Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Aylmer had been unjustly accused, and perhaps being blamed when he was innocent shocked him into wanting to turn to a new page in his life. Then what? Did Flaxfleete sell it to Simon?’

  ‘I think he probably gave it back to Chapman, although I doubt we will ever know why. And Chapman sold it to Simon, knowing he would donate it to the cathedral, where he thinks it should be.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘We can make a few assumptions about Herl now, though. He became disenchanted with the “chalice fraternity” and scraped off his mark, suggesting he no longer believed in it. Then he crafted copies of the cup and sold them to Tetford – and probably to others, too.’

  ‘I do not think Chapman had anything to do with that, because he was horrified when he learned there were replicas. He reveres the thing too much for skulduggery.’

  ‘I agree. So, I suspect Herl was killed by another member of the fraternity – for his sacrilege.’ Michael finished his wine and stood. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and see if they have news of Simon. He may be able to answer some of our questions, and I would like to see his shoulders.’

  ‘He denied having a mark when you asked him about it.’

  ‘And I stopped him before he could remove his habit to prove it. Perhaps I should not have done.’

  They left the tavern, Bartholomew light-headed from gulping too much wine too quickly. It was dark, and he wondered whether they should pay some of the itinerant weavers to escort them home, in the hope that their presence would avert another attack. Then it occurred to him that the weavers might owe allegiance to the ambushers, and would melt away at the first sign of danger. On reflection, he decided they would be safer alone. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, only to find it was not there: he had forgotten to bring it with him. He stumbled across a frozen heap of entrails outside a butcher’s shop, drawing a worried glance from Michael.

  ‘That wine did not taste of fish, did it? There was no poison?’

  ‘I saw Quarrel giving other customers wine from the same jug, so it should be all right. Of course, if it were poisoned, you mentioning it now would do us no good. It would be too late.’

  Michael blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘This business is unnerving me. I am seriously considering locking myself inside the Gilbertine Priory until Sunday, then jumping on a horse as soon as I emerge from my installation and riding as fast as I can to Cambridge.’

  Bartholomew glanced at the sky. ‘It is snowing again, and a heavy fall will block the road. It would be unfortunate if you were to dash away in all your splendour, only to be turned back by drifts.’

  ‘It would be embarrassing,’ conceded Michael. He frowned unhappily. ‘Do you think I am justified in abandoning my investigation? I know I am under an obligation to help Gynewell, but this is not my city, and I do not understand its intrigues and plots. Things are different in Cambridge, where I have beadles and a sheriff to protect me. But then I remember that Tetford is Bishop de Lisle’s close kin, and—’

  Bartholomew stopped suddenly. ‘Tetford! We were supposed to collect his poison on our way back, and drop it in the river, but Shirlok knocked it from my mind. We shall have to go and get it.’

  ‘Not tonight, Matt,’ said Michael firmly. ‘It would mean toiling back up that hill, and it is already too late to be out. Besides, you hid it very well. I will destroy it first thing tomorrow—’

  ‘Brother, look!’ hissed Bartholomew suddenly, gripping his friend’s arm. ‘There is Simon!’

  Michael followed the direction of his finger and saw the priest walking briskly along the road in front of them. Michael opened his mouth to yell, but Bartholomew warned him to silence.

  ‘He is moving furtively – he does not want to be seen. We will follow him and see where he goes.’

  ‘You must be drunk,’ said Michael uneasily, ‘or you would not suggest such a thing.’

  ‘We will just see where he is going,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Come on.’

  Michael was about to object further, but the priest was striding down the road he and Bartholomew needed to take anyway, so it was no inconvenience to stay behind him. There were a few footpaths off the main track, leading to the river in one direction and the parallel dike in the other, but Simon took no detours. Eventually, he reached the place where the road crossed an odorous ditch called the Gowt. He glanced behind him, but the night was dark, and Bartholomew and Michael had been careful to stay in the shadows.

  ‘He is going inside Holy Cross,’ whispered Bartholomew, hanging back.

  ‘His old church,’ murmured Michael. ‘He keeps looking around him in a very sly manner.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So do not walk so fast, Brother, or he will see you.’

  ‘I do not like this,’ grumbled Michael. ‘I am too heavy-boned for stealth, and Cynric told me I look like a hippopotamus when I tiptoe. Shall we follow him inside?’

  ‘Is the building open? It is well past sunset, so it should be locked.’

  Holy Cross was a dark mass against the night sky, and the charred remains of Simon’s old house comprised a sinister blackened shell. The priest walked across the churchyard and fiddled with a chancel window. After a moment, there was a hollow, echoing clank as a bar fell away on the other side. He glanced around quickly, then climbed in. Moments later, Bartholomew heard him unlock the door.

  ‘He knows that window is a weak point,’ said Michael. ‘He went straight to it.’

  ‘He worked here for twenty years, so that is not surprising. However, he must be expecting company, or he would not have opened the door. What shall we do? Clamber through the window, and hope he does not see us? Or wait out here, to see who comes to meet him?’

  ‘You said we were just going to see where he went,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Well, we have done that, and it is too cold a night for lurking in icy churchyards. We should return to the Gilbertines.’

  ‘We should find out what he is doing. His intentions are not innocent, or he would not be breaking in – he would have asked his successor for the key. Watch the door while I go through the window.’

  Michael sighed testily. ‘This is not a good idea. Hurry up, then – and be careful.’

  Bartholomew scrambled through the window, wincing when his feet scraped noisily on the sill, then dropped lightly to the floor on the other side. It was warmer in the church than it was outside, although not much, and the air was still and damp. It was also pitch black, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The nave walls were stone, but its floor was of beaten earth, which served to muffle his footsteps. He moved slowly, afraid of making a sound that would alert Simon to his presence. He found him at the altar in the chancel, kneeling with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes fixed on the wooden cross. Bartholomew eased into the shadows to watch, but Simon remained in an attitude of prayer for so long that the physician became un comfortable with what he was doing. He had assumed Simon was up to no good, but now it appeared he had just been coming to his old church to pray, and no one had any right to spy on him. He began to edge away, intending to leave the way he had come. Then there was a sudden clamour of voices from outside.

  ‘No!’ yelled Michael, and there was a clash of arms.

  Abandoning any pretence at stealth, Bartholomew bolted towards the door. He collided heavily with someone coming in, and was bowled from his feet. He scrambled upright, instinctively fumbling for his sword before realising again that he did not have it. Hands snatched at him, but he struggled away from them, tearing the clasp from his cloak and leaving the garment behind. He dashed outside, and saw Michael doing battle with a man who held a sword. The monk had grabbed a shoe-scraper, and was managing to fend off the blows, but only just.

  Bartholomew hurtled towards them with a battle cry he had learned from Cynric. The swordsman turned towards him with a start, and raised the weapon to defend himself. Bartholomew swung wildly with his medical bag, and caught the fellow on the side of his
head, sending him reeling. Then someone leapt on the physician from behind. He went down hard, and his mouth and nose were suddenly full of suffocating snow.

  CHAPTER 11

  Someone was grabbing the back of Bartholomew’s tunic, pulling him away from the choking coldness of the snow. He tried to struggle to his knees, but the fall had winded him, and it was some time before his senses cleared and he was able to look around.

  ‘Matt!’ said Michael. ‘Stand up, or you will ruin your new hose in all this filthy sleet.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Bartholomew asked, staggering to his feet and more concerned about the men who had attacked them than the welfare of his clothes.

  ‘Gone. They ran off when you gave that battle screech you seem rather fond of these days. It was loud enough to wake the dead, and now half the parish is here, demanding to know what happened.’

  Bartholomew saw a crowd of people standing in a tight knot, as if they thought such a formation might be safer. ‘We should follow the swordsmen. See where they go.’

  ‘They are long gone. It was a stupid idea to follow Simon. I should never have listened to you.’

  ‘He was only praying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is he? Did he run away with the others?’

  ‘He is still in the chancel. The new priest is giving him last rites.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him, mind reeling. ‘He is dying? How? I do not understand.’

  ‘He took an arrow in the innards. Even I can see the wound is mortal, although he lingers yet. Will you see if you can help him?’

  Bartholomew tottered unsteadily to the church door, Michael at his side. Simon was lying on his back near the altar, and Bartholomew could see the barb protruding from his stomach. It was an ugly place to be shot, painful and almost invariably fatal.

  ‘After you drove that sword-wielding lunatic away, a second fellow appeared,’ explained Michael, as they approached the stricken cleric. ‘He attacked you from behind, and I lobbed the shoe-scraper at him when it looked as though he was going to smother you.’

  ‘Were they two of the men who attacked us before?’

  ‘It was dark, so I could not see, but I imagine so. There cannot be that many people who want us dead. When they had gone, I heard a lot of shouting from inside the church. I ran towards the door in time to see two men bowl out as though they were on fire; Simon was here, lying as you see him. I could not make out more than shadows, but one was larger than the other, and they were both armed.’

  ‘So, there were four of them again,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Just like last time.’

  Michael nodded. ‘And none appeared to be the worse for wear from our last encounter. Your bruising of the swordsman’s arm was obviously not as serious as you thought.’

  ‘I have finished,’ said the young priest, white-faced with shock. His term at Oxford had not prepared him for the murder of his predecessor. ‘I sent for the surgeon; he should be here soon.’

  Bartholomew knelt, trying to assess Simon’s wound without touching it and making it worse. He asked for the lamp to be brought closer, and wondered if he should try to extricate the missile. It would tear the organs it had penetrated, but he could repair them. The more serious problem would be the infection that always set in later, something he had no idea how to prevent.

  ‘Give me something,’ whispered Simon. ‘For the pain.’

  Bartholomew produced a phial of poppy and mandrake juice from his bag, dribbling it between Simon’s lips, but pulling away when the priest grabbed his wrist and tried to swallow the whole pot.

  ‘Can you save my life?’ breathed Simon.

  ‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew honestly.

  ‘Then I will wait for the surgeon. Bunoun cured Dalderby of a near-fatal wound recently, and might be able to do the same for me.’

  ‘Dalderby’s was not a serious—’ Bartholomew began, before biting off the words. Simon would be more likely to recover if he thought he was in the hands of a genius, and perhaps the surgeon would work a miracle where Bartholomew could not.

  The door opened, and Bunoun bustled in. Without a word, he opened his bag and laid his implements on the floor. They were rusty and stained black with old blood. He took the arrow with one hand and waggled it about, holding Simon still with the other. Bartholomew winced at the screams that echoed around the church, and Michael put his hands over his ears.

  ‘Gently,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. ‘And do not pull obliquely. You need to trace the path the missile took when it entered, or you will cause more damage.’

  Bunoun did not appreciate the advice, and gave an experimental tug on the quarrel that made Simon shriek. ‘I know what I am doing.’ A gout of blood spurted over his hands. ‘Let me do my work, physician. You can write his horoscope when I have finished.’

  ‘When you have finished, he will not need one,’ muttered Bartholomew, gritting his teeth when Bunoun pulled hard enough on the quarrel to make Simon’s body rise off the floor. The missile was obviously barbed, and tugging it out was not a good idea.

  ‘Enough,’ gasped Simon, trying to fend off the surgeon with scarlet hands. ‘No more.’

  ‘I shall prepare a poultice,’ announced Bunoun loftily. ‘It will draw out the poisons, and tomorrow morning, the quarrel will be extracted without pain or loss of blood.’

  He moved away, using a nearby bench as a table for his preparations. The only sound in the church was Simon’s laboured breathing and the clink of pots and phials as Bunoun worked.

  ‘Where have you been these last two days, Father?’ asked Bartholomew gently, hoping to distract the priest from his agonies by talking. ‘We have been worried about you.’

  ‘Praying,’ replied Simon, relaxing slightly when he saw Bunoun had gone. ‘I had second thoughts about your invitation to the tavern, and realised I should not alienate new colleagues by being aloof. I slipped in at the back, where a lady called Agnes came to greet me. She said it was customary for new patrons to please her with gifts, and showed me the kind of thing she accepted.’

  ‘A cup,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘A Hugh Chalice?’

  Simon nodded weakly. ‘And she said her friends had similar ones. I grew alarmed for my own, so I hurried back to the priory and took it from the chapel. I did not want the Gilbertines to know I was in an agony of doubt over its authenticity, so I slipped in and out without being seen. Then I went to the minster, hoping St Hugh would send a sign to let me know I had the real one. I do not want to present the cathedral with a fake, not after all these years of waiting.’

  ‘No one saw you,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘And people have been looking everywhere.’

  ‘The cathedral was too noisy, too distracting, so I went to St Margaret’s in the Close instead.’

  ‘Claypole searched for you there,’ said Michael. ‘He said it was empty.’

  ‘No one came, not even St Hugh, who chose not to answer my prayers. So I wrote to Chapman, and asked him to meet me here. I was going to demand the truth about how he came by the cup.’

  ‘All these years of waiting,’ echoed Bartholomew suddenly, leaning forward to push Simon’s habit from his shoulder. The mark was fainter than it had been on Aylmer, as though it had been etched tentatively, but was clear, nonetheless. ‘You are a member of this fraternity. You said you were not.’

  Simon grimaced. ‘I knew if I offered to remove my clothes to “prove” I was free of symbols Michael would stop me. He knows the dangers of cold air on a singer’s throat. We took a vow, you see, to keep our group a secret.’

  Michael did not say he had demurred because he had not liked the look of the priest’s scaly legs. ‘Is it still a secret, or can you tell me now?’

  Simon gave a mirthless smile. ‘I know we sound an unlikely alliance – me, Aylmer, Chapman, Flaxfleete, Herl and many others – but we all swore a sacred oath to see the Hugh Chalice in the minster one day. There were two score of us – guildsmen, Commonalty, clerics, weavers, all with the mark. But
then Canon Hodelston was poisoned, and some members began to think the feud was more important than their duty to the saint. Friends became enemies, and only a few of us remain faithful.’

  ‘You should rest now, Father,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Save your strength for—’

  ‘No!’ Simon gripped his hand, to prevent him from leaving. ‘I want to talk, and there are things you should know. I feel no pain anyway, just a great weariness of body and spirit.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael. The priest nodded. ‘Then I do not think Chapman sold you the chalice, as you claimed. I think he gave it to you, so you could present it to the cathedral in a ceremony that would venerate it. I imagine that is why Flaxfleete returned it to Chapman after the incident with the dean: Flaxfleete could donate it to the cathedral, but you could make it part of a major rite.’

  Simon coughed weakly. ‘It was why I agreed to be installed as a canon.’

  Bartholomew had also been thinking. ‘Aylmer was dishonest and he was in Cambridge two decades ago. I think he was one of the friars charged to bring the cup from London – I recall thinking at the trial that he looked like a fallen priest. He was weak and corrupt, and he sold the chalice for twenty shillings, a paltry sum for such a venerable object. The friars were not murdered by robbers or struck down by an angry St Hugh on their way home. They just began new lives in another place.’

  ‘No,’ breathed Simon. ‘Shirlok stole it from Aylmer. Aylmer told me so himself.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Shirlok always denied taking the chalice, although he admitted to making off with the other items. I think Matt is right: Aylmer sold the chalice to Geddynge for fast money. And he lied to you about it – lied to you, Simon, because you were the other friar.’

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, seeing the priest’s expression of resignation. ‘It makes sense now. You came to Lincoln because you had nowhere else to go. You could not return to London, given that you had failed to deliver the relic. And you felt guilty about losing it, so you decided to live here, where you could dedicate your life to the saint whose chalice you had mislaid. Plus there is the fact that Miller is your brother. Cynric was right: Adam and Simon Molendinarius were named by Shirlok as his accomplices.’