Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Then I want to change it,’ cried Shirlok, as the sheriff’s men began to drag him away. ‘I am not guilty. I did not take anything after all – it was Chapman, Lora and . . . It was not me!’

  ‘Next case,’ said Sir John.

  Cambridge, June 1355

  A cart clattered along the tangled lanes known as the Jewry and headed for the high street. It was still early, and the wispy clouds were not yet tinged with the sun’s golden touch, although the birds were awake and sang loud and shrill along the empty streets. Folk were beginning to stir, and smoke curled lazily skyward as people lit fires to heat ale and breakfast pottage. Bells announced the morning offices, and sleepy monks and friars made their way to their dawn devotions.

  Matilde urged her horse to move faster, but the cart was heavy – it was loaded with all her possessions and the beast was not able to move as briskly as she would have liked. When she passed St Michael’s Church, her eyes misted with tears. She glanced down the lane opposite, and saw the Master of Michaelhouse striding towards the High Street, his scholars streaming at his heels as he led the daily procession to the church. Matilde could not see whether the man she loved was there, because her tears were blinding her.

  She reached the town gate and passed a coin to the man on duty, knowing he would barely look at her: guards were trained to watch who came into the town, but did not care who left it. He waved his hand to indicate she could go, and she flicked the reins to encourage her nag into a trot, wanting to put as much distance between her and Cambridge as possible, before anyone realised she had gone.

  Matilde was leaving because she longed for the respectability she knew she would never have in Cambridge. Folk too readily believed she was the kind of woman to entertain men in her house all night, and she wanted something better. In another county, she could begin a different existence, where she would be staid, decent and respected by all. She would be courted by good men, one of whom she would eventually choose as a husband. She could not afford to waste more of her life on Bartholomew, when it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was never going to ask her to be his wife.

  She did not look back as her cart rattled along the road that led to the future. She would not have seen anything if she had, with hot tears scalding her eyes. She did not hear the birdsong of an early summer morning, and she did not care about the clusters of white and pink blossom that adorned the green hedgerows. She wondered whether she would ever take pleasure in such things again.

  When the service at St Michael’s had finished, Bartholomew slipped out of the procession to head for the Jewry. He heard the birds singing and saw the delicate clouds in the sky, and his heart was ready to burst with happiness. He was going to see Matilde, and it was the first day of his new life. The joy he felt told him he should have asked her to marry him years before.

  He hesitated when he raised his hand to tap on her door, suddenly assailed with the fear that she might not have him – that the love he had for her was not reciprocated, and she might object to being wed to a physician with few rich patients and a negligent attitude towards collecting his fees. But he would not know unless he asked, so he knocked and waited. There was no reply, and he was tempted to postpone the matter, although he knew he was just being cowardly. He rapped again, then jiggled the latch, but the door was locked. He supposed Matilde had gone to the Market Square, to buy bread for breakfast, so he set off in that direction.

  But the traders had not seen Matilde that morning, and nor had her friend Yolande. Then the physician was summoned to his sister’s house, where one of Oswald Stanmore’s apprentices had a fever. The illness was a serious one, and it was the following afternoon before he could leave his patient and go in search of Matilde again. He was surprised to find Yolande weeping on the doorstep.

  ‘She has gone,’ she wept. ‘And it is your fault.’

  Bartholomew regarded her blankly. ‘What?’

  Yolande pushed open Matilde’s door to reveal a chamber that was empty, with the exception of two benches that had evidently been too large to carry. When he stepped inside, his footsteps echoed hollowly. There was a note on the windowsill, which he picked up with shaking fingers. It said nothing other than that Yolande was to have the remaining furniture, and that the enclosed coins were to pay any outstanding debts.

  ‘She wanted to marry you, but you would never ask her,’ said Yolande accusingly. ‘It is your fault she has left us.’

  He sank down on one of the benches, dazed and numb. ‘I came to propose yesterday.’

  ‘But it was too late,’ said Yolande harshly. ‘She told me she would not wait for ever.’

  Bartholomew stood, resolute. ‘I will find her. Where would she go?’

  ‘She has a sister in Carcassonne and a cousin in Poitiers, so she may have gone to them. And there was a man who once asked her to wed him – he was rich, not a near-pauper, like you. His name was William de Spayne and he was a merchant, but I cannot remember where she said he lived.’

  ‘Well, try,’ ordered Bartholomew curtly. ‘It is important.’

  ‘She is more likely to go to her sister first,’ said Yolande, sniffing. ‘But she once said that if she ever left Cambridge, then no one would ever find her.’

  ‘I will,’ vowed Bartholomew with quiet determination. ‘I shall leave within the hour.’

  CHAPTER 1

  Lincoln, December 1356

  The sun was setting as the travellers approached the outskirts of the city. Red-gold beams struck the mighty cathedral perched atop its hill, turning its pale stone to a glowing bronze that darkened as night approached. Already, stars were beginning to appear in a cloudless sky, and shadows slanted across the frozen track. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at the University in Cambridge and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse, shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, and was glad the journey was almost at an end. It was unusually cold for the time of year, and early snows dusted the surrounding countryside.

  ‘A magnificent sight,’ breathed Thomas de Suttone, gazing at the minster in awe. He was a large man who wore the habit of a Carmelite friar, albeit a very elegant one. One of Michaelhouse’s theologians, Suttone preferred to tell others how to practise moderation and poverty than to do it himself. ‘A fitting tribute to the glory of God.’

  ‘It is on a hill,’ complained Brother Michael, the third of Michaelhouse’s travel-weary scholars, regarding it balefully. He was a Benedictine, and his dark cloak and habit were splattered with pale mud. His palfrey stumbled in an ice-filled rut, and a lesser horseman might have been thrown, but the monk had been taught to ride before he could walk, and he did no more than shift in his saddle and adjust the reins. ‘We shall have to ascend it on foot, because my poor beast is spent.’

  ‘It is spent because you are so fat,’ explained Suttone brutally. ‘My animal is not nearly as exhausted, and neither is Matt’s. Yours has a far greater load to carry.’

  ‘I am slimmer than I was this time last year,’ countered Michael indignantly. He was proud of the fact that the habits he had filled to bursting point eighteen months earlier were now slightly loose, although even the most sycophantic of his friends could not deny that he still possessed a very full figure. Bartholomew encouraged him in his new regime of moderation, because, as a physician, he believed that obese men were susceptible to dangerous imbalances of the humours.

  ‘When the Death returns – which it will – it will carry off gluttons,’ stated Suttone matter-of-factly. He was fond of predicting what would happen if the country were ever ravaged by the plague again. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He was weary of Suttone’s gloomy prophecies, and did not like to be reminded of the time when all his medical skills and experience had proved to be useless.

  ‘We are more than a week late,’ he said, seeing Michael open his mouth to make a tart response that would almost certainly initiate a quarrel. He was too tired and cold to be caught in the middle of another of their rows. ‘Do you think you are still expected?�
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  ‘Of course we are!’ cried Suttone, offended by the suggestion that the city of Lincoln might not be waiting on tenterhooks for his arrival. ‘The Feast of St Thomas the Apostle – when the ceremony installing Michael and me as cathedral canons will take place – is not for another two Sundays yet. It is Wednesday today, which leaves us plenty of time to prepare ourselves.’

  ‘I shall want to look my best,’ said Michael, grimacing at his dirt-splattered clothes. ‘We will need to commission special vestments, and I might even purchase some new shoes.’

  Suttone nodded eagerly. ‘I shall do the same. We have been on the road for more than two weeks now, and I am tired of sitting astride this wretched nag and having sleet, snow and rain blow in my face. It has been clear today, but the good weather has come at a price, and I have never known such bitter cold. My feet are frozen to the point where I do not think they will ever move again.’

  ‘It is a pity the same cannot be said for your jaws,’ muttered Michael unpleasantly. ‘You have not stopped complaining for the last fifteen days.’

  ‘Where shall we go first?’ asked Bartholomew, before Suttone could respond to the insult. With dusk approaching, they needed to find lodgings before people closed their gates and retired to their beds for the night. ‘The cathedral?’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Suttone and I cannot arrive there covered in mire and reeking of horse – the other canons will wonder what sort of fellows they have invited to join their ranks.’

  ‘I still do not understand why you two were offered these posts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neither of you have visited Lincoln before, and nor have you done anything to benefit the city.’

  Michael glared at him. ‘I am Senior Proctor of England’s greatest University and a confidant of the Bishop of Ely. Thus, I am an important man, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that a place like Lincoln should want to include me among its officials.’

  ‘But you will not be among its officials,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You will be in Cambridge.’

  ‘A non-residentiary canon,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the cathedral will benefit from having my name in its records and, in return, I shall claim a modest income from the prebendal stall I am to “occupy”. Prestige, Matt. It is all about prestige – on both sides.’

  ‘I would have thought being the Bishop of Ely’s spy would count against you, Brother,’ said Suttone with his customary bluntness. ‘I, on the other hand, am one of my Order’s foremost scholars, and my family has long been associated with Lincoln. My grandfather was Bishop Oliver Suttone.’

  Michael regarded him coolly, while Bartholomew supposed that either the long-dead prelate had taken vows of celibacy later in life or – more likely – had ignored them altogether.

  ‘I am not forced to rely on dead ancestors to help me win favour,’ declared the monk icily. ‘And my bishop is very well thought of by his peers.’

  His comment suggested the same could not be said for Bishop Oliver Suttone, although Bartholomew had no idea whether the man had been a saint or the biggest crook in Christendom.

  ‘Night is drawing on,’ said Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, kicking his pony forward to speak quietly to the physician. Cynric was the last of the four-man party from Michaelhouse. ‘We should not dally while they quarrel again. Remember what happened last night? You and I were hard-pressed to fight off those robbers, and this pair were next to worthless.’

  ‘Michael was not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the competent way the monk had wielded a stave. For a man who had foresworn arms, the monk was remarkably adept with long pieces of wood.

  The religious habits worn by Michael and Suttone had deterred most footpads from attacking them on their journey, although the ruthless band that had set their ambush the previous night had chosen to ignore the general consensus that it was a bad idea to raise weapons against men of God. They would be more cautious the next time, though. Cynric was a formidable swordsman, and Bartholomew’s recent experiences in France – a country with which England was currently at war – had honed his once mediocre skills to the point where he was more than a match for the common robber.

  Cynric sniffed as he rode next to Bartholomew. ‘But Suttone distracted me by falling to his knees and squawking prayers. Look at them now – they are debating whether Bishop Gynewell of Lincoln is better than Bishop de Lisle of Ely, and neither is qualified to give an opinion, because they have never met Gynewell. They will squabble for hours, if you do not move them on.’

  Bartholomew addressed his argumentative colleagues. ‘I can see the city gates ahead. They will close at dusk, so we do not have much time if we want to sleep inside tonight.’

  Suttone squinted into the rapidly fading light. ‘Bishop Gynewell mentioned gates south of the city in his letter – although he said the first set actually protects a suburb called Wigford, not Lincoln itself. However, he also said the Carmelite Friary is located in Wigford, so we shall stay there.’

  ‘I am not staying with White Friars,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘They have a nasty habit of fasting or dining solely on fish during Advent – and after a day in the saddle, a man needs red meat. We shall hunt out the Benedictines instead. They have a more sensible attitude to such matters.’

  ‘If you had bothered to read Gynewell’s missive, you would know that the Black Monks’ Priory is a long way to the east of the town,’ argued Suttone. ‘Too far to go tonight. But my Carmelite brethren will not starve two hungry canons-elect and a University physician—’

  ‘Look,’ said Cynric, pointing to where someone was lighting a lantern outside a substantial gatehouse. The lamp swung in the gathering wind, and would not burn for long. ‘Only a convent would own such a great, thick door. We could ask to stay there.’

  ‘We could not,’ said Suttone distastefully. ‘According to Gynewell, the first friary encountered from this direction will be Gilbertine.’ He almost spat the name of the only religious Order to be founded in England. ‘And we all know they are inferior to the rest of us.’

  ‘Then you can find somewhere better tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, spurring his horse forward. The Cambridge Gilbertines were respectable, sober men, and he thought Suttone’s prejudice against their Order was unjustified and ignorant. ‘But tonight we shall stay here. It is too near nightfall to be choosy.’

  Suttone opened his mouth to argue, but the temperature was dropping fast as the sun disappeared, and even he saw further travel would be foolish. He set his pony after Bartholomew, with Michael and Cynric at his heels.

  The Gilbertine Priory of St Katherine occupied a substantial tract of land about a mile south of the city, tucked between the main road and the broad River Witham. Like many convents that had been built outside a town defences, it looked to its own security, and was protected by a high wall. Unfortunately, the wall was in a poor state of repair, suggesting it had been built in a time of plenty, but the priory within was currently experiencing leaner times. On closer inspection, the gatehouse was similarly afflicted: there was worm in its wooden door and its metal bosses were rusty. The grille that allowed guards to scan visitors before opening the front door was missing, affording anyone outside an unobstructed view of the buildings within. Bartholomew saw several long, tiled roofs, indicating that the Gilbertines owned a sizeable institution, if not a wealthy one.

  Opposite the gate, standing so close to the side of the road that carts would surely be obliged to alter course to avoid hitting it, was a tall structure, liberally adorned with pinnacles and a teetering central spire. It stood twice the height of a man, and reminded Bartholomew of a roadside shrine he had seen recently in France.

  ‘It is probably the Eleanor Cross,’ said Suttone, when he saw his colleagues regarding it curiously. He raised his eyebrows in contrived disbelief when Michael regarded him blankly. ‘Queen Eleanor – wife of the first King Edward.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael, struggling to remember his history before Sut
tone started to gloat. ‘When she died, Edward was so distressed that he built one of these monuments at every place her body rested on its journey to Westminster Abbey. The cortege started near Lincoln, I recall.’

  ‘The King left her viscera here, though,’ added Suttone, determined to have the last word.

  ‘Her what, Father?’ asked Cynric.

  ‘Viscera – innards,’ explained Suttone. ‘It is a great honour for the cathedral to have them.’

  Cynric eyed him in shocked revulsion. ‘You English!’ he muttered, but not quite softly enough to escape Suttone’s sharp ears. ‘Disembowelling queens is not the act of civilised men. You are worse than the French – and that is saying something.’

  Suttone’s eyes narrowed. The book-bearer had been taciturn and deferential before Bartholomew had taken him overseas some eighteen months before, but the experience had changed him – and not for the better. He often voiced his own opinions now, and was not afraid to say exactly what he thought, even when it was rude. Bartholomew did not seem to care, and even sought out the fellow’s advice on some matters, which Suttone, a traditional sort of man, found unconscionable. It was true that Cynric’s military skills had saved them several times during the journey, but Suttone disliked saucy servants, and he preferred the old Cynric. He opened his mouth to object to being compared unfavourably to the French, but the party had been spotted by the man kindling the lamp – a small fellow with jug-like ears. Like all male members of the Gilbertine Order, he wore an ankle-length tunic of black, covered by a white cloak and hood.

  ‘Are you looking for lodgings?’ he asked, coming towards them with open eagerness. ‘My name is John de Whatton. We have plenty of beds and food, even for Benedictines and Carmelites, and especially if they can pay.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Michael ungraciously. ‘I am starving. So is my horse,’ he added as an afterthought, when Suttone drew breath to comment on his plague-inducing appetite.