let Bunoun do his work.’

‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Miller, eyes glittering. He hawked again, aiming perilously near to Kelby’s feet. ‘But you dispatched Aylmer and Herl, so that puts me two murders behind you.’

‘I did not touch either of them!’ shouted Kelby. ‘I would not sully my hands.’

There was an ill-humoured murmur from the crowd, and fingers clenched into fists. Bartholomew was certain Dalderby’s would not be the only blood shed that day.

‘Please, Miller!’ begged the stricken merchant, ashen with fear and pain. ‘I promise never to mention that business with Thoresby again. He did threaten to behead me, and we all know it, but I will agree to forget about it, if you let Bunoun give me his cure.’

‘What do you say, Thoresby?’ asked Miller of a puny, rat-faced fellow who stood grinning his delight at the situation. Bartholomew had seen him shoot the offending arrow, although – fortunately for the chances of a peaceful conclusion – no guildsman had. ‘Shall we be merciful?’

‘No,’ said Thoresby. ‘Let him die. His accusations saw me in court, and I did not like it.’

Miller regarded the injured man dispassionately, then turned to Langar, listening as the lawyer murmured in his ear. There was absolute silence, as everyone strained, without success, to hear what was being said. Eventually, Langar spoke.

‘Cure him, Master Bunoun. The Commonalty is not a vengeful organisation, and we do not engage in spiteful retaliation. We leave that to the Guild of Corpus Christi.’

Bartholomew watched a massive amount of money change hands – more than he had charged even his wealthiest patients for the longest and most intricate of treatments – and then left the butts before more trouble erupted. He met Michael exchanging forced pleasantries with Spayne near the fish market, and was appalled when the monk started to question the mayor closely about the current state of his finances. The physician brought the discussion to an abrupt end, declining Spayne’s offer of refreshment with the excuse that he wanted to read a scroll he had borrowed from the library.

‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Michael, resenting the unceremonious manner in which he had been dragged away. ‘Spayne was given some of the money the King sent for draining the Fossedike, and I want to know what he has done with it. He has certainly not spent it on the canal; in some places, it is so shallow you can walk across without getting your feet wet. That sort of information would persuade him to part with what he knows of Matilde.’

‘I do not want you to resort to blackmail,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not right, and it could be dangerous. I have just seen a guildsman shot by one of the Commonalty. Tensions are running high, and it is stupid to risk being caught in the middle.’

‘It might be your only chance,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is not unethical – I am merely using the wits God gave me to extract information that a decent man would have parted with willingly. Time is short, Matt; we do not have the luxury of tiptoeing around the man.’

‘If you were not going to be installed next Sunday, I would recommend we leave Lincoln tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I have never felt so vulnerable or so alone, not even at Poitiers. At least I could recognise the enemy there.’

‘I recognise them here,’ said Michael grimly. ‘The problem is that there are so many of them.’

Being installed as a canon was not just a case of donning new robes and reciting oaths of obedience during a grand ceremony. There were administrative matters that needed to be resolved, too, and Michael found himself trapped at a desk in the scriptorium under a growing mound of parchment. Bartholomew helped him, afraid that if it was not completed, it would delay their departure the following Monday. They worked until the light began to fade, and left when Michael confided that he did not want to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory after dark.

They met Bishop Gynewell near the market called the Pultria. He was hopping up the hill like a mountain goat, Dean Bresley labouring at his side. He carried the equipment needed for Extreme Unction, and Bresley said they had been summoned to Robert Dalderby, who had suffered a grave wound at the butts. Surgeon Bunoun professed himself in fear for his patient’s life.

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘Does he lose many victims with minor wounds, then?’

‘No more than any other leech,’ replied Gynewell. ‘He often recommends last rites to his patients, and when they recover, he demands a higher fee for snatching them from the jaws of death.’

‘His tactics have made him extremely rich,’ said Bresley. His expression was wistful. ‘He owns some lovely gold spoons. I have had them in my hands on several occasions. I often meet him when Miller invites me to dine, although he has an unpleasant habit of talking about diseases while we eat.’

‘I know someone else who does that,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a ploy to put us off our food, so there will be more for themselves.’

Gynewell frowned uneasily. ‘I hope you are not planning to walk to the Gilbertine Priory alone.’

‘It is only just four o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hardly late. And it is not even dark.’

‘It will be soon,’ said Gynewell, passing his sacred vessels to Bresley. ‘I shall escort you.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, not wanting the bishop’s company once night had fallen. The visit to the palace had unsettled him, and although he knew he should not allow Cynric’s suspicions to interfere with his reason, he felt the prelate had too many odd habits to be ignored.

‘They do not need such cosseting, My Lord,’ said Bresley impatiently. ‘No one will harm them. They are friends of the Suttone clan.’

‘Why are the Suttones so revered?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘They do not live in Lincoln, and nor have they taken sides in the city’s quarrels.’

‘And there you have your answer,’ replied Gynewell. ‘If they did reside in the city, people would see their faults, and the veneration would fade. But they are far enough distant that they can do no wrong. Also, the fact that they stand aloof from the dispute is important: both sides hope they might be recruited, which would tip the balance permanently. However, the family know what will happen if they declare an allegiance, and they have no wish for bloodshed.’

‘They are good men,’ said Bresley. He shifted the bishop’s accoutrements in his arms, and a silver brooch dropped from somewhere inside his robes to clatter to the ground. Gynewell pounced on it, and Bartholomew was bemused when he slipped it in his own purse. Bresley did not seem to notice.

‘I think I will come with you, Brother,’ determined the bishop. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

‘People know he is a friend of the Suttones,’ insisted Bresley. ‘He will be quite safe. And what happens when you reach the convent. Will he walk back with you, so you are not alone?’

‘Cynric is waiting near the High Bridge,’ lied Michael. ‘We do not need any other guard.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew, when Gynewell and Bresley had gone. ‘There was a good deal of ill-feeling at the butts, and folk see you as an addition to the cathedral’s ranks.’

‘They would not have noticed me at all, if Gynewell had not ordered me to investigate a murder. I would have been with Suttone, being feted as the friend of a man who hails from such a well-loved family. He is not obliged to interview criminals who call themselves Vicars Choral, and nor is he obliged to sit with a demon and eat cakes that sear the inside of his mouth. It still hurts.’

‘Gynewell unnerves me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sounds sensible and decent, but his appearance and habits are hard to overlook.’

‘I would have taken issue with you this morning, but the cake incident has made me reconsider. I found I did not want him with us on that long, lonely road to the Gilbertine Priory.’ Michael chuckled ruefully. ‘We are worse than Cynric! What do we expect him to do? Rip out our innards with his claws? Spear us with his pitchfork?’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘We will be ashamed of ourselves in the morning, when we are not surrounded by shadows. Poor Gynewell!’

‘We should not discuss him now, or we will be nervous wrecks by the time we reach the convent. We shall talk about the Hugh Chalice instead. Are Gynewell and Chapman right, and it is making its own way to where it thinks it belongs?’

‘It will only be able to do that if it is genuinely holy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you said it is not.’

‘But I cannot be sure,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot be sure about anything in this case. I do not recall ever being so confused.’

Bartholomew considered what they knew. ‘Aylmer may have stolen the thing from Flaxfleete, although we can hardly ask either of them now, but we do know that he died with it in his hands. It was clearly important to him, which means it may hold the key to his murder.’

‘True. I will talk to Lady Christiana again, and ask whether she has heard any rumours about it. It is lodging with the Gilbertines, after all, and that is where she lives.’

‘No, I will ask her,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘You can talk to the gossiping Hamo instead.’

Michael gazed at him with round green eyes. ‘That is not fair.’

‘But it is wise. I have seen the way you look at her.’

Michael gave a sudden leer. ‘All right, I admit to admiring her. She is a splendid woman, and it does no harm to enjoy the beauty of God’s creations.’

‘Then enjoy them a little more discreetly. I am not the only one who has noticed you think God has done a rather good job with this particular part of His handiwork.’

Michael was dismissive of the advice. ‘She will be perfectly safe with me.’

‘But will you be safe with her?’ mused Bartholomew. He stopped walking and turned suddenly. They were by the High Bridge, and dark alleys full of hovels radiated off to the left and right. It was not a respectable part of the city. ‘What was that?’

‘Rats,’ said Michael, after a few moments. ‘This city is full of them, especially near the river.’

They crossed the bridge, and strode through Wigford, Michael for once making no complaint about the rapid pace the physician set. Lights gleamed inside houses, and in several churches evening prayers were in progress. They caught snatches of Latin as they walked. Bartholomew glanced behind him frequently, although it was now too dark to see whether anything was amiss.

‘There is the Gilbertine Priory at last,’ breathed Michael in relief, when he spotted the familiar gate looming in the blackness. ‘I wish you had chosen us lodgings nearer the city. If you had, I might not have been ordered to look into the murder of this one’s guests.’

‘Do not be so sure. When I was in the library, John Suttone told me the Gilbertines are not the only ones with problems on that front. There was a stabbing at the Dominican Friary last night, and two men brained each other with kitchen pots at the Carmelite convent.’

Michael regarded him with troubled eyes. ‘Yet more murders for me to investigate?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Sheriff Lungspee caught the Dominicans’ knifeman, while the two who fought with pans are in the Gilbertines’ hospital. They–’ He stopped a second time.

‘You are making me uneasy, Matt,’ complained Michael, walking faster. ‘Here is the door. Hammer with the pommel of your dagger, while I make sure no one creeps up behind us.’

Bartholomew did as he was told, but there was no reply. Then he thought he saw a shadow next to the Church of Holy Innocents opposite. He peered into the darkness, but nothing moved and he supposed he had imagined it. He turned to the gate and knocked again.

‘No one is going to answer,’ he said, when a third pounding met with no response. ‘They must be singing, so cannot hear us.’

‘What shall we do?’ asked Michael. ‘Shout?’

‘That will do no good. We must find another way in – quickly. It does not feel safe out here.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, heading for the alley that ran around the rear of the compound. ‘It does not.’

The lane was narrow and pitch black, and Michael swore foully when he fell and twisted his ankle. His language degenerated even further when he put his hands in a bed of nettles. Bartholomew urged him to lower his voice, afraid the racket might attract unwelcome company, but the monk was too agitated to be calmed. The clamour became even more furious when the physician started to pull him to his feet, but then dropped him abruptly when he heard something behind them. Bartholomew spun around and drew his sword in one smooth movement.

‘You never used to be able to do that,’ said Michael, from his patch of weeds. ‘If you were ever obliged to use a weapon, you were all fingers and thumbs.’

‘Someone else is here,’ said Bartholomew. He darted forward to make a lunge in the darkness, returning moments later with someone wriggling ineffectually in his grasp.

‘You never used to be able to do that, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘You would have been like me, and waited to see what happened before launching wild attacks.’

‘Let me go,’ shrieked Tetford, trying to free himself. ‘I am a priest.’

Bartholomew released him so suddenly that he stumbled. ‘Then why were you following us?’

‘I came to tell Michael that I have closed the Tavern in the Close,’ said Tetford, brushing himself down, to indicate he did not appreciate being manhandled. ‘Completely. I sent the women away, and sold my remaining stocks of ale and wine to the bishop.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, holding out his hand so Bartholomew could help him up. ‘Does Gynewell intend to take up where you have left off, then?’

‘Of course not. He does not approve of the place, and was delighted when I told him my decision. He will give the ale to the poor, and use the wine to celebrate your installation.’

‘I saw you buying something from Quarrel only this morning,’ said Bartholomew sceptically.

‘That was then,’ said Tetford. ‘This is now. A lot can happen in a day.’

Michael picked leaves from his habit. ‘Matt is not the only one who is wary of your sudden capitulation, and my suspicions are not allayed by the fact that you feel compelled to tell me in a shadowy alley. Why not come in daylight, like a normal man?’

‘Because I wanted you to know as soon as possible,’ replied Tetford. ‘And sometimes it is safer to move around this city in the dark, anyway. Miller was not very pleased when he learned I no longer need the ale Lora Boyner brews for me, but that is too bad, because I have made the firm decision to dedicate myself to God and to the furtherance of my career, although not necessarily in that order.’

‘You remind me of Bishop de Lisle,’ said Michael, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Is he is the reason you have decided to be virtuous? Has he written to you?’

‘There was a letter,’ admitted Tetford. ‘He said that if I am a good Vicar Choral, he will make me an archdeacon in a year. It will not be fun, but I shall do my best.’

‘Did Aylmer confide that he wanted to abandon his dissolute life, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are the only priest who has admitted to liking him, so it is possible that you traded secrets.’

Tetford nodded. ‘He wanted to leave the Commonalty and escape Miller. I am not sure he had the willpower to do it, though – he was not like me. Forgive me for asking, Brother, but why are you wallowing in nettles in a dark and dingy lane?’

‘We are locked out. Matt is going to climb over this wall, then go and open the front gate for me.’

‘Is he now?’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘I can help you there,’ said Tetford. ‘The rear door is nearly always open at night. I know, because the Gilbertine cook boosts his income by selling illicit rabbit pies, and I buy … I bought them for my tavern. We usually did business at that gate. Follow me.’

They walked a short distance until they saw an opening in the gloom. Tetford produced a lamp from the foliage, indicating his visits to purchase the cook’s pies were suspiciously frequent, and lit it to illuminate their way. Bartholomew was unimpressed when he saw that not only was the door unbarred, but it was actually open. It was hardly conducive to good security.

‘Thank you, Tetford,’ said Michael, stepping inside. ‘And now we shall bid you a good night.’

Tetford followed him, holding the lamp aloft to reveal a thick growth of fruit trees. ‘Will you take a drink with me before you go? Here is a flask, and I propose a toast to our success: you as an absent canon, and me as your deputy.’

‘And if I drink, will it seal our agreement?’ asked Michael. ‘You will carry out your duties without recourse to running taverns and lusting after women?’

Tetford nodded and started to pass the flask to Michael, so he could take the first gulp. Suddenly, it exploded in his hand, sending red liquid flying in all directions. He gave a cry of alarm, and Bartholomew saw a figure move among the trees. Another missile thudded into the gate behind them.

‘Down!’ shouted Bartholomew, leaping forward to drag Michael into the long grass. When Tetford joined them, it was with an arrow protruding from his chest.

‘How many?’ whispered Michael, trying to keep his voice steady. The orchard was silent, except for the occasional snap as someone trod on a dead twig. Their assailants were drawing closer.

‘Three or four. I cannot really tell.’

‘Can you reach that branch near your leg? Hand it to me. We will not go without a fight.’

‘Keep down!’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing his arm in alarm. ‘An arrow killed Tetford, but it was a crossbow bolt that hit the wineskin. I can hear someone rewinding it, and the lamp Tetford dropped is throwing out enough light to make you a perfect target.’

‘Here they come,’ said Michael. Ignoring the physician’s advice, he scrambled to his feet and went on the offensive. There were three men, hooded and masked against recognition. The largest carried a sword, and the other two held daggers. Bartholomew saw the crossbow discarded in the grass. It took time to arm such a weapon, and its owner had abandoned it in favour of a blade.

Bartholomew lunged forward to parry the blow the swordsman aimed at Michael, and twisted his hand in a move he had learned from Cynric, which sent his opponent’s blade skittering from his hand. He heard a muffled curse, and the fellow backed away to retrieve it. He turned to the other two, making a series of sweeping hacks that drove them before him like sheep. The smallest turned and fled. The way he did so suggested the encounter had terrified him, and told the physician that the plan had obviously been to shoot their victims, not engage them in hand-to-hand combat.

Meanwhile, the first assailant had managed to locate his dropped weapon, and came at Bartholomew a second time. And then the physician realised he was facing a more formidable opponent than he had thought – the ease with which the fellow had been disarmed had been misleading, and he approached with a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Bartholomew was dimly aware of Michael doing battle with the last man off to his right, wielding his branch like a windmill, and screeching a series of expletives Bartholomew had never heard him use before. The monk looked vast compared to his attacker, and Bartholomew hoped his superior strength would see him victorious.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted, hoping the racket they were making would raise the alarm in the priory, although he did not hold much hope. His furious hammering at the gate had not brought an answer, so there was no reason why yelling and the clash of arms should.

Predictably, there was no reply. The man charged at Bartholomew, driving him backwards faster than was safe in the dark. Bartholomew stumbled over the root of a tree, and the attacker used his momentary lack of concentration to lunge with a deadly stab. Bartholomew twisted away, kicking his opponent’s ankle as he did so, making him stagger. Then the fight began in earnest. Bartholomew parried blow after blow, feeling his arms burn with fatigue: the sword was one he had been given by a soldier before Poitiers, and was too heavy for prolonged wielding. Further, the faint light thrown out by the lamp was beginning to fade, and once they could no longer see properly, the chances of being hit were much greater.

Suddenly, Michael’s attacker released a bark of satisfied laughter: the monk had lost his footing. Bartholomew saw the dagger rise, and was aware of Michael trying to jerk away. Then there was a blood-curdling howl that made Bartholomew’s opponent leap in shock. It was Cynric and his Welsh battle cry. The book-bearer raced to where the monk now lay unmoving in the grass, the knifeman hovering above him, blade raised. The dagger started to descend. Cynric issued a scream of rage and his violent tackle sent them both spinning to the ground. Cynric tried to climb to his feet, but the grass was slick, and by the time he had hauled himself upright, the man had gone. There was an urgent snap of twigs as the fellow thrust his way through the trees, aiming for the river. Cynric followed.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew tore into his own opponent with slashing swipes that had him backing away in alarm. He heard a grunt of pain when the sword glanced the fellow’s arm, but it was only the flat of the blade that had struck him. When a pounding of feet suggested Cynric was coming back, the attacker lunged in a way that made Bartholomew stumble, then disappeared into the darkness. The physician whipped around and headed towards Michael.

‘Brother?’ he whispered, resting his hand on the monk’s chest. He could feel nothing under the thick layers of cloth. He grabbed Michael and shook him, but the massive body was too much for his weary arms.

‘Have they gone?’ asked Michael softly.

‘Where are you hit?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. The lamp had dimmed to a pathetic glow, and he could barely see. He searched the monk for wounds with fingers that shook.

‘Have they gone?’ repeated Michael, more loudly. He jerked away suddenly. ‘Ouch! Have a care, Matt! You just jammed your thumb in my eye!’

‘Are you hurt?’ Bartholomew felt exhaustion wash over him, as it had done after Poitiers.

Michael sat up. ‘No. I knew I could not win once I dropped the stick, so I thought the safest thing would be to pretend I was dead. I let myself tumble to the ground and lay still. Did I fool you, too?’

‘Are you insane?’ snapped Bartholomew, relief making his temper break. ‘The man was about to plunge his dagger into your heart. He would have done it, too, if Cynric had not arrived.’

‘Would he?’ asked Michael, shaken by this news. ‘I had my eyes closed. He would not have believed me dead if I was watching him, so I had them firmly shut. I did not see anything.’

‘Christ, Michael!’ shouted Bartholomew furiously. ‘That was a damned stupid thing to do!’

‘Steady now! There is no call for blasphemy. Everything is all right.’

‘Everything is not all right! Tetford is dead, and you were attacked by men intent on dispatching you. Jesus wept, Michael! I cannot believe you did something so indescribably stupid.’

‘I am sorry I alarmed you,’ said Michael gently, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘But it is over, and God must have been watching His own, because we are both unscathed. Here is Cynric.’

‘They escaped,’ said the Welshman resentfully. ‘They know this area, and I do not. I am sorry.’

Bartholomew climbed to his feet, pushing Michael away when he tried to help. He was still fuming, aghast at the thought that if Cynric had arrived a moment later, Michael would not be alive to patronise him with insincere apologies.

‘You fought well,’ said Cynric, slapping him on the shoulder in soldierly camaraderie. ‘A year ago, a swordsman like that would have skewered you, but this time you were actually winning.’

‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a shaking hand across his face. He was beginning to feel sick. ‘Not a warrior. I am not supposed to cross swords with people. And I injured one; he will have a nasty bruise on his arm tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ said Cynric maliciously. ‘It will make him easier to identify. Who were they? Miller and three criminals from the Commonalty? Kelby and a trio of guildsmen? Or four wraiths summoned by Devil Gynewell, because he failed to get you when you were in his lair earlier?’

‘Three,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘One with a sword, one who started with a crossbow but reverted to daggers, and one who almost knifed Michael.’

‘And the one who shot the arrow,’ said Cynric, pointing to Tetford’s body. ‘I had a look for the bow, but I could not find it, so the archer must have taken it with him. None of the three who fought you carried one, so there must have been a fourth man, too.’

Bartholomew was too tired to think about it. ‘Shall we go inside? It is not safe here.’

‘You had better stay while I fetch a stretcher,’ said Cynric. ‘We cannot leave Tetford’s body out here unguarded, not with Gynewell on the prowl. Demons feast on the flesh of the recently dead.’

‘You really do know some dreadful things, Cynric,’ said Michael. ‘Go, then; we will wait. Tell them to hurry. I doubt our assailants will return tonight, but there is no point in taking chances.’

‘Are you sure you are unharmed?’ asked Bartholomew, when Cynric had gone.

Michael assumed a pitiful expression. ‘No, these nettle stings are very painful. I wonder if Lady Christiana will agree to tend me with cool cloths. If she does, please do not offer to do it in her stead. You do not have a woman’s healing touch.’

Bartholomew felt some of his anger drain away. ‘You are incorrigible, Brother.’

Once Tetford had been taken to the mortuary chapel, and Michael had given Prior Roger a terse report about how they had been attacked, Bartholomew lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He did not imagine for a moment that he would sleep, and each time he closed his eyes, he saw the monk lying in the grass with the dagger poised above him. He knew his dreams would teem with uneasy thoughts that night, and considered resorting to the wine Roger had insisted they accept in an effort to make amends for the ‘mishap’ in his convent’s garden. But he disliked drinking himself to sleep, so he abandoned the bedchamber and joined the others talking in the guest-hall below.

The room was full. Not only were there several new residents, driven to the Gilbertines by virtue of the fact that there were no other beds available anywhere in the city, but Suttone, de Wetherset and Father Simon were there, too. So was Prior Roger, his skull-like face white with shock as he asked Michael to repeat the tale. Michael declined, so Cynric obliged, giving an account that was far more colourful than the reality. For once, Roger did not interrupt, but listened in rapt horror.

The door opened, and Whatton and Hamo entered, the hems of their habits damp from searching the grounds. Whatton was full of questions and speculation, but Hamo was uncharacteristically quiet.

‘I fell over,’ he said, when Roger demanded an account of his explorations. ‘I hurt myself.’

‘Can I do anything to help?’ offered Bartholomew tiredly.

Hamo shook his head. ‘I will be better in the morning. In fact, I shall retire now.’

‘You did not recognise these villains?’ asked Roger of Michael, when Hamo had gone.

Michael shook his head. ‘Tetford dropped the lamp, and all I could see were shadows. They had hoods over their faces, too. I do not know how we shall identify them.’

‘One will have a bruised arm,’ said Cynric. ‘I shall look at the limbs of every man in Lincoln tomorrow, if need be. No one attacks my–’

‘I doubt the culprits will be out and about,’ predicted Roger. ‘Not if they know that sort of inspection is in effect. You will only trap them by cunning. Personally, my money is on Miller. I heard you declined to accept a favour from him, Brother, and he will not have liked that. No man appreciates his bribes being rejected, because it makes him feel soiled. Do you not agree, de Wetherset?’

De Wetherset was not amused to be singled out for such a question. ‘I would not know.’

‘All yours are accepted, are they?’ Roger turned back to Michael. ‘These felons were bold, entering my convent for this evil work.’

He walked to the table, and poured himself some wine. As he went, Bartholomew saw his boots were muddy. Had he been out in his gardens with bows and daggers, determined to dispatch the man who was investigating the death that had occurred in his domain? Bartholomew thought about Hamo, retiring to bed because he had taken ‘a fall’. Meanwhile, Whatton and others were wet and bedraggled from their search of the grounds, making it impossible to determine whether they had been out before or after the attack. If Prior Roger or his Gilbertines had been responsible, then it was a clever tactic to start a hue and cry – to provide a legitimate excuse for any bruises or inexplicably soiled clothing.

‘You should not have accepted Gynewell’s commission,’ said Suttone to Michael. ‘I could have told you it would lead to trouble. Sin stalks our country, and the Death–’

‘Fetch more wine, Whatton,’ ordered Roger. ‘Then go to the gatehouse and ask why the porter did not answer Michael’s knock. I will relieve him of a week’s pay if he was sleeping.’

‘He may have been locking doors,’ said Whatton. ‘I have ordered regular patrols, since there are so many vagabonds arriving for the Market, and that means he is not always at the gate.’

‘You need to employ more porters, then,’ said Michael. ‘And just closing your back gate at night would be an improvement on your current security.’

‘That is always locked,’ said Roger indignantly. ‘The cook sees to it, and he is very reliable.’

‘Except on those occasions when he is baking pies for the Tavern in the Close,’ muttered Michael.

Within moments, Whatton returned in a state of agitation, reporting that the guard was so deeply asleep, no one could rouse him. On going to examine him Bartholomew detected claret and poppy juice on the man’s breath, and knew they would have no sense from him that night.

‘I doubt he will tell us much in the morning, either,’ said Whatton, holding up a wineskin. ‘This is still half full, which means that he passed out before he could finish it. It must be very strong.’

It occurred to Bartholomew that he should sit with the porter, to make sure he was not ordered to lose his memory as soon as he opened his eyes. ‘He will know who gave it to him,’ he said, to test the Gilbertines’ reactions.

Whatton’s expression was vaguely triumphant. ‘I doubt it. People often leave anonymous gifts at our door – to be distributed to the poor – and it will not be the first time a guard has helped himself. Look at Hamo’s predecessor, Fat William, who ate anything he could lay his hands on, and died from a surfeit of oysters. Any sort of ale or wine left will almost certainly be sampled by our porters.’

‘And folk in the city know it,’ added Roger. He turned to Suttone. ‘It could happen anywhere, Father, so I hope this unfortunate incident will not encourage you to leave us.’

‘Leave you and go where?’ asked Suttone, to Roger’s satisfaction. ‘Every bed in the city is taken.’

‘So, someone wanted us to go to that rear door,’ mused Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone again and in their room. Cynric came to sit with them, anticipating that his expertise might be needed in analysing what had happened. ‘Where an ambush was waiting.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by so many questions and no real answers. ‘We had already started looking for another way in when Tetford offered to guide us to that particular gate. Was he part of it, do you think, and was shot by mistake?’

Cynric did not think so. ‘If he knew what was about to happen, he would have stayed in the lane. No man steps willingly into a dark place, knowing there are nocked arrows waiting.’

‘Perhaps they were expecting Matt and me, and were confused by the presence of a third person,’ suggested Michael. ‘Their quarrel killed Tetford, but that still left two of us ready to fight them.’

Cynric nodded. ‘They were obliged to resort to blades, which they had not anticipated. They were unprepared, explaining why two fled before the fighting really began.’

‘We helped them, of course,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Michael screeched up a storm when he fell in the nettles, warning them that we were coming. And while Tetford probably was not part of the ambush, his intentions were not entirely honourable, either. Here is his wineskin.’

Michael took it. The crossbow bolt had gone clean through the middle, and it was empty except for a dribble of liquid in the bottom. Bartholomew indicated he should sniff it.

‘Fish?’ asked Michael, wincing. The scent was powerful and unpleasant.

‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The same substance that saw Nicholas Herl drown in the Braytheford Pool and that gave Flaxfleete his fatal fit.’

‘Tetford offered it to me,’ said Michael aghast. ‘Are you saying he was trying to commit murder?’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming he knew the wine was tainted.’

‘He wanted me to drink it first,’ said Michael unsteadily.

‘True, but that may have been simple good manners. A dead canon does not need a Vicar Choral, so I suspect you would have been more useful to him alive.’

‘Perhaps he wanted the Stall of South Scarle itself,’ suggested Cynric, ‘and did not like the notion of spending a year as a deputy. Men have killed for a good deal less. I am more worried about the other four, though, Brother. Tetford is no longer a problem, but these others may try to harm you again.’

‘You seem to think the attack was aimed at me. Why not at Matt?’

‘Because I am not the one charged to find Aylmer’s killer,’ answered Bartholomew.

‘But you are here to search for information that may help you locate Matilde, and I have already told you Spayne does not like it.’

‘None of our attackers was Spayne.’

‘Did you see their faces? No, because they were careful to keep them hidden. The tall swordsman who tackled you could easily have been Spayne. I imagine he was trained to use a blade in his youth.’

‘And do not forget Miller,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘You denied knowing anything about Shirlok’s trial, but there is nothing to say he believed you. He is sensitive about it, and may want to silence you before you say anything. Then you both declined to accept his bribes on Friday. And then you had that set-to with Chapman this morning.’

Bartholomew did not argue, because Cynric was right. ‘So there were two separate attacks on us tonight: the quartet with daggers, bows and sword. And Tetford with poison.’

Michael nodded. ‘I think we can safely say that someone does not want us here.’