Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘And you gave this potion to Chapman?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘After I expressly warned you against feeding him anything from outside?’

  ‘Do not blame it on us,’ said Sabina, indignantly. ‘You—’

  But Bartholomew was livid, both by the slur on his skills and on behalf of his patient. He went on the offensive, startling them with the ferocity of his attack. ‘You ignorant fools! Chapman narrowly escaped the first time someone tried to poison him, and now you have let the killer strike again. I thought he would be safe here, among friends concerned for his welfare, but I was wrong. I should have taken him to the Gilbertines’ hospital, and tended him myself. You are—’

  ‘Easy, Matt,’ said Michael, afraid he might push them too far. ‘It is clear a mistake has been made, and yelling will not help us understand what has happened. Do you still have this flask, Master Miller? If so, then perhaps we can see it.’

  ‘You had better come in,’ said Langar reluctantly. ‘This is not a conversation we should have in the open, not with the city on the brink of civil unrest. We want to avert a riot, not encourage one.’

  ‘Do we now,’ sneered Miller, suggesting that Langar would have his work cut out for him if he intended to act as peacemaker. ‘Fetch that wineskin, Lora. I want to know what is going on here.’

  While Lora went to find the offending container, Bartholomew looked around Miller’s hall. Changes had been made since their last visit. Window shutters had been reinforced with planks of wood, and water-filled buckets stood in a row near the hearth, in case of fire. A pile of crossbows lay on the table in the centre of the room and several men were sharpening bolts. Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered whether they had defence or attack in mind.

  ‘Old models,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Unreliable. These will not change the odds in their favour. They are still about even with the Guild.’

  Michael surveyed the scene with monkish disapproval. ‘Perhaps you would tell me something while we wait, Master Miller. Yesterday, Ursula de Spayne was sent milk that was tainted with poison. She drank it, because she assumed it was a gift from you.’

  ‘Ursula likes milk, bless her,’ replied Miller. ‘It is bad for her innards, though, and I stopped sending it when Surgeon Bunoun told me it blocks her bowels. So you can accuse someone else—’

  ‘Ursula is not the only one who has been fed fishy poison,’ Michael went on. ‘First, there was Herl, then Flaxfleete, then it was in Telford’s wineskin.’

  ‘And now Chapman,’ said Bartholomew, taking the pitcher Lora handed him and sniffing it carefully. The poison did not smell as rank as it had in Flaxfleete’s barrel, but, like Ursula’s milk, it was still strong enough to be noticeable. He supposed it had come from the pot they had left at the cathedral – the one they should have destroyed.

  Miller was confused. ‘This note is from you,’ he said, snatching a piece of parchment from Lora and waving it in Bartholomew’s face. ‘See your name signed at the bottom, nice and big?’

  ‘I never write it like that,’ said Bartholomew, regarding it in disdain. ‘And nor would my prescriptions encourage a sick man to “swallow the lot”, as is so prosaically written there. I did not send Chapman the wine, just as you did not send Ursula the milk.’

  ‘This is Kelby’s doing,’ said Lora, turning angrily to Miller. ‘It must be. He killed Herl, then Aylmer, and now he is after Chapman. Where will it end? When he has dispatched the lot of us?’

  Suddenly, there was a sword in Miller’s hand. ‘I will not wait meekly to be struck down by poison. Round up the men, Langar.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Langar. ‘We should wait until Sunday, when we have a better idea of numbers—’

  Spittle flew from Miller’s mouth as he spoke. ‘We could all be dead by Sunday.’

  Langar scowled, angry in his turn. ‘Very well, we shall have a war, if that is what you want. However, I need an hour or two to take a few steps of my own – to increase the odds in our favour.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael nervously.

  ‘I have trained men to spread rumours that will shake our enemies’ confidence,’ explained Langar. ‘And one or two highly placed guildsmen have been in my pay for years. I shall summon them and learn Kelby’s secret plans.’

  ‘If he has any,’ said Sabina reasonably. ‘He may be like us, waiting to see what will happen.’

  ‘You would say that,’ said Langar, turning on her. ‘You abandoned us, and only returned when you became frightened for your life. You are not here for friendship or loyalty.’

  ‘That is not true,’ lied Sabina. ‘I came because Chapman is ill.’

  ‘Nicholas should never have married you,’ said Langar, working himself into a temper. ‘We were happy until you came along with your sordid offer of “marriage”. And you did not do it to save him from Kelby’s accusations of lewd behaviour with me. You did it because you wanted to share his house and the money he had from his trade.’

  Sabina shot him a look full of loathing. ‘His house was a hovel and he earned a pittance.’

  ‘He was not a dedicated silversmith,’ admitted Langar. ‘However, he was content until you started criticising his work, demanding to know why he did not make more money. You corrupted his mind, and it led him down a dark path.’

  ‘A dark path whereby he made copies of sacred relics?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

  ‘What?’ asked Langar, put off his stride by the question. He opened his mouth to resume his attack on Sabina, but she spoke before he could do so.

  ‘That is exactly what he did. And it was not right. The saints do not approve of that sort of thing.’

  ‘Are you saying Nicholas made copies of the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Langar. ‘Is that what he was doing, night after night in his workshop for the last month of his life, when he would not see me?’

  ‘He made bad replicas,’ said Sabina spitefully. ‘Only a fool would have been deceived by them – they are made of tin, for a start. And there are mistakes in the carving.’

  ‘He gave Jesus three fingers,’ said Michael.

  ‘Oh, he took that from the original,’ said Sabina scornfully. ‘He was not that inept.’

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Langar, looking around as though he expected them to appear. ‘I sincerely hope Chapman has not sold any. We do not want our Commonalty stained with that sort of thing. People have scruples where relics are concerned.’

  ‘Chapman did not sell them,’ said Lora disdainfully. ‘He believes the Hugh Chalice is sacred, and refuses to have anything to do with Nicholas’s work. Nicholas was so angry that he tried to scrape the mark off his arm.’

  Langar frowned. ‘He told me Sabina caused that injury, by throwing a hot pan at him.’

  ‘How many did he make?’ asked Michael, while Sabina shot Langar a derogatory look.

  ‘A number,’ replied Lora evasively.

  ‘He died with four in a bag around his shoulder,’ said Sabina. Her expression was spiteful; she was enjoying Langar’s hurt shock as he learned things his lover had kept from him. ‘Tetford was kind, though: he helped me toss them in the Braytheford Pool, where they belong. As a reward, I gave him a cope, given to me by that horrible Canon Hodelston, as payment for—’

  She stopped speaking abruptly. ‘As payment for providing him with information about the Commonalty?’ asked Langar softly. ‘We always did wonder how he and the Guild always seemed to know our plans. It almost saw us destroyed during the plague.’

  ‘That is the garment in which you will be installed, Brother,’ whispered Cynric, lest the monk had not made the connection. ‘Tetford’s tale about the chest in his tavern’s attic was a lie. And now we know how he came by the four chalices for his women, too.’

  ‘We do not have time for this,’ said Miller, pacing restlessly. ‘Kelby wants to slaughter us all, and the longer we stand here chatting, the more time he will have to organise it.’

  ‘Please,’ said Sabina, going to place her h
and on his arm. ‘Do not walk the road to violence. Lives will be lost on both sides, and our town deserves better. Spend your money on helping the weavers.’

  ‘Sabina seems rather ready to persuade us to stand down,’ said Langar icily, ‘just as she was six years ago, when Canon Hodelston brought us to the brink of ruin. You should ask yourself why.’

  ‘Do not listen to him,’ said Sabina, while Miller and Lora regarded her with sudden suspicion. ‘He wants to get rid of you, so he can take your place as head of the Commonalty. He is telling lies, to confuse you and make you look inept.’

  ‘I have no reason to doubt him,’ said Miller coldly. ‘And perhaps he is right about you.’

  ‘I am here to help Chapman,’ sighed Sabina impatiently, as if she was becoming tired of repeating herself.

  ‘Kill her,’ said Miller to a man with a crossbow. The response was so immediate that Bartholomew wondered whether summary executions had been ordered before. One moment, Sabina was opening her mouth to protest her innocence, and the next she was lying on the floor with a bolt in her throat. The room was silent except for an unpleasant choking sound, which stopped before Bartholomew could do more than kneel beside her.

  ‘Damn,’ breathed Langar, rubbing a hand across his mouth. He glanced uneasily at the scholars. ‘That was inopportune, Miller.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snapped Miller. ‘I have never trusted her, and should have listened to your concerns years ago. What is wrong with you? I thought you would be pleased.’

  Langar shot the visitors another uncomfortable look, then headed for the door. ‘I cannot say I will miss her, but this was not how I envisaged the problem being solved. But we can discuss it later; now we must be about our business, if we are to survive this confrontation.’

  Miller sneered disdainfully as the lawyer swept from the room. ‘We will do more than survive – we are going to win. Thoresby, rally the men. Lora, go to Spayne, and tell him we have need of his help.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Michael finding his voice at last. ‘This is not the way to resolve a dispute. We—’

  ‘Out of my way,’ said Miller, shoving him to one side. ‘We have work to do.’

  ‘Please,’ begged Michael. ‘Let us talk to Kelby and—’

  ‘I am inclined to dispatch you, too,’ said Miller, regarding Michael and then Bartholomew with his small eyes. He spat on the floor. ‘Especially as you have just witnessed what you probably regard as a murder. You are lucky that I do not want to annoy the Suttones by shooting their friends, so I shall let you go. However, the physician can consider it a temporary reprieve.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael in a low voice.

  ‘I mean that if Chapman dies, then so will he.’

  Cynric bundled Bartholomew and Michael out of the house and down the nearest alley as fast as he could, afraid that if they tried to reason with Miller he might change his mind about letting them go. Even Bartholomew’s recent battle experiences had not steeled him for a murder ordered in front of his eyes, and he was deeply shocked. Michael was more concerned with the lives that would be lost if Lincoln went to war, and was ready to do anything to stop it.

  ‘You did your best to make him see sense,’ said Cynric, holding the monk’s sleeve when he attempted to return to Miller and argue the case for peace. ‘So did Langar, but he has the wits to see he was wasting his breath. And look what happened to Sabina when she argued for moderation.’

  ‘Cynric is right,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘We are completely helpless. If we warn Kelby, he will summon his own troops, and there will be a skirmish for certain.’

  ‘Sheriff Lungspee will not help, either,’ said Cynric. ‘When I told him his city was about to erupt into civil war, he asked whether I thought his gate would withstand invaders. He intends to lock himself in, and only emerge when the battle is done and he knows which side to favour.’

  Michael peered around the corner, watching the scurrying preparations around Miller’s domain. Bartholomew stood next to him, seeing ancient weapons pulled from storage, and men assembling so quickly that he could only assume they had been waiting for the call. He was alarmed: he had not anticipated that Miller’s friends would be so numerous. He saw several traders among them, looking terrified, and suspected they had been forced to show their colours against their will.

  ‘Not everyone wants this fight,’ he said. ‘The more militant of the workless weavers have little to lose, and rich guildsmen will be desperate to protect their houses from looters. But most people are frightened, because they do not know where this dispute will take them – no matter who wins.’

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘This is our fault, for going to Miller without thinking the situation through. We must stop him, or the blood will be on our hands.’

  ‘No, it will be on that killer’s, Brother,’ said Cynric practically. ‘It was him who unleashed all this mayhem with his poisoned wine. You are innocent.’

  ‘Well, I do not feel innocent,’ stated Michael. ‘I repeat: what can we do?’

  ‘Find the real killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then hope Kelby and Miller will listen to reason.’

  ‘How?’ cried Michael, frustrated. ‘I thought we had our answer when Hugh said he delivered Simon’s letter to Langar, but all we have is another attempt on Chapman’s life.’

  ‘I think I know who it is,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

  Michael whipped around to face him. ‘You do? I suppose we may have enough clues to allow a logical deduction now. Who is it? It must be someone from the cathedral, since we have eliminated the Gilbertines, and I do not think Miller and his people would try to kill Chapman, because he is one of their own. Well, Sabina might have done, I suppose. Is it her?’

  ‘I do not know how to say it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘You will not be pleased.’

  ‘Gynewell!’ said Cynric in satisfaction. ‘I always said there was something odd about him.’

  ‘Not Gynewell,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘The dean, then,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, that makes sense. The night we were attacked, it was Bresley who said we did not need an escort, and that we would be safe walking to the Gilbertine Priory alone. He had henchmen waiting, and he intended us to be murdered.’

  ‘The dean has no reason to want us dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On the contrary, he wants you to stay in Lincoln and help him keep order among his unruly clerics. I imagine he was more worried about the bishop’s safety when he told Gynewell not to accompany us – there will not be another prelate so understanding about his stealing. I am afraid the culprit is someone clever enough to stay one step ahead of us today. It is someone who deliberately sent us to Miller’s house in pursuit of the letter Simon sent Chapman – the missive Langar never received.’

  Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You think young Hugh is the killer?’ He started to laugh. ‘Really, Matt! He might have lied about giving it to Langar – God knows, he has fibbed before – but his motive would have been mischief, not malice. Besides, he is a child.’

  ‘Of course I do not think it is Hugh,’ snapped Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But our culprit learned that we wanted to speak to Hugh this morning, and managed to reach him first. I think Hugh was ordered to lead us astray by saying Langar accepted the letter.’

  ‘It may have been Langar doing the lying,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘He is a law-clerk.’

  ‘I believe he was telling the truth. The note was intercepted by someone who then killed Simon and tried to do the same to us. Ineptly.’

  ‘Spayne,’ said Michael with great delight. ‘He enticed us away from Hugh with tales of an ailing sister, and sent a crony to tell the boy what to say.’

  ‘Not Spayne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not tell him our plans, so he could not have known them. However, there was one person who knew exactly what we intended to do, and who encouraged us both to visit Spayne before interviewing Hugh. She did it so she could speak to him first.’

 
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to Lady Christiana.’

  Bartholomew saw it was not going to be easy to convince him. ‘She insisted we visit Ursula. Then she asked Hugh to lie about delivering the note to Langar, because the truth is that Hugh gave the note to her – the woman who buys him wooden soldiers.’

  ‘This is rambling from a deranged mind,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘I will not listen.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Cynric gently to Bartholomew. ‘You cannot be right.’

  ‘I amright,’ said Bartholomew, gripping the monk’s sleeve to prevent him from leaving. ‘You saw what Hugh did when he had finished speaking to us: he darted straight to Christiana. And she asked to accompany us to the cathedral when she heard what we were going to do.’

  ‘She went to pray,’ said Michael coldly, freeing himself. ‘As she does every Tuesday.’

  ‘And she has others who do her bidding, too,’ continued Bartholomew, ‘such as the “priest” who delivered the poisoned wine to Chapman. Only an hour ago, we saw Ravenser, Claypole, Bautre and John follow her about like lovesick calves. They do anything she asks.’

  ‘Christiana has no reason to kill Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘You are deluded.’

  ‘The poison is unusual,’ said Bartholomew, thinking aloud. ‘Yet it features in the deaths of Herl, Flaxfleete and Tetford – and now the attempts on Ursula and Chapman. And there was the man who died during the plague … ’

  ‘Canon Hodelston,’ supplied Cynric. ‘Rapist, thief and extortionist.’

  ‘And I think Fat William had some sort of toxin-induced seizure, too. Perhaps this poisoning has been going on for years – ever since she arrived in Lincoln – and we shall never know how many have really died.’

  ‘Then what about the possibility that Ursula may have given herself a non-fatal dose because she knows we are coming close to the truth?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘She certainly has a knowledge of poisons, because she dispatched Christiana’s mother with some.’