Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘And if you are walking between his house and a good many other places,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Both are on the main street. Besides, it sounds as though Chapman has suffered a wound that may have been caused by a sword. We should speak to him before accusing Spayne of foul play.’

  Cynric turned around and strode up the hill again, obviously disgusted that the strenuous detour had provided no clear evidence of the mayor’s guilt. ‘You were attacked by four assailants, and Chapman is only one man. And Spayne is furtive – not telling us where he was last night. I know folk say he is decent, but he has thrown in his lot with some very dubious characters.’

  ‘You dislike him because you think he should help me, but it is unfair to hold a grudge against a man who is acting as his conscience dictates.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ declared Cynric. ‘Look! Here come Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon, fresh from being mea sured for new vestments. It is a good opportunity to ask Simon about his lovers and brothers.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew, ‘because then he will know we have read his private prayer.’

  ‘He should not have left it in a public place, then.’

  ‘He did not leave it in a public place, Cynric.’

  Cynric waved an airy hand, and the physician knew he would ask his questions if the occasion arose. ‘Chapman’s wound is an excellent excuse to visit Adam Molendinarius, frater,’ he said with a predatory smile. ‘And Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone will be our protection.’

  Dean Bresley was with the three canons-elect. All four were in earnest conversation, and Bartholomew heard the dean clank as he walked, as if metal objects had been shoved down the lining of his cloak. The others seemed too intent on their discussion to notice.

  ‘Think of an excuse to take the dean, too,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I heard he favours the Commonalty. You will be safer when you visit Miller if Bresley is with you.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, losing his nerve. ‘I cannot do it. We do not know who attacked us last night, and de Wetherset is a complex man, well skilled in intrigue. He might have tried to rid himself of us, for reasons we do not yet understand.’

  ‘De Wetherset?’ asked Cynric doubtfully. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He lies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We caught him out over Simon’s alibi, and I do not like his old association with Miller and his cronies. It is odd that he was a juror when they were acquitted, and all just happen to be in Lincoln now. And speaking of that trial, it is stupid to go to Miller’s house. I am sure Langar did not believe me when I said I did not remember it.’

  ‘They will not harm you in broad daylight,’ argued Cynric. ‘And I will be close. So will de Wetherset, Suttone, and Dean Bresley, if you tell them to accompany you.’

  ‘I have decided to follow Simon’s example, and present the cathedral with a gift at my installation,’ announced Suttone to Bartholomew, as their paths converged. ‘But what should it be? Simon and the dean suggest an altar frontal.’

  ‘A relic is better,’ declared de Wetherset in his dogmatic manner. ‘An altar frontal will require a chest for storage and women to repair it when moths attack. These cost money. On the other hand, a relic will bring funds to the cathedral, because they attract pilgrims. Perhaps Simon will introduce you to the relic-seller who sold him the Hugh Chalice.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Suttone eagerly. ‘An item as significant as the Hugh Chalice would be a perfect gift.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Simon shortly. ‘He has left Lincoln, and will never return.’

  ‘You seem very certain of his plans,’ said Bartholomew, astonished by the brazen lie.

  ‘I am,’ said Simon curtly. ‘He has gone to … to Jerusalem, where he will retire. But the local relic-seller is Walter Chapman. He may have items to offer, although I have been informed that his wares are not always genuine, so you will have to be careful.’

  ‘I can tell the difference between something sacred and something fraudulent,’ boasted de Wetherset. ‘Take us to him, Simon, and I shall give Suttone the benefit of my unique skills.’

  ‘That may be difficult,’ said Dean Bresley. ‘The poor man was stabbed in a brawl outside the Swan tavern last night, and he is very ill.’

  ‘The Swan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it happened outside the Angel.’

  ‘The Swan,’ repeated Bresley firmly. ‘I was a witness to some of the violence myself.’

  ‘Spayne said it was the Angel,’ breathed Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘He lied to you.’

  ‘It may have been a slip of the tongue,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It happens sometimes.’

  ‘Taverns are turbulent places,’ the dean was saying, while Cynric looked manifestly unconvinced by the physician’s explanation. ‘Surgeon Bunoun thinks Chapman might die.’

  ‘If that is so, then discussing sacred objects will be good for his soul,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘And he may even donate something to the cathedral. Then Suttone will not have to part with his silver, but can still bask in the credit of arranging a gift.’

  ‘That would defeat the purpose,’ said Suttone. He reconsidered as avarice got the better of him. ‘Although I imagine the cathedral will not mind who pays, as long as it receives something valuable.’

  ‘True,’ said the dean. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you, and point out that gifting a relic to St Hugh may effect a miraculous cure.’

  ‘Come with us, Bartholomew,’ ordered de Wetherset. ‘You can tell him he is in danger of death, which will make him listen to us more readily.’ He held up his hand when the physician demurred. ‘It is not dishonest. It is for the good of the cathedral, so the end justifies the means.’

  ‘If you go, Father Simon, you will be able to pay your respects to your brother,’ said Cynric with a guileless grin that made him look slightly deranged. Bartholomew closed his eyes.

  Simon stared at the book-bearer. ‘What?’

  ‘Your brother,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Adam Miller. I see the family resemblance now.’

  There was an uneasiness in Simon’s eyes that was apparent to even the least astute of observers. ‘Rubbish! I barely know anyone from the Commonalty, and they are certainly not kin.’

  ‘You know Chapman well enough to have bought the Hugh Chalice from him,’ said Bartholomew. He disliked being told brazen lies – it suggested Simon thought him gullible and stupid.

  Simon was outraged. ‘I have already told you who sold it to me – someone who is no longer here.’

  ‘My colleague does not believe you, Simon,’ said Suttone, glancing at the physician. ‘But that is easily remedied. Swear on the Hugh Chalice that Chapman did not sell it to you. He will believe you then.’

  ‘You can swear that you and Miller are not kin at the same time,’ added Cynric opportunistically.

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Simon. ‘I do not have to prove myself to anyone.’

  ‘You can do it without harm, Simon,’ said Bresley, although his tone was more unhappy than malicious. ‘It is not the real one, so you can safely prevaricate and not be struck down.’

  ‘It is real!’ shouted Simon angrily. ‘Chapman told me … ’ He faltered. ‘Damn!’

  ‘Damn, indeed,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Why did you lie?’

  ‘Because of Chapman’s reputation,’ said Simon wearily. ‘I knew the Hugh Chalice was real as soon as I saw it, but I also knew that no one else would think so, if word spread that it had come from him. So I invented a different relic-seller, to avoid such an outcome. I did what I thought was best.’

  ‘We shall discuss the ethics of this tonight, by the fire,’ said de Wetherset loftily, beginning to walk northward. ‘First, however, we should see Miller. Do not dally, Bartholomew; we need your services.’

  He strode away before the physician could tell him that frightening patients with gloomy prognoses went against all the oaths he had sworn at his graduations, but Cynric pointed out that they had needed an excuse to
visit Chapman anyway, and pulled him after the portly ex-Chancellor. Bartholomew was surprised when Simon came too. The priest shrugged when he saw the physician’s bemusement.

  ‘Now you know the truth, it does not matter whether Chapman tells you he sold me the Hugh Chalice or not. And I am a cleric – if he is dying, he may require my services. He and Miller live in the parish of Newport, you see, and its vicar is Flaxfleete’s cousin. He may decline to give Chapman absolution, although I have never had anything against the Commonalty.’

  ‘And we know why,’ said Cynric pointedly. ‘What about Lady Christiana the elder?’

  Simon looked at him askance. ‘I have no idea what she thought of the Commonalty. What a bizarre thing to ask.’

  ‘You knew her, then,’ pressed Cynric. Bartholomew cringed at the bluntness of the interrogation.

  ‘Of course. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Is the Swan tavern noted for brawls?’ blurted Bartholomew. Cynric glared at him.

  ‘It is a respectable place,’ said Simon, still regarding Cynric with a puzzled frown. ‘Miller and his friends went there last night, probably because they did not feel like sliding down the icy hill to the Angel, where they usually drink. Quarrel usually manages to keep everything in order, though.’

  ‘He failed last night,’ said Bartholomew.

  Simon nodded. ‘So it would seem.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The suburb of Newport comprised a ribbon of houses that stretched along the main road north, two churches and a convent of Austin friars. Like much of Lincoln, Newport was poor, and Bartholomew supposed its inhabitants were mostly farmers and their servants and unemployed weavers. There was only one building of note, a handsome edifice surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. De Wetherset opened a gate, marched through the grounds, and tapped on the door.

  Several of the Commonalty, including Chapman, live here with Miller,’ he explained. ‘And Lora Boyner’s brewery is near the stream over there. She claims the secret of her ale is that she uses water that has not yet flowed through the city.’

  Bartholomew saw a neat, squat shed at the end of the garden. A horse was hitched to a cart, which was being loaded with barrels, and Lora was issuing orders to a pair of sweating apprentices. One keg was abandoned near the gate, and Lora and her people studiously looked the other way when a gaggle of women approached and began to roll it towards the nearest hovel. The weavers were proud, and Bartholomew was surprised the belligerent Lora should be sympathetic to their sensitivities.

  ‘Lord!’ said Suttone, gazing at Miller’s home in awe. ‘This is a mansion! Its owner must do very well at his trade – whatever it is. Is he a miller? There is a wheat-sheaf carved on his lintel.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said the dean. He frowned. ‘Actually, I am not sure what he does.’

  De Wetherset was better informed. ‘He is in the export–import business, although that cannot be easy with the Fossedike silting up. It means he sells things to people. In fact, if you express a desire to purchase anything, Miller is the man to get it for you. He has some very good contacts.’

  ‘Father Simon?’ asked Cynric innocently. ‘Can you be more specific about Adam Molendinarius’s work?’

  Simon scowled. ‘I know nothing about his dealings. Why would I?’

  The door was answered before Cynric could reply. A manservant conducted them to a solar, but insisted on remaining with them while a maid went to fetch Miller. It was an odd way to treat guests, but when Bartholomew looked behind him and realised Cynric had disappeared, he supposed Miller was right to be wary of men he did not know. He sincerely hoped the book-bearer would be careful, and refused to dwell on what might happen – to them both – if Cynric were caught snooping.

  Within a few moments, Miller and Langar arrived. Both looked tired and pale, and Miller was oddly subdued. His voice was husky when he spoke, as though he had been shouting. Bartholomew looked at the daggers they carried in their belts and tried to ascertain whether they were the ones drawn against him and Michael the night before. There were no obvious signs that they had been used in a fracas, but he suspected that even if there were, Miller and Langar would claim they had resulted from the skirmish in the Swan tavern.

  ‘Surgeon Bunoun says Chapman will die,’ said Miller, when Suttone had explained why they had come. ‘So he cannot show you his relics.’

  ‘Does he need a priest?’ asked Simon.

  Miller smiled at him, revealing his four teeth. ‘Not yet, although it is good of you to come.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can help,’ said Bartholomew, when de Wetherset shoved him forward with such force that he staggered. He had been watching the dean inspect a tray on which stood four gold goblets and a matching jug. ‘I have some experience with wounds.’

  ‘Recent experience,’ added Suttone helpfully. ‘He was at Poitiers, and his book-bearer says he treated many men with terrible injuries. He even managed to save a couple.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Langar warily. ‘You did not offer to help when Dalderby was shot.’

  ‘Your surgeon was already there,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It would have been impolite to interfere.’

  ‘You are interfering now,’ Langar pointed out, not unreasonably.

  ‘He is here to provide a second opinion,’ said de Wetherset smoothly. ‘That is not interference.’

  Miller regarded Bartholomew appraisingly, then blew his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come upstairs, then. I will take you, and Langar can stay here with the others. We never leave visitors alone, because—’

  ‘It would be rude,’ finished Langar loudly.

  ‘Right,’ said Miller with a tired sigh. ‘That is the reason. Not because we have anything to hide in our cellars. They are all empty, and we do not keep any goods of dubious origin in them.’

  ‘You should rest, Miller,’ said Langar sharply. ‘You were up all night with Chapman, and the lack of sleep has blunted your wits.’

  ‘Can we look at Chapman’s relics while we wait for Bartholomew?’ asked de Wetherset, while Miller stoically waved his lawyer’s concerns away. ‘Since we are here anyway?’

  ‘Lora will bring them,’ said Miller. ‘Come with me, physician.’

  Bartholomew knew he would be a fool to let Miller separate him from the others, but could think of no way to avoid it without arousing suspicion. He followed him up a narrow staircase to the upper floor, feeling increasingly nervous with each step.

  ‘Father Simon tells me you and he arrived in Lincoln at the same time,’ he said, to break a silence that was both oppressive and unnerving. ‘About twenty years ago.’

  It was a blunder of enormous proportion, and Bartholomew was heartily ashamed of himself for mentioning a date that held a far more meaningful significance for Miller than anything connected to Simon. Miller stopped abruptly and turned slowly to face him. Bartholomew felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the man regarded him with considerable malevolence.

  ‘What do you know about what happened twenty years ago?’ he asked, removing a dagger from his belt and using it to pick one of his teeth.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘I am just repeating what Simon said. It is called the art of conversation, Master Miller – two men exchanging meaningless pleasantries as a way to pass their time together.’

  ‘Manners,’ said Miller with a disparaging snort. ‘Langar is always telling me I need to acquire some, but all they do is make a man something he is not. If I want to spit over my own table at dinner, why should I not do it? If I want to blow my nose and the tablecloth is available, why not use it? And what is wrong with drinking my pottage noisily? Dogs do it, and there is nothing wrong with dogs.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

  ‘Father Simon and I did arrive here within a few weeks of each other,’ said Miller, replacing his dagger in its sheath as some of the anger left him. ‘But we did not come together. I left Cambridge because I am a sensitive
man, and I did not like what was being said about me after my acquittal. He came because he had been offered the post of parish priest at Holy Cross Church, Wigford.’

  ‘Someone told me you were brothers,’ said Bartholomew, attempting a smile.

  ‘Well, we are not,’ said Miller firmly. ‘Do you want to see Chapman, or would you rather stand on the stairs and hone your “art of conversation” on me?’

  Half expecting Miller to whip around and stab him, Bartholomew followed him up the rest of the stairs, along a corridor and into a pleasant chamber with real glass in the windows. A fire blazed in the hearth, and someone had set bowls of herbs on shelves, so the room was sweetly scented. Chapman lay on a fur-strewn bed, his arm heavily bandaged. He grimaced when he recognised the physician.

  ‘Go away. I told you all I know about the Hugh Chalice. It is genuine, and I bought it in Huntingdon. And if you accuse me of foul dealings again, you will have Miller to answer to.’

  ‘You questioned him about the cup?’ asked Miller suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had not let Cynric talk him into undertaking something so manifestly stupid. ‘I wanted to hear for myself how Chapman came by such an important relic.’

  ‘It was more than curiosity,’ countered Chapman pettishly. ‘You grabbed me by the throat and your fat friend lobbed rocks at me. It was not a pleasant encounter.’

  ‘You were holding a dagger at the time,’ retorted Bartholomew. He saw Miller’s face assume its dangerous expression again, and started to clutch at straws. ‘And we are friends of Master Thomas Suttone, kin to the great Suttone clan. He would have been vexed had we allowed you to stab us.’

  ‘Of course! You know the Suttones,’ said Miller in understanding. ‘It slipped my mind. Obviously, we would not want to offend them by knifing their acquaintances. At least, not unless it is absolutely necessary. Lie still, Chapman. Let him inspect you.’