Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘We can ask tomorrow, when I change the dressing on Chapman’s arm,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Will they answer you honestly?’ asked Roger worriedly. ‘Why would they, if they murdered Father Simon themselves?’

  CHAPTER 10

  Simon did not appear for prime the following morning, and the Gilbertines declared they missed his booming voice. Candles were lit in St Katherine’s Chapel, more prayers were howled and, at first light, Bartholomew went out again to see if he could find him. The promised snow had not materialised in any significant way, although there was a nip in the air that suggested the threat was far from over. He walked all the way to the Bail, asking everyone he met whether they had seen the priest, and returned via the frozen-edged Braytheford Pool and Simon’s old church, Holy Cross.

  The priest’s successor, a fresh-faced youth proud of the fact that he had spent a term at the University in Oxford, said Simon had been kind to him, and had spent a lot of time making sure he understood his duties. The lad was staying with a kinsman until the burned house could be rebuilt, but claimed he had seen nothing of Simon for days.

  ‘I am worried,’ said de Wetherset, when Bartholomew reported his lack of success to the prior in his solar. Roger, Michael and Suttone sat in a row near the window; Dame Eleanor and Christiana were in chairs near the fire; and Hamo, de Wetherset and Bartholomew stood, because there were no more seats. Hamo kept rubbing his arm, as though it pained him. ‘An attack on Simon is an attack on the cathedral.’

  ‘How have you reached that conclusion?’ asked Suttone, startled.

  De Wetherset stifled a sigh of impatience. ‘Because Flaxfleete is dead and Simon is missing. That means only Michael, you and I are left out of five canons-elect.’

  ‘And two of your Vicars Choral are dead as well,’ said Hamo, doing nothing to soothe the atmosphere of tense agitation. ‘Aylmer and Tetford were—’

  ‘As far as I can tell, the last time Simon was seen was when he parted company with you last night,’ said Roger to Michael. ‘You went to say prayers in the cathedral, and Simon walked home.’

  ‘Perhaps he is still in the city, then,’ said Bartholomew, noting Michael’s sly glance at Christiana: the monk did not want her to know where he had really been. ‘And we are searching the wrong—’

  ‘You said he wanted to return here as soon as possible, because he thought it was going to snow,’ interrupted Roger. ‘Why would he have lingered elsewhere?’

  ‘I hope nothing bad has happened to him,’ said Eleanor unhappily. Christiana took her hand. The younger woman had forgotten to arrange her hair properly that morning, a sign of her concern.

  Michael’s expression was grim. ‘And we should not forget that he is not the only thing missing: so is the Hugh Chalice.’

  ‘It was there yesterday afternoon,’ said Dame Eleanor. ‘I saw it myself.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Roger. ‘Therefore, it must have gone missing between then and midnight, when we all went to pray for Simon. That is a gap of about nine hours.’

  ‘I have searched every building in the convent,’ said Hamo. ‘The chalice is not here.’

  Michael rummaged in the bag he carried, and held a cup in the air. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘You have it!’ exclaimed Roger, while Eleanor and Christiana gasped in surprise, and Hamo looked peeved that he had wasted so much time searching for it.

  ‘Examine it carefully,’ ordered Michael. De Wetherset started to speak, but the monk silenced him with a glare. ‘Is this the Hugh Chalice you have been minding since Aylmer was stabbed?’

  Roger did as he was told. He tried to hand it to Dame Eleanor, but she hesitated to touch it, so he passed it to Hamo, and no one spoke until the Brother Hospitaller looked up.

  ‘It is the one,’ said Roger, while Hamo and Eleanor nodded agreement. ‘Look at the engraving of the Baby Jesus. The artist gave him only three fingers on his left hand, which makes it distinctive and unique. Why do you want to know if we recognise it, when it is obvious we would?’

  ‘Then what about this?’ asked Michael, producing a second cup.

  Hamo snatched it from him. ‘They are the same! This babe has three fingers, too!’

  Michael inclined his head. ‘So which is the real one?’

  ‘This,’ said Hamo, pointing to the first. ‘It is shinier than the second, and Simon kept it well polished. The other must be a copy.’

  ‘And these?’ asked Michael producing a third, a fourth and a fifth.

  Dame Eleanor shook her head in appalled disbelief, while the two Gilbertines were more vocal, shouting their dismay and horror. Hamo stood all five cups in a line, and his face was white when he informed the gathering that Jesus only had a total of fifteen left-hand fingers: the ‘unique’ carving had been precisely duplicated. Then Roger covered his eyes while Christiana swapped them around, and the prior was forced to admit that he could not tell one from the other, and that he had no idea which of the five had been in his chapel for the past few days.

  ‘If any,’ said Christiana. ‘Perhaps the original is with Simon – or with a thief who killed him and made off with it. His may be the real one, and these five are just poor imitations.’

  ‘They are not poor imitations, My Lady,’ countered Hamo. ‘They are very good ones. However, Simon’s must be the genuine relic one. Why else would it be stolen?’

  ‘Perhaps none is the original,’ suggested de Wetherset. ‘Perhaps there is no original.’

  ‘How many of these things are there, Brother?’ asked Eleanor, after the monk had explained that Cynric had ‘found’ one and the others had been confiscated from cathedral ‘seamstresses’. Bartholomew did not think he had ever heard so many euphemisms in a single sentence. ‘Or do you have them all?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘It was only chance that we happened to stumble on these. I would like to know how Tetford came to have four silver—’

  ‘Metal,’ corrected Roger. ‘I know silver when I see it. These are probably tin.’

  ‘—four metal goblets to give his sewing ladies,’ finished Michael. ‘And we are not in a position to make enquiries about the one Cynric “recovered”, either. It is difficult to know how to proceed.’

  ‘I am sure one of these cups was part of the property Shirlok stole in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, speaking more to himself than to the gathering. Michael shot him a warning glance, but it was too late: Roger pounced on the slip, pointing out that the physician was morally obliged to share information that might reflect on the chalice’s authenticity. Reluctantly, Bartholomew and de Wetherset gave an account of the trial. Bartholomew omitted what had happened to Shirlok at the end of it, and de Wetherset declined to mention that he had been a juror.

  Hamo was gleeful. ‘So, Miller did commit crimes of dishonesty and was brought to task for them!’ he said, rubbing his arm again. ‘The Guild was right all those years ago when—’

  ‘The Hugh Chalice is worth far more than the twenty shillings paid by that Geddynge priest,’ said Roger. ‘It will make any priory or cathedral wealthy, from the pilgrims who flock to petition it.’

  ‘Perhaps the Hugh Chalice is,’ said Michael. ‘However, we cannot be sure if any of the cups we have – or even the one from Geddynge – is the original, and—’

  ‘One will be real,’ said Roger firmly, ‘although I cannot imagine how we shall identify which.’

  ‘I shall do that,’ announced de Wetherset. ‘I told you: I have a gift for that sort of thing.’

  Roger gestured to the five cups. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘This is not helping poor Simon,’ said Eleanor, after several moments when de Wetherset picked up each chalice in turn, but was obviously not going to be honoured with immediate divine insight. She stood. ‘I am going to the chapel, to petition to St Hugh on his behalf.’

  Bartholomew and Michael left Prior Roger’s solar, and escorted Dame Eleanor to the chapel. They watched her walk to the altar and stand with her hands clasped in fro
nt of her. A psalm echoed around the building as she prayed.

  ‘Her Latin is excellent,’ said Michael. ‘Better than some of our colleagues in Cambridge.’

  ‘She likes to read,’ said Bartholomew, recalling their discussion about Hildegard of Bingen. ‘There is something I forgot to tell you yesterday, Brother. When I tended Chapman, he insisted on paying me with pearls worn by the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘The Blessed Virgin did not wear pearls,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘He tricked you, my friend.’

  ‘White pearls were also among the goods Shirlok was accused of stealing with the chalice.’

  ‘You think they are the same? Show me.’

  Bartholomew handed them over. ‘Do you think it is possible that Shirlok’s hoard has been hidden somewhere, and is suddenly circulating?’

  Michael stared at him. ‘It might be! Cynric overheard Langar and Sabina say they think Shirlok is still alive – although Miller, Chapman and Lora disagreed. Do you think Shirlok is in Lincoln, selling the goods he once stole in Cambridgeshire?’

  ‘It is possible, although I cannot imagine how he laid hands on them again. He ran out of the castle very quickly, and I doubt he came back.’

  ‘But then the goods mysteriously went missing before they could be returned to their owners. Perhaps he did get them somehow.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Or Langar did. He was a castle official – in a position to make items disappear – and it seems he left Cambridge very soon after Shirlok’s trial.’

  Michael scratched the stubble on his cheeks. ‘No connection was ever made, that I heard, between Langar’s departure and the loss of this property.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why would it? Langar was a law-clerk, a respectable man.’

  ‘He has thrown in his lot with some very dubious characters since, though. It is entirely possible that his deviousness went unnoticed in Cambridge. You have said from the start that there was something odd about the way Miller and the others were acquitted. Now I am beginning to see why.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Langar somehow arranged a favourable verdict, seized the goods Shirlok stole, and the entire group – minus Shirlok, presumably – came to Lincoln, where they accrued power through the Commonalty and merrily continued their illegal activities.’

  ‘So, the cup was stolen three times: once from the friar-couriers, once from Geddynge and once after the trial. Chapman and the others made copies, intending to sell them as relics of St Hugh. They were not even subtle with the ones they hawked to Tetford, giving him four and claiming they were a set used by the saint at parties. How could Tetford have been so gullible?’

  ‘Tetford loved revelry, and probably thought it great fun to possess something St Hugh had used to celebrate. Whoever sold them to him knew exactly how to persuade him to buy.’ Bartholomew hesitated, as something else occurred to him. ‘Sabina said Nicholas was a silversmith.’

  Michael nodded. ‘She thought the mark on his shoulder was a work burn. I see where you are going with this, Matt: Herl could have made the copies, because he had the skill to do so. Sabina did tell us he had been unusually busy over the last month. Perhaps he was in league with Chapman.’

  ‘I am supposed to visit Chapman again today. I will ask him.’

  ‘I do not like the thought of you in that house alone, so I shall come with you. I will tell a few lies about my imminent solution to Aylmer’s murder. And then I will have to go to the cathedral and do penance at the Head Shrine for bearing false witness.’

  The obvious place to look for Simon was the minster, where he would soon be made a canon, so Michael and Bartholomew decided to search it on their way to see Chapman. De Wetherset escorted them to the Gilbertines’ gate, although he declined to join the hunt himself. He was clearly afraid to leave the convent, and Bartholomew hoped Michael would not pay for his greater courage with his life.

  ‘Perhaps I will return to the University when this is over,’ said de Wetherset worriedly. ‘Lincoln has grown dangerous, and it was uneasy politics that made me leave Cambridge. If I am to be caught up with intrigue and plots, I might as well be where there is a decent collection of books.’

  Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Are you caught up with plots and intrigue? It is odd that you happened to select Lincoln as a haven of peace, when you are tied to it by your appointment as a juror in Miller’s trial all those years ago.’

  De Wetherset’s expression was cold. ‘That was coincidence, and I resent your implication that it was anything else. I told you – it was a shock to be confronted by men I had acquitted.’

  Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘Miller tried to intimidate me when he thought I might remember the trial. Ergo, I seriously doubt you escaped with nothing said – unless he knew he could trust you to reveal nothing harmful. Now why would he think that?’

  ‘Matt,’ warned Michael uncomfortably. ‘De Wetherset is above suspicion.’

  Bartholomew pressed on. ‘Several pieces of information have just clicked together in my mind, and I now know something you would rather keep concealed. So does Miller, which is why he does not mind you being here.’

  De Wetherset glared at him. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘It concerns the goods that went missing after Shirlok’s execution. We have just discussed the possibility that Shirlok may have been instrumental in their disappearance, but that is not the case.’

  De Wetherset continued to glower. ‘What does lost property have to do with me?’

  ‘Matt,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘You are a long way from the mark with this.’

  Bartholomew ignored him. ‘After Shirlok was hanged, I remember the valuables being loaded on a cart. There were a lot of people milling around in the bailey, because Nicholas Herl and several others had just been released from gaol, and Miller had hired wagons to move their possessions, too.’

  ‘Then you will also remember the line the sheriff drew in the mud with his boot,’ said de Wetherset. ‘No felon was permitted to cross it, on pain of death. None of them did.’

  ‘But “felons” did not pile the recovered goods on the cart,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You did – the only juror without an excuse good enough to let him evade the sheriff’s demand for help. You were in a hurry, determined to finish and be about your own business as soon as possible. You put at least some of the items on the wrong wagon.’

  ‘That is outrageous!’ De Wetherset turned to Michael. ‘If you are his friend, you will make him stop. Do not forget that I intend to be Chancellor again one day.’

  ‘I do not think you did it deliberately,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘but you realised what must have happened when the news started to circulate about the goods’ disappearance. You said nothing, and Miller must have had a lovely surprise when he reached Lincoln and unpacked.’

  De Wetherset regarded him furiously. ‘How dare you accuse me of being party to a theft!’

  Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘He is not. He is just saying that haste made you inattentive.’

  De Wetherset regarded Bartholomew with dislike. ‘You cannot prove any of this.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I do not want to. It is irrelevant now, and all it does is help us understand another step in the curious travels of the Hugh Chalice.’

  ‘Perhaps St Hugh guided your hand, forcing you to put his cup on a cart bound for Lincoln,’ said Michael, trying to pacify the furious ex-Chancellor. They had enough enemies, without making another. ‘Perhaps he did not want it to sit in quiet obscurity at Geddynge. Bishop Gynewell himself told me that holy objects make their own way to the places they want to be.’

  De Wetherset regarded him doubtfully, some of his rage lifting. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘It makes you an instrument of God.’

  De Wetherset’s temper cooled a little more. ‘You have a point.’

  ‘I hope you will remember who brought this to light,’ said Michael, somewhat sternly. ‘You cannot be
ar a grudge against Matt for pointing out that St Hugh selected you to do his will.’

  ‘I do not mind him saying that,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I mind his accusatory tone.’

  ‘It is not accusatory,’ said Michael. ‘He is just awed by the divine favour you have been shown.’

  De Wetherset did not look convinced, but at least he was not scowling when they left the priory.

  ‘Do you really believe all that?’ asked Bartholomew, when the gate had closed behind them.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Michael scornfully, ‘but it may prevent him from doing something nasty to you at some point in the future. And you do not want him after your blood, believe me.’

  The city felt uneasy as Bartholomew and Michael walked through it. Men were beginning to gather in huddles, and the alehouses were fuller than usual. Merchants scurried here and there with their heads down, as if they were afraid that eye contact might result in a confrontation that would see them deprived of their purses – or worse. Many of the better houses on the main road had kept their windows shuttered, and even one or two of the churches had firmly closed doors.

  When the scholars reached the cathedral, and reported Simon’s disappearance to Gynewell, the bishop responded by ordering his officials to search the Close, roping in Ravenser, John, Claypole, Choirmaster Bautre and even the boy singers. Dancing up and down on the balls of his feet with restless energy, Gynewell directed them to specific areas, although Bartholomew doubted the clerics could be trusted to be thorough. Ravenser looked as though he had imbibed too much of his own ale the previous night; John complained that the hunt would interfere with his library duties; and Claypole and Bautre carped about the inclement weather. Young Hugh was the only one who seized on the adventure with any enthusiasm, and Bartholomew was impressed by the systematic way the boy and his fellow choristers combed the land near the Vicars’ Court.

  ‘I am sorry, My Lord,’ said Hugh a while later. He was soaking wet, covered in mud and close to frustrated tears. ‘I was hoping wewould be the ones to find him. Give us another area. I do not think Claypole scoured the Close churches, like you asked. We could look there for you.’