‘He did say he believed it to be genuine,’ acknowledged Michael.
‘Of course he did, because it is true. But if you need more proof, then inspect its markings. As even you will know, there are two icons associated with St Hugh: a pet swan and a chalice engraved with an image of the Baby Jesus. If you look on my chalice, you will see the carving quite clearly.’
‘And you bought it from a relic-seller,’ said Michael. ‘Had you met this man before?’
‘No, he hails from Rome. But I recognised the Hugh Chalice at once, and I am delighted to play a role in putting it where it belongs. The translation will be made on St Thomas’s Day, where the cup will take pride of place in my installation ceremony, in front of a thousand grateful pilgrims.’
Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘But it is odd that it should appear now, Father, just when you happen to be in a position to make this spectacular benefaction.’
‘It is not odd – it is a miracle,’ declared Simon, glaring at him. ‘And you can think what you like, but as far as I am concerned the only thing that matters is that this holy thing will soon be in the cathedral, where it belongs.’
‘You do not have a mark on your shoulder, do you?’ asked Bartholomew incautiously. ‘Of a cup.’
Simon regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘A mark? What are you talking about?’
‘A self-inflicted sign. A scar picked out with ink. One that depicts a chalice.’
Simon regarded him with distaste. ‘I know the sort of self-mutilations to which you refer, and they are favoured by men of lesser intelligence. I am offended that you should ask me such a question, but I am also curious. Why do you think I should let myself be so scarred?’
Bartholomew shrugged. It had been a stupid thing to ask. Simon was a priest, and had no reason to associate himself with Aylmer, Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete. ‘I have seen others adorned with chalices recently, and your obvious devotion to—’
Simon smiled unexpectedly. ‘You are right about my dedication to St Hugh, but any marks I bear are on my soul, not my skin. Do you want to inspect me?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Michael hastily, when the priest’s robe started to come up, revealing a pair of scaly legs. ‘Your word is good enough for me, and we do not want you to take a chill when you are about to entertain the Gilbertines with your fine voice. Is this relic-seller still in Lincoln?’
‘No,’ replied Simon, adjusting his habit. ‘He left the city as soon as he sold me the chalice.’
‘Why did he approach you to make his sale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not the cathedral, which might have given him more money?’
‘The cathedral has no spare funds, and everyone knows it,’ said Simon scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a building like that? The relic-seller knew he would get a better price from an individual. He chose me because I have always made my veneration of the saint public, and because it is common knowledge that I am wealthier than most parish priests.’
‘Brother Michael!’ called a cheerful voice behind them. It was Hamo, licking his moist lips. ‘You must attend nones with me, and afterwards, you shall have more Lombard slices. I said we would look after you, and we mean to do it well. You will enjoy your sojourn at our priory, I promise you.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Michael politely. ‘But I am a man of modest appetite, and I have already eaten seven cakes this morning. That is perfectly sufficient for now. But we were talking about Aylmer’s murder. The bishop asked me to investigate, although you already know this, of course.’
Hamo had the grace to blush. ‘I did hear Gynewell murmur something when I was polishing the door to Prior Roger’s solar.’
Bartholomew was thinking about what Simon – and Sabina – had said about Aylmer’s character. He turned to the priest. ‘Aylmer was a known thief, yet the cathedral said nothing when Suttone made him his Vicar Choral. Why were there no objections?’
‘The appointment of deputies is left to the individual canon,’ explained Simon. ‘Brother Michael will tell you that. The cathedral has no say in the matter.’
‘That is true,’ said Michael, ‘although someone could have mentioned to Suttone that he had appointed a felon, nonetheless. It would have been polite.’
It was Hamo who answered. ‘No one said anything because folk are loath to offend a Suttone by telling him he has made a bad decision. Complaints were certainly aired in Chapter meetings, though, especially by Dean Bresley. Aylmer was disliked, not just because he was a thief, but because he was a member of the Commonalty. That rabble think they can win the town’s heart with their Miller’s Market, but it will take more than free cakes to alleviate the wrongs they have perpetrated.’
‘What wrongs?’ asked Michael.
‘Think carefully before you cast aspersions, Hamo,’ said Simon sharply. ‘It is because of spiteful chatter that this feud has escalated. Remember how God struck down your predecessor, Fat William, for his venal sins? Well, gossip is just as great a transgression. Watch your tongue.’
Michael sighed. ‘I applaud your lofty principles, Father Simon, but if either of you know anything that may help me locate Aylmer’s killer, then you must tell me.’
Simon rolled his eyes; he thought Michael was putting too much store in idle talk. ‘There are rumours that Miller’s import–export business is helping to undermine the local cloth trade, but I do not believe them. These are lies invented by the Guild, because they want to set the weavers against the Commonalty.’
‘That is one interpretation,’ said Hamo. ‘But even you cannot deny that Miller associates with some particularly nasty people – Thoresby, Nicholas Herl, Langar, Chapman, to name but a few.’
Simon’s expression was icy. ‘Those are no nastier than Kelby and Dalderby of the Guild.’
‘I do not care whether Miller and his friends are servants of Satan,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I just want to know what is said about them.’
Hamo answered, his expression gleefully spiteful. ‘Miller and several cronies arrived in Lincoln twenty years ago and, almost immediately, there was an increase in crime – a lot of property went missing over the next few months and they became ever more rich. At the same time, they started to infiltrate the Commonalty, and now they run it to suit themselves. Personally, I think they still deal on the wrong side of the law.’
‘And Aylmer?’ asked Michael, ignoring the way Simon shook his head in a way that suggested he thought there was no truth to the accusations. ‘Was he one of the men who arrived with Miller?’
‘No, he came a few weeks later,’ replied Hamo, also ignoring Simon. ‘But he lost no time in having himself elected to the Commonalty. Miller was fond of him, and I imagine the killer will be quaking in his boots as we speak. He will be terrified his identity will be exposed, and Miller will come after him. He will not appreciate you asking questions that might reveal him, Brother, so you should be careful.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, although Michael remained unmoved. ‘If what you say is true, then I shall have Miller on my side.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hamo. ‘He will be keen to subject the killer to his own brand of justice, and will try to prevent you from getting to him first. I do not envy you your task.’
It was after noon by the time Bartholomew managed to escape from Michael and climb the hill to see Spayne. He walked briskly, Cynric trotting at his side, and his stomach churned when he considered how important the meeting might be to his personal happiness, despite Michael’s cautionary warnings. But his nervous anticipation was all for nothing, because when he arrived, he was informed by a maid that both Spayne and his sister were out.
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he would collect his horse and ride to meet them.
The maid shook her head. ‘I do not know, sir. I can only tell you that Mistress Ursula said not to expect them back until after nightfall tomorrow, and to lock up the house early.’
‘You have some very large
fires going, lass,’ observed Cynric, peering past her into the hall. ‘Why would you make such a blaze, if no one is at home?’
‘Mistress Ursula ordered them for the snow on the roof,’ explained the maid. She led them away from the door and into the middle of the street, where she pointed upwards. ‘It fell very thickly a few nights ago, and the weight has made the roof sag. Can you see it? Mistress Ursula said we need to keep fires burning all the time, so the heat will melt it away.’
‘It might slough off and land on someone,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In Cambridge, we once had a man die when a great mass of ice fell from a roof. We did not find his body for months.’
She crossed herself. ‘I will warn Mayor Spayne. Perhaps he can build barriers, to stop folk coming too close. Of course, then the guildsmen will say he is claiming part of a common highway for himself. They will moan if he tries to protect people, and they will moan if someone is hurt. Vile men! Tell me, did you really travel here with a member of the Suttone clan?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why?’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘It is a great honour – they are so well thought of in these parts. Bishop Gynewell was delighted when he heard one was in holy orders and might be persuaded to take a prebendal stall. Everyone likes the Suttone family.’
Bartholomew was amused. ‘We had no idea we were in such exalted company. Have the Suttones taken a side in the city’s feud?’
She shook her head. ‘They do not come to town very often – perhaps because when they do, the Guild and the Commonalty try to recruit them.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Mayor Spayne had business with Sheriff Lungspee this morning, sir. I doubt he is still there, but one of the soldiers might know his plans for later. You will find the castle on top of the hill.’
Lincoln’s main street was so spacious in places that it was able to accommodate a whole string of markets. First, there was an area where corn was traded, which had pigeons picking at the filthy ground and sturdy scales ready for weighing sacks of grain. Then there was the Pultria, or Poultry, which was fringed with tightly packed houses and churches. The air was full of clucks, hisses, coos and quacks, and underfoot, feathers, eggshells and bird droppings had been trodden into the mud to form a thick mat. The fish market was next, but the silting of the Fossedike meant it took too long to bring the catch from the sea, and the specimens on display were dull-eyed and smelly. Gulls soared overhead, diving occasionally to snatch a morsel from under the feet of the haggling fishmongers, and cats stalked and crouched in the shadows. Then came the High Market, with ramshackle stalls that sold everything from ribbons to rabbits. It reeked of old urine and decaying meat.
The houses on the high street were mostly handsome, but when Bartholomew glanced along some of the alleys that radiated off it, he saw Lincoln’s grandeur was superficial. Groups of men slouched aimlessly against cracked, crumbling walls, and their eyes were dull and flat, as though they were resigned to the hopelessness of their situation. He assumed most were weavers, whose forebears had flocked to Lincoln half a century earlier, when there were fortunes to be made in the wool trade.
‘I do not understand,’ said Cynric, regarding them with pity. ‘This is a rich city, with its great minster and fine Norman houses. So why are its people poor?’
‘Apparently, it is because the Fossedike is clogged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It means the weavers cannot send their finished cloth for export, and they are losing out to those who live in more easily accessible ports. I read that royal parliaments were once held in Lincoln, but I do not think His Majesty would be very impressed by what is here now. I have never seen streets more choked with filth, not even in Cambridge.’
‘Not even in France,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And that is a terrible place.’
They passed through the gate that divided the lower part of the town from the plateau known as the Bail. Then they turned left, towards a fortress that transpired to be as dilapidated as the rest of the city. Unimpressed, Cynric announced that to storm it would take no more than a good, hard shove at one of its teetering walls.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist in a pinch that hurt. Before the physician could look around, he found himself hauled backwards and pressed into a doorway. ‘It is Bishop Gynewell! We do not want him to see us.’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘He seems a pleasant man.’
Cynric regarded him in disbelief. ‘He is a demon, boy! You only have to look at him to see he is one of Satan’s imps – he makes no effort to disguise his horns. And if that is not obvious enough for you, then bear in mind that he likes roaring fires and food made with powerful spices. Ask anyone.’
Bartholomew studied him warily, wondering if it was a jest to take his mind off Matilde, but could tell by the earnest expression that his book-bearer was perfectly serious. ‘Gynewell is not a demon.’
Cynric’s amazement intensified. ‘But he is! And you should remember it when you visit him – it might save your life. Or better yet, do not enter his domain at all. He might spear you with his pitchfork or rip you to pieces with his claws.’
Bartholomew was about to argue further when Gynewell started to walk in their direction. With a grim face, Cynric gripped Bartholomew’s sleeve in one hand, his sword in the other and shot through the door to someone’s house. He slammed it behind him and made for the back entrance, ignoring the astonished gaze of the family that was sitting around their kitchen table. Bartholomew grinned sheepishly as he was hauled past them, unable to break free of Cynric’s iron grip.
‘Hello,’ he said, feeling he should make some effort at conversation. ‘It is cold today.’
‘It is indeed,’ stammered the man at the head of the table, while his wife and children sat with mouths agape. ‘We shall have more snow soon.’
And then Bartholomew was in their private garden, where Cynric marched down a path and ushered him through the rear gate and into a lane.
‘There,’ said the book-bearer, closing it firmly. ‘We have escaped. The castle is up here, I believe.’
Leaving Bartholomew at a loss for words, Cynric strode towards the barbican’s ancient metal-studded door. When he knocked, Bartholomew noticed the wood was so rotten that his fist left indentations. On closer inspection, he saw he could probably hack his way inside with one of his little surgical knives, and knew its neglected defences would present no obstacle at all to a serious invader.
‘Mayor Spayne,’ repeated the guard who came to ask what they wanted. ‘Let me see my list.’
He was a slovenly fellow, with bad teeth and a festering boil on his neck that he kept rubbing with grime-coated fingers. He made a great show of consulting a piece of parchment, which Bartholomew saw was a well-thumbed gaol-delivery record. He was puzzled, wondering why Spayne should be on a register of felons, but then saw the document was held upside down, and realised the ‘list’ was the guard’s way of impressing illiterate visitors with a show of administration.
‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually, rolling up the warrant in a businesslike manner. ‘He left several hours ago.’
‘Do you know where he went?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed.
The guard shook his head. ‘But Sheriff Lungspee might. Sheriff! Sir! Over here!’
Before Bartholomew could demur, a man with long greasy hair and a shabby leather jerkin started to walk towards them. The physician swore under his breath, knowing it was unwise to draw the attention of city officials after what had transpired at Kelby’s house the night before. He started to back away, hoping to avoid the encounter, but Lungspee was too close, and it would have looked suspicious to make a dash for it.
‘Look at this,’ said the sheriff, proffering a hand adorned with a large emerald ring. ‘Have you ever seen a more magnificent object?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it rather gaudy. He could not imagine wearing such a thing himself. It would be in the way when he examined his patients and he would almos
t certainly lose it. However, many of his medical colleagues believed that emeralds controlled unruly passions, and he wondered whether he should invest in one for Michael. ‘Can I buy one like it in Lincoln?’
‘Not these days, unfortunately,’ replied Lungspee sadly. ‘Flaxfleete gave it to me, although it had nothing to do with his acquittal, you understand. It is even better than the three white pearls I had from Miller, around the time I released Thoresby following the Dalderby affair. What do you think?’ He hauled a purse from under his jerkin and showed off a trio of milky gems.
‘Very nice. What Dalderby affair?’
Lungspee pursed his lips as he put the jewels away. ‘You must be a stranger, or you would know about our town and its troubles. Thoresby threatened to chop off Dalderby’s head – he would have done it, too, if I had not stopped him. Then Miller gave me these pearls, and I decided Thoresby had learned his lesson, so I let him out of prison. Dalderby was not very pleased, but I made up for it by looking kindly on his friend Flaxfleete yesterday. It is a delicate business, being sheriff.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew weakly. ‘I imagine it is.’
Lungspee looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any items of value you would like to share with me? Your clothes are of decent quality, and a man of good standing always has a few baubles to pass to the sheriffs he meets, especially if he wants a favourable verdict at some point in the future.’
Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable. Should he oblige, lest he and Michael were accused of foul play over the business with Flaxfleete, or would the fact that they were innocent be enough to see any spiteful accusations dismissed? He glanced at Cynric, who winked and nodded, indicating he thought coins should change hands. But Bartholomew had never bribed an official in the past, and was loath to start now.
‘Actually, I am looking for Mayor Spayne,’ he said, aware of Cynric rolling his eyes in disgust at the lost opportunity. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 14