Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  They were pleasantly surprised to find Lincoln far more lively than its suburbs. People were in the streets, and shopkeepers operated by the light of lamps. Inns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade, and musicians entertained frozen admirers with pipes, drums, lutes and rebecs. The performer with the largest crowd was a singer who bawled obscene ballads and encouraged his audience

  – a scruffy horde with the pinched look of poverty about them – to join in the chorus. They were watched with rank disapproval by several well-dressed merchants. The scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, and Michael bought some to eat as they walked, parting with a few to a boy with a mop of golden curls, who agreed to lead them to the house of the merchant called William de Spayne. Michael was unimpressed when it transpired to be up a very steep incline.

  ‘Now you see why I prefer the Fens,’ he gasped, as he laboured upwards. ‘There are none of these mountains to ascend. Only heathens live in places where there are hills.’

  ‘That is Spayne’s home,’ chirped the boy, grinning his amusement at the monk’s discomfort. ‘It is almost opposite the corn market, which always runs late on Wednesdays, as you can see. Spayne’s place is called the Jewes House because it was built by the Jews who crucified St Hugh.’

  He snatched the rest of the chestnuts and scampered away before the monk could object, while Cynric regarded Spayne’s abode with serious misgivings.

  ‘I do not like the sound of this,’ he muttered. ‘Saints murdered by Jews.’

  ‘He is confusing two stories,’ explained Bartholomew, knowing Cynric could be superstitious and not wanting him to take against the city quite so soon. ‘St Hugh was a Lincoln bishop who died peacefully in his bed, and who was a good man. Little Hugh was a child allegedly crucified by Jews, although since identical stories arose at the same time in Norwich, Bury St Edmunds, York and Gloucester, it makes me wonder whether it was just an excuse.’

  ‘An excuse for what?’ asked Cynric uneasily.

  ‘For the expulsion of Jews from England a few years later,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And the confiscation of all their goods. The Crown made a lot of money by passing that particular law.’

  ‘And whoever managed to lay hands on this building did rather well out of the Jews’ misfortunes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a very fine house, although in desperate need of loving care.’

  ‘Just like everything else around here, then,’ said Cynric, looking around disparagingly.

  ‘Are you going to knock?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did no more than stare at Spayne’s front door. That part of Lincoln was full of stone houses, although Spayne’s and the building next door were by far the best. Both were pure Norman, with round-headed doors and windows, and the stocky sense of permanence always associated with that particular style of architecture. The monk was right when he said Spayne’s home needed money spent on repairs, though, because the mouldings were beginning to weather, and the window shutters were rotting under cheap paint. The house next to it was in a far better state, although the lamps from the nearby corn market showed scorch marks that suggested it had been in a recent fire.

  When Bartholomew continued to hesitate, Cynric knocked for him. The book-bearer jumped back quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword, when it was hauled open by a man wearing a purple cote-hardie – a tight-fitting tunic with flaring knee-length skirts – and a red hat. He was laughing and held a goblet in his hand. Behind him was a hall filled with cheering men.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his humour evaporating when he saw strangers in the darkness outside. ‘I was expecting more claret from the Swan tavern, not visitors.’

  ‘Master Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping into the light spilling from the house. Despite his finery, the man was unattractive – no chin at all and eyes that were far too small for his fleshy face – and the physician was not surprised Matilde had rejected his offer of marriage.

  The man flushed with anger. ‘I most certainly am not! My name is Walter Kelby, and you would do well to remember it. Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. There was a strong smell of wine, and Kelby was unsteady on his feet. The physician knew perfectly well that intoxicated men sometimes began fights over nothing, and he did not want trouble. ‘I apologise for the intrusion – we have obviously been directed to the wrong house.’

  ‘You want Spayne?’ Kelby staggered when he tried to lean against the door jamb and missed. ‘Why? Is it about wool? If so, then you would fare better with me, since I offer competitive prices. Come in, and join our revelries. I am Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we are celebrating.’

  ‘Celebrating what?’ asked Bartholomew, since the man was obviously itching to tell him.

  ‘Our good fortune. One of us accidentally committed a crime during the Summer Madness, but obviously he was not in his right wits when he did it, so he should not be held accountable for the consequences. But God made Sheriff Lungspee see reason today, and Flaxfleete was acquitted. He will make reparation at the General Pardon, of course – it only costs sixpence, anyway – but it was good to learn he will not be fined by the secular courts for something that was not his fault.’

  Bartholomew smiled politely. ‘Then we shall leave you to savour your victory.’

  ‘Hurry up, Kelby.’ A short man with sharp, rat-like features came to stand behind the merchant, and Bartholomew had the immediate sense that he was dishonest, despite the fact that his sober clothes suggested he had taken holy orders. ‘Where is the wine? Master Quarrel said it would be delivered within the hour, and I would kill for a drink.’

  ‘These fellows want to know if I am Spayne,’ slurred Kelby. He stumbled when his friend flung an arm across his shoulder, and Bartholomew jumped forward to prevent both from toppling into the street. ‘The ground moved! It must have been another earthquake. Is the cathedral still standing? Can you see it, Flaxfleete?’

  ‘It is too dark,’ replied Flaxfleete, after a few moments of intent peering. ‘But I do not think God will tear up the land tonight. Not after my success in the law courts.’

  ‘Earthquake?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘Is Lincoln subject to them, then?’

  ‘We had one during the life of Bishop Hugh, although he died more than a hundred years ago,’ explained Flaxfleete. ‘The minster was shaken to pieces, and he rebuilt it. Our Guild reveres St Hugh, and we try to emulate his actions.’

  ‘By raising cathedrals?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought Lincoln only had one of them.’

  ‘I mean we donate money to worthy causes,’ said Kelby, fortunately too drunk to know the monk was mocking him. ‘Such as providing ourselves with a new guildhall, and buying wine for the cathedral officials. We are good friends with them, unlike some I could mention.’

  ‘Very worthy,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could prolong the conversation with more questions. He started to back away. ‘Good evening to you.’

  ‘Who told you Spayne lived here?’ asked Flaxfleete curiously. ‘One of the choristers – small boys with angelic faces and the Devil’s manners? It is the kind of trick they might play on strangers.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s tug on his arm that indicated he wanted to go.

  ‘To inconvenience men who have business with him,’ said Kelby. ‘God bless them for it.’

  ‘And because we are good, honest guildsmen,’ added Flaxfleete. ‘But Spayne is a member of that vile coven of rich merchants known as the Commonalty.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. When he saw the monk’s interest had been piqued by the two men’s odd remarks, Bartholomew sighed and gave up his attempt to cut the discussion short.

  ‘All decent, respectable traders are members of the Guild of Corpus Christi,’ explained Kelby patiently. ‘Meanwhile, all corrupt ones belong to a council known as the Commonalty.’

  ‘Damn them to Hell,’ added Flaxfleete viciously. ‘So, we and Sp
ayne are enemies, and have been for years. Fortunately, the Guild has more than fifty members, but the Commonalty is only twelve. However, these dozen hold a disproportionate degree of power, and the unemployed weavers favour them because they give charity. One is Adam Miller, you see.’ He regarded them with pursed lips.

  ‘Lord!’ said Michael, pretending to be shocked. He was amused by the way the merchants kept assuming strangers should know all about their city. ‘Not Adam Miller!’

  ‘The very same,’ said Kelby gravely. ‘The whole town is afraid of him and his devious ways – except the weavers, of course. And Spayne is his man.’

  ‘Spayne is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He did not think Matilde would have embarked on a friendship with a man who indulged in illegal activities; she was a woman of considerable integrity.

  ‘Yes, and so is Miller,’ said Kelby firmly, leaning so hard against Flaxfleete that the man dropped his cup. ‘We are a divided city: the Guild and the cathedral stand for everything good, and the Commonalty represents everything bad. Every honest soul is terrified of Miller.’

  Michael was puzzled. ‘But I understand a man called Adam Miller finances Miller’s Market. He cannot be all bad.’

  Flaxfleete waved a dismissive hand. ‘As I said, he is popular among unemployed weavers, but we guildsmen and our people are not deceived by his so-called largess.’

  ‘You wear a priest’s robes, yet it sounds as though you were tried by a secular court,’ said Michael to Flaxfleete, intrigued both by the merchants and their chatter. ‘Why? You could have claimed benefit of clergy and been subject to more lenient Canon law.’

  ‘Because I took holy orders after the arson incident, and Bishop Gynewell declined to judge me,’ said Flaxfleete. It was clear he thought the decision an unreasonable one. ‘He said he did not wish to become embroiled in the city’s dispute, especially since the buildings I happened to incinerate belonged to my deadly enemy: Spayne.’

  ‘And there is the fact he would not be the first to take holy orders to avoid secular punishment,’ muttered Bartholomew to Cynric. ‘If that was allowed to happen, every felon in England would wear a habit.’

  ‘Most do anyway,’ replied Cynric. He had scant respect for clerics.

  ‘But it was our turn to win a trial presided over by Sheriff Lungspee, in any case,’ slurred Kelby. ‘Especially after what happened to poor Dalderby.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Michael.

  ‘A villainous rogue called Thoresby threatened to chop off his head,’ explained Flaxfleete indignantly. ‘It will not surprise you to learn that Dalderby is a guildsman, and Thoresby belongs to the Commonalty. It was obvious that Thoresby was guilty, but Lungspee pardoned him anyway. It was shameful! Miller certainly bribed Lungspee to get him released. Here comes the wine at last.’

  ‘You did not say why you wanted to see Spayne,’ said Kelby, lurching to one side to allow a sweating youth to enter his house with a barrel. ‘If it is wool business, then you should deal with me instead – and I will even give you a cup of claret while we discuss terms.’

  ‘It is not wool business,’ said Michael. ‘Although I understand wool is what made Lincoln rich.’

  ‘It did,’ acknowledged Flaxfleete. ‘But times have changed, and we are all suffering from cheap foreign imports – except Spayne, who has trading rights in the upstart port of Boston. Damn him – and damn them, too! Boston is killing Lincoln, and he encourages it.’

  ‘You should go sparingly with that,’ advised Michael, pointing at the keg. ‘My friend here visited France this year, and he says the grape harvest was poor. That claret might make you sick.’

  Kelby tried to focus on the barrel, screwing up his face as he did so. ‘Well, I have had more than enough for today, so perhaps I will abstain.’

  ‘I have not,’ said Flaxfleete, clapping a comradely hand on his shoulder. ‘I intend to make this a night to remember – my acquittal and the other good news.’

  ‘What other good news?’ asked Kelby, trying to focus on him.

  Flaxfleete grinned. ‘I am saving that to announce later, but you will be delighted, I assure you. We shall be celebrating all night, and I mean to drink until I can no longer stand.’

  ‘My students do that,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘But they are sixteen. An excess of wine leads the black bile to—’

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘Or it really will be too late to call on Spayne.’

  ‘He lives next door,’ said Flaxfleete, jerking his thumb at the handsome house that stood uphill from his own.

  ‘And you can tell him from me that if there is any Summer Madness next year, he might find more of his storerooms burned to the ground.’

  In the darkness of the street, Bartholomew heard a roar of delight as the barrel was presented to the company within. It was loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring house, and he wondered what Spayne thought of the celebration. From what he had been told by the Gilbertines – and what he knew of the disease called Holy Fire – Flaxfleete’s claim that his illness had made him incinerate Spayne’s buildings was bogus, and Sheriff Lungspee had been wrong to acquit him.

  ‘This is a godless city,’ grumbled Cynric, as they walked towards the house Flaxfleete had indicated. ‘Disembowelled queens, warring merchants, crucified children. It is not what I expected.’

  ‘Flaxfleete was right: that boy did play a trick on us,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, ignoring the book-bearer’s unhappy mutters. He grinned. ‘If he is a chorister, he will have a shock when he realises he has just started a feud with one of the new canons.’

  ‘It sounds as though Lincoln has enough feuds already,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘The city feels uneasy, and you should avoid disputes, even with choirboys.’

  They reached the house, and the physician stood hesitantly outside a second door that evening. He gazed at it, wondering whether the narrow alley that separated Spayne’s home from Kelby’s provided enough of a barrier between what sounded to be very determined foes.

  Spayne was wealthy, judging from his house, which had new shutters on its windows and a highly polished front door. Snow was piled on the roof in a way that suggested it might slough off at any moment and flatten someone, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Spayne might hope it would, and that its victim would be a neighbour. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer, so he knocked again.

  Michael was about to suggest they return in the morning, when they heard a bar being removed and the door was opened by a woman in a long green robe. Beyond her was a handsome hall with fine wall-paintings and polished floorboards. Unfortunately, the chamber’s elegant proportions were spoiled by the presence of a crude wooden brace near the hearth, suggesting the ceiling was unstable and needed to be shored up.

  ‘The answer is no,’ said the woman coldly. ‘The sound of your revelry is not disturbing us. You can carouse all night without having the slightest impact on our comfort. Good night.’

  She started to close the door, but Michael inserted his booted foot. ‘My apologies, madam, but we have no idea what you are talking about.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Kelby did not send you?’

  Michael shook his head.

  ‘He is trying to make as much noise as he can, in the hope of annoying us,’ she went on. ‘He and his Guild often enjoy raucous meetings, but this one is particularly galling: they are celebrating the fact that Sheriff Lungspee found Flaxfleete innocent of setting my brother’s storerooms alight. He claimed it was Summer Madness, but we all know it was not.’

  ‘That is not why we came,’ said Michael. ‘We are visitors from Cambridge, and I believe Master Spayne may share a mutual acquaintance with us.’

  ‘I am Ursula, his sister, but I am afraid he is out.’ Ursula gave a curious half smile. ‘Please do not tell Kelby this, but when Will heard there were plans to celebrate Flaxfleete’s acquittal, he made arrangements to sleep elsewhere. He asked me to go
with him, but I refuse to allow Kelby and his henchmen to drive me from my home.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. He backed away. ‘Then we shall return tomorrow.’

  ‘Where is your brother staying, Mistress?’ asked Bartholomew, prepared to travel some distance if it meant having answers that night. ‘Would it be possible to call on him this evening?’

  ‘He is lodging at the Black Monks’ Priory.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  Her fierce expression softened. ‘Do not venture that way now. The road is haunted by footpads, and the monks always retire early in the winter. They will not admit you, and you will find you have made a wasted journey – if not a dangerous one. Can your business not wait a few hours?’

  ‘Yes, it can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We are sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow. I shall be up very early, baking.’ She smiled spitefully, giving the impression that she would be doing so as noisily as possible, and that neighbours with sore heads could expect to find themselves woken before they were ready.

  ‘We shall call as soon as we can,’ said Michael. ‘I hope you manage some rest tonight.’

  ‘That is what a tincture of valerian is for,’ she said, shaking a tiny phial at them. ‘Will declines to use it when the Guild is at its revels, but I do not mind. He—’

  She broke off when a high-pitched shriek issued from Kelby’s house, and there came the sound of footsteps hammering on a wooden floor. Lights flickered under the window shutters, and then there was shouting. When Bartholomew looked back at Ursula, she had closed the door, evidently unsettled by the sudden uproar in the enemy camp.

  ‘Murder!’ came a braying cry. ‘Help us!’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder as he prepared to respond. ‘We are strangers here. It would be foolish to interfere in something that is none of our business.’

  He began to lead the way down the hill. As they passed Kelby’s house, the door was thrown open, revealing the lighted hallway within. Flaxfleete lay on the ground, heels drumming, while his friends hovered helplessly above him. He was in the throes of a fit, and Bartholomew knew from the way he was lying that he would suffocate unless he was moved. He pulled away from Michael.