Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

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by Susanna GREGORY


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Is Ravenser not usually diligent, then?’ ‘I think he prefers non-secular activities to religious ones, although he has been working very hard this morning. I can only assume it is penance for some sin committed during his latest revelries.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

 

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