Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Michael nodded. ‘That is true, Matt, so be careful. Do not let him send Cynric to the kitchens for refreshment with the servants, or some such nonsense.’

  ‘I shall come with you, then,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to be in a position to chaperon Michael. ‘And we can visit Ursula together on the way back.’

  Christiana shook her head. ‘You should go now, when he is flustered. And you should accompany him, Michael – both to pit your clever mind against his defences and to make sure nothing happens to Matthew. With men like Spayne, there is always safety in numbers.’

  ‘I would much rather escort you to the cathedral,’ objected Michael, his face falling.

  Gynewell had finished helping his bruised canon, and heard the monk’s remark. ‘I can do that, Brother. Her virtue will be safe with me. I have no interest in women. Except for their souls.’

  Cynric gaped at him, then jabbed Bartholomew with his elbow, to ensure such a sinister remark did not go unnoticed.

  ‘It is for the best,’ said Christiana, seeing Michael’s disappointment and seeming to share it.

  ‘You had better appreciate this, Matt,’ grumbled Michael, as they made their way to the mayor’s house. ‘I am fond of you, but you are a poor second to Lady Christiana.’

  ‘Go with her, then. You can retrieve that poison from the shrine at the same time. Besides, Spayne may employ prostitutes, but he is no killer. And Cynric is here.’

  Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, I will stay. If you still cannot see the real Spayne under his amiable façade, then you are not in a position to defend yourself. I cannot leave you.’

  Spayne had seen them coming back, and was standing by his door, ready to usher them in. He had gone from pale to flushed, and Bartholomew saw he was acutely embarrassed.

  ‘It is only occasionally,’ he murmured, as they stepped across the threshold and stamped their feet to get rid of the snow that adhered to them. ‘Belle, I mean.’

  ‘Your vices are not our concern,’ said Michael coolly.

  ‘I do not want you to think badly of me,’ Spayne continued uncomfortably. ‘Since Matilde left, things have been difficult and... but you are right, my problems are not your concern. Please see what you can do to help my sister. Your book-bearer can take some refreshment in the kitchen with the servants while you are occupied.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Cynric, immediately suspicious. ‘I do not want anything.’

  Spayne gave a tight smile. ‘Then you can wait outside. I do not allow men from the lower classes into my hall.’

  He slammed the door in the startled Welshman’s face, and led Bartholomew and Michael to the main chamber, where Ursula reclined on a cushioned bench. A bucket stood on the floor nearby, but Bartholomew saw it was placed to catch drips from the ceiling, not for the patient. A cold, heavy droplet landed on Michael’s tonsure with a sharp click, and he glowered at the mayor, as though he had made it happen deliberately. Ursula was white-faced and frightened, and it was obvious she was more unwell than her brother had led them to believe. Bartholomew knelt next to her and began to ask questions. She had eaten nothing different, and had barely left the house, because of the cold.

  ‘I had a little milk yesterday,’ she said, clutching her stomach. ‘I suppose that was unusual.’

  ‘You do not normally drink milk?’

  ‘I love milk, but Surgeon Bunoun says it is responsible for blockages, so I only have it as a treat. I had some yesterday, though, to celebrate Dalderby’s funeral.’

  ‘Ursula!’ exclaimed her brother. ‘That is a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Well, it is true,’ she said, unrepentant. ‘I am pleased he is dead. It will weaken Kelby, and that is a good thing for us. Miller knows I like milk, and he left it for me.’

  ‘Left it?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Left it where?’

  ‘On the doorstep. It was good milk, too. Full of cream.’

  ‘Do you still have the jug?’ asked Bartholomew.

  She gazed at him. ‘It is in the parlour. Why? You do not think... ?’

  Frowning, Spayne left the hall, and returned a few moments later holding a pitcher. There was not much of an odour, but fishy poison was in it nonetheless. Bartholomew mixed Ursula a tonic containing charcoal, thinking that the fact that she had not noticed what was a very distinctive odour suggested she was not as competent an apothecary as she liked people to believe.

  ‘You have not ingested much,’ he said. ‘And if you drank it yesterday, you are already over the worst. Do you not know it is unwise to consume gifts left on doorsteps, no matter who you think they are from?’

  ‘Especially in a city that boils with hatred,’ added Michael.

  ‘I have learned my lesson,’ said Ursula bitterly, lying back against the pillows. ‘The burning is passing now, and I feel better. Thank you for your kindness.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to reciprocate?’ asked Michael. ‘With a little information about Matilde?’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Spayne before she could reply. ‘And I have explained why.’

  ‘Oh, tell them, Will,’ snapped Ursula. ‘Share whatever it is you are hiding. Matilde may welcome enquiries after her well-being from these scholars, and you owe her nothing, not after all these years.’

  Spayne appeared to be in an agony of indecision. ‘All right. Let me think it over. I shall ask St Hugh’s advice. If he does not make his displeasure felt, I shall tell you what I know.’

  ‘That is good news, Matt,’ said Michael, when Spayne had closed the door behind them and they were out in the street again. ‘If he was going to ask for a positive sign, I would say you can forget about having his help, but he said he would share his knowledge if St Hugh does not object. Signs at Hugh’s shrine are rare, and you may be in luck at last. The man’s resolve is weakening.’

  ‘He will send you somewhere dangerous,’ said Cynric, who had not appreciated being shut out. ‘He cannot be trusted. Did he try to harm you while you were in there?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He kept his distance, and—’

  He glanced up at an odd scraping sound above his head. Cynric suddenly leapt forward to shove Michael to one side. Then there was an almighty crash.

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, looking at the shattered rooftile that lay on the ground. ‘That might have killed me! It is heavy, and it came plummeting down like a … Dalderby!’

  Bartholomew sighed when he understood what had happened. ‘Dalderby was “attacked” right here, killed by a blow to the skull from a stone. Sheriff Lungspee said he managed to reel to Kelby’s house, but died without speaking, and there were no witnesses. Kelby lives next door.’

  ‘Is that too far for an injured man to stagger?’ asked Cynric.

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘We saw Sir Josquin de Mons lurch twice that distance at Poitiers, and there was an axe embedded in his pate. So, we can explain Dalderby’s death, at least. The weight of snow on a roof already damaged by fire has caused the tiles to slip. No one killed Dalderby. It was an accident.’

  ‘You could say Flaxfleete was responsible,’ said Michael, still looking at the broken stone. ‘It was his inferno, after all.’

  As they left Spayne’s abode, Bartholomew became aware that the situation had changed since they had gone in. There were a number of men loitering outside Kelby’s home and, judging from the buzz of voices, there were a lot more inside. Further down the street, people stood in small, uneasy groups next to shops and houses. Most were well dressed, and Bartholomew was puzzled.

  ‘Is there a Guild meeting today?’ he asked. ‘There are a lot of trader-types in this part of the city, but there is not an unemployed weaver in sight.’

  ‘It looks as if the Guild has claimed the area around the Pultria,’ said Cynric. ‘The Commonalty must be gathering near Miller’s house. In Cambridge, men assemble in clans like this when there is a riot in the offing.’

  ‘Lord, you are right!’ muttered Michael. ‘Will you warn the sheriff wh
ile we speak to Hugh?’

  The book-bearer nodded. ‘You may not have another opportunity to wander where you like, if the city turns violent, Brother, so make the most of your time. I have a feeling we might be spending the next few days in the Gilbertine Priory, hoping the fight does not spill across the city walls.’

  When Bartholomew and Michael reached the cathedral, Gynewell was waiting to tell them that Hugh was at choir practice. The boys’ voices soared along the vaulted ceiling, although Michael pointed out that the lower parts were under-represented – a number of Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks were missing. Bartholomew saw why when they passed the Head Shrine: Christiana was there, and several men who should have been singing hovered around her. Ravenser was polishing a brass cross, Claypole and John were pretending to read psalters, and Bautre was inspecting the offerings left by pilgrims. When Christiana raised her head and said something, all four scurried to a nearby cupboard, and there was a good deal of elbowing as each tried to grab the candles she had requested. Her smile suggested she expected no less.

  ‘Hugh is a rascal,’ said Gynewell. ‘When I heard a kinsman of his had been appointed to the Stall of Decem Librarum, I was afraid your Suttone might be an adult version of him. He seems a decent man, though – more like John.’

  ‘He is all right,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘Although rather preoccupied with the plague.’

  ‘Who is not?’ asked Gynewell. ‘I lost two-thirds of my clergy, and all but two of my canons. I was afraid the balance of power would tip so far that Lincoln would be ruled by Miller, but the Commonalty also lost men, and the equilibrium was maintained.’

  ‘It is a pity these factions exist,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A pity for Lincoln.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Gynewell. ‘When the balance is in effect, it is a good system, because one side holds the other in check. I have heard your University has amassed a lot of power in Cambridge, to the detriment of the merchants. That is not good, either.’

  ‘The merchants do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I am more than content.’

  ‘Moderate yourself, Brother. You will find it pays in the long term.’ Gynewell cocked his head. ‘I hear this Gloria coming to an end, so you should nab Hugh before he escapes to do something else.’

  He was right, and Michael was hard-pressed to waylay the boy before he could disappear with his friends. Hugh looked particularly angelic in his white alb, although mischief winked in his eyes.

  ‘Father Simon gave you a letter to deliver last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘It was for Master Chapman,’ piped Hugh.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael patiently, ‘but to whom did you take it? Chapman is unwell, so I doubt you would have been allowed to give it to him personally.’

  Hugh shuffled his feet. ‘He said he would give me two pennies. And Father Simon had already given me one, which made three! That is enough to buy seven arrows for the butts.’

  ‘Who offered you twopence?’ asked Gynewell. ‘Speak up, Hugh. This is important.’

  ‘Master Langar,’ said Hugh reluctantly. ‘But it was not my fault! He refused to let me see Chapman, so I had no choice. He promised to pass the message to Chapman, and said I had fulfilled my duty in bringing the note to the house. Then he gave me a marchpane, too.’

  ‘Did you eat it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

  Hugh grinned. ‘Yes, and it was a good one – from the best baker in the city.’

  He scampered away, and Bartholomew watched him dart to Christiana’s side. She smiled at him, but did not stop her prayers.

  ‘I will go and drag him away from the poor lady,’ said Gynewell with a sigh. ‘She will have no peace if he is hovering like a fly. What will you do now? Go to see Langar?’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘It is the only way forward.’

  ‘Well, there is your Welshman with his sword,’ said Gynewell, nodding to where Cynric was waiting. ‘I strongly advise you to take him with you.’

  ‘We should give Gynewell that poison we found,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked along the South Choir Aisle. ‘He can dispose of it, because we cannot leave it here another day.’

  Michael agreed, and watched as Bartholomew knelt by the Shrine of Little Hugh and pushed his arm through the gap at the back. He frowned when the physician drew his dagger and used it to fish about, lying full length on the floor to extend his reach. ‘Hurry up, Matt. We do not have all day, and I want to get this interview with Langar over with as soon as possible.’

  ‘I knew we should have taken the time to deal with the flask yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, standing empty-handed, covered in dust and thoroughly alarmed. ‘Because now it is no longer here. Someone has taken it.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Bartholomew and Michael left the Close and walked to Miller’s fine house in Newport. Remembering what he had seen the last time he had been there, Bartholomew was grateful Cynric was with them. As they moved farther north, an increasing number of weavers and their families thronged the streets. They spoke in low voices, and there was a distinct aura of fear and uncertainty. Miller’s house and enclosure was like a castle under siege. Armed guards lurked outside, and there were even archers on the roof, training their weapons on passers-by. The grinning Thoresby patrolled the grounds with a black dog that snarled at anyone who came too close.

  ‘I do not like this,’ whispered Michael. ‘Miller has helped the weavers over the years, and it looks as though they are going to show their appreciation by massing against the Guild.’

  ‘And the Guild is ready to resist,’ said Cynric. ‘The two sides are fairly evenly matched.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘The Commonalty’s supporters outnumber the Guild by at least five to one – there are far more poor in Lincoln than merchants.’

  ‘The guildsmen have better weapons, though,’ argued Cynric. ‘And they have horses and hired mercenaries. I would not risk a single penny by betting on the winner: the outcome is too uncertain.’

  He led the way across Miller’s yard, ignoring the way the dog slathered at him, although Bartholomew made sure Michael was between him and the creature; it did not look as if Thoresby had it fully under control. No one spoke as they approached the door, although dozens of eyes watched. Cynric rapped with his dagger, and when it was whipped open, Miller’s face was as black as thunder.

  ‘I told you not to come back, physician,’ he snarled, ‘or have you come to gloat over sending Chapman a few steps nearer the grave?’

  ‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. A fever was often the outcome with dirty wounds – and then there was the poultice of henbane. Perhaps he had not cleaned it all out.

  ‘Bunoun said Chapman would have recovered by now, had you not meddled,’ said Miller furiously. ‘We sent for you at dawn, when he became sicker, but the Gilbertines said you were not to be disturbed, so we summoned Bunoun instead. Thank God we did.’

  ‘Is there a suppuration?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is always a danger with—’

  ‘Do not blame it on the wound,’ snapped Miller, hand dropping to the dagger in his belt. ‘Bunoun said you poisoned him. You are lucky I do not run you through!’

  Cynric drew his hunting knife, daring him to try, while Bartholomew’s hand slipped into his medical bag and the various implements it contained. He had forgotten his sword again.

  ‘Young Hugh brought a message last night,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could embark on a complex explanation of wounds and their consequences that Miller would not understand. And Cynric had been right: the looming riot would bring an abrupt end to his investigation, and time was short. ‘It was for Chapman, and asked him to meet Simon in the Church of the Holy Cross.’

  Miller regarded him frostily. ‘Do not be stupid. You know Chapman could not go to Holy Cross or anywhere else. He is too ill.’

  ‘So you have said,’ said Michael. ‘
But I want to know about the note. When was it delivered?’

  ‘There was no note from Simon,’ said Miller firmly. ‘I would have remembered, since he so seldom bothers to acknowledge me these days. After all I have done for him, too.’

  Langar had heard the shouting, and came to see what it was about. Ink stained his fingers, and he carried a quill in one hand and a sword in the other. Behind him were the hefty Lora Boyner and Sabina. Lora carried a bowl of water, and her blunt features were tear-stained.

  ‘Master Langar,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see a note from Simon last night – for Chapman?’

  Langar frowned. ‘There was no letter from Simon – for Chapman or anyone else. The man is a coward, afraid to put pen to parchment, lest the Guild wins the confrontation they are itching to provoke. He is too cunning to leave documentary evidence of his real allegiance.’

  ‘The Guild will not win,’ snarled Miller. ‘God is on our side. Chapman said so.’

  Lora looked the scholars up and down. ‘You are brave. Miller promised to kill you if Chapman dies, and here you are on his doorstep, asking to be executed.’ Her eyes watered, and Bartholomew saw the relic-seller’s sufferings had pierced her tough façade. ‘It was the wine you sent yesterday afternoon that did the damage. You said he should not have claret, but then you had a flask delivered and ordered him to finish the whole thing.’

  ‘I did not send anything,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. He jumped back when Lora emptied the bowl, narrowly missing him. ‘And I specifically told you not to give him wine – only ale.’

  ‘The prescription accompanying the jug was signed with your name,’ snapped Miller, not believing him. ‘One of the priests from the cathedral brought it. You left it with him, because you could not be bothered to walk the extra distance to hand it to us yourself.’