Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘There is Christiana’s motive for trying to kill Ursula,’ pounced Bartholomew.

  ‘Christiana thinks her mother killed herself,’ said Cynric doubtfully. ‘She does not hold Ursula responsible.’

  ‘She is lying,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so she will not be a suspect when Ursula dies.’

  ‘That is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I suppose she took her bow with her when she killed Simon and Tetford, did she? Or do you think Dame Eleanor is the archer? I would not put it past her: the elderly are known to be very deadly.’

  ‘She does not need Dame Eleanor. She has willing priests from the cathedral to help her. Claypole is tall, so perhaps he is the swordsman. And John and Ravenser were the others.’

  Michael was so disgusted, he could find no words to express himself. Cynric spoke for him. ‘The cold must have addled your head,’ he said, concerned. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and—’

  Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Christiana spends a lot of time at the tomb of Little Hugh, where we discovered that poison. Now I see why it was in Tetford’s flask. It was not to harm you, but was intended to kill him.’

  ‘Why should she want to do that?’ demanded Michael, finding his voice again. ‘You just said she recruits men like him to go around ambushing people for her.’

  Bartholomew could think of no good reason. ‘Perhaps he refused,’ he suggested lamely.

  Michael pulled a face to indicate he did not consider the theory worthy of further discussion. ‘Hundreds of people visit that shrine, and the poison could belong to any one of them. Everything you say about Christiana is arrant nonsense.’

  ‘Miller is innocent in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, as innocent as such a man can ever be. He did not poison Flaxfleete, he did not kill Aylmer or Herl, and he did not send tainted milk to Ursula.’

  ‘He and his cronies just hanged Shirlok, shot Sabina and are planning to plunge a city into civil war,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Aside from that, Miller is as pure as the driven snow. And now you must excuse me, Matt, because I have a killer to catch.’

  Bartholomew ordered Cynric to stay with Michael, overriding the book-bearer’s objections that he preferred to be with the man who had lost his wits. He believed the monk had allowed passion to interfere with his reason, and was convinced he needed protection from a very ruthless criminal. Michael flounced down the hill, indignation in his every step, with Cynric trailing reluctantly behind him. Bartholomew watched them go and wondered what to do. Should he confront Christiana, since it was clear Michael would not do so? Or should he try to gather more evidence first? What he had was flimsy, and he did not see her giving herself up when presented with it.

  He started to follow Michael, glancing up when something brushed his face; snow was falling again. He shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he would have preferred to return to the convent, to sit in front of the fire and discuss Blood Relics with Suttone. He had had very few intellectual debates over the past year, and was surprised how much he had missed them. A cold winter’s day, with a blizzard in the offing, meant the best place for any scholar was by a hearth with like-minded company. But he was unsettled and troubled, and felt compelled to discover more about the killer.

  It was a dull morning, so lamps were burning in some houses, and the air was thick with wood-smoke as people lit fires to ward off the chill. The snow began to fall in earnest, which meant it was difficult to see Michael and Cynric, even though they were not far ahead. Through a whirl of white, he watched the monk skid and Cynric jump forward to catch him. Roughly, the monk shoved him away, and Bartholomew saw his theory about the identity of the killer had genuinely enraged him.

  The streets were curiously empty of people, and Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that the blizzard had driven them indoors, and that snow might accomplish what peacemakers could not. Then gradually he became aware of furtive movements in the shadows of the darker alleys, and the few people who were out were heavily armed. He was about to hurry forward and suggest he, Cynric and Michael return to the Gilbertines while they could – to sit out the storm caused by Miller and the weather at the same time – when a figure loomed out of the swirling whiteness. It was John.

  ‘Have you seen my brother?’ he demanded. ‘Bautre wants him to learn the solos for the installation ceremony on Sunday, but he has slunk off on business of his own. I cannot find him anywhere.’

  ‘I last saw him with Christiana at the Head Shrine.’

  John’s harsh expression softened at the lady’s name. ‘She is good with him, and he is much better behaved when she is around. You owe me your thanks, by the way. I delivered that flask to Chapman, to aid his recovery, just as you asked. However, there is a rumour that it did not work, and that Chapman is dying. I am sorry.’

  ‘That claret was not from me. And it was tainted. Who told you I wanted it delivered to Chapman?’

  John’s jaw dropped, and he started to back away. ‘No! There must be some mistake … ’

  Bartholomew grabbed the front of his habit. ‘Who?’ he repeated angrily.

  ‘I cannot...I did not...I see the answer! Someone must have deceived Christiana, and she in turn deceived me, although she did it unknowingly. We are both innocent of wrongdoing.’

  Bartholomew released him. ‘You had better find Hugh. A child should not be out in this weather.’

  ‘He will be all right,’ said John, backing away before he was grabbed again. ‘He has an uncanny instinct for his best interests, and he is almost fourteen years old, anyway, a child no longer.’

  ‘Speaking of his best interests, he thinks you will make a better brothel-keeper than Ravenser.’

  John’s expression was spiteful. ‘The same could be said about anyone in the city, regardless of talent, because Ravenser is dead. Someone shot him.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Another death?’ ‘

  The first of many today, I imagine. Miller and Kelby are mustering forces, so there will be a fight. I intend to be in the cathedral before it starts, and I recommend you do the same.’

  ‘Do you think Miller’s men killed Ravenser?’

  ‘Probably, since Ravenser announced today that his so-called House of Pleasure will not be buying any more ale from Lora Boyner. Kelby threatened to withhold donations to the cathedral if Ravenser continued to purchase ale from a Commonalty brewer, so he really had no choice. And now, if you have finished manhandling me, I shall be on my way.’

  Bartholomew watched him stagger up the hill, skidding on the slick surface. The snow was coming down harder, and it was not many moments before he was out of sight.

  ‘There he is!’ came a sudden yell. ‘There is Chapman’s murderer!’

  Bartholomew glanced behind him to see Lora, with Langar at her side. She wore a leather jerkin, military style, and held her sword as if she knew exactly how to handle it. She surged forward, and Bartholomew was fortunate snow had rendered the ground slick underfoot, or she would have been on him before he had had time to turn and face her. He scrabbled in his bag for a surgical knife, although he doubted it would do him much good against a sword.

  ‘Chapman is dead,’ she shouted, feinting at him and forcing him to take several steps back. ‘He died in the throes of a fit. Miller said we were to kill you.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ ordered Langar. ‘This is a major thoroughfare, and although it seems deserted, you never know who might come along. The longer you take, the greater our chances of being seen.’

  ‘So, you want no witnesses to your crime,’ said Bartholomew, backing away and holding his bag in front of him like a shield. ‘That should tell you your reasons for murdering me are flawed. If it was a justifiable killing, you would not care who saw it.’

  ‘A scholar’s logic,’ sneered Langar. ‘Hurry up, Lora. At this rate, we will be pursuing him all the way to Cambridge.’

  ‘I am doing my best,’ muttered Lora, struggling to keep her balance. ‘I am unused to men who jump away from me. Most stand
and fight, because they assume they cannot lose against a woman. Few survive to warn others never to underestimate the fairer sex.’

  Bartholomew had no intention of underestimating the fairer sex, and he knew better than to engage an experienced sword-wielder with a dagger. His only option was to stay out of blade range for as long as possible, in the hope that someone would see his plight and come to his rescue – or distract Lora for the split second that would allow him to turn and run for his life.

  ‘Which of you killed Shirlok?’ he demanded, hoping the certainty in his voice would throw her off her stride. ‘He arrived in Lincoln recently, and you were afraid he might destroy all you have built. You hanged him, making sure it was done properly this time.’

  Langar gazed at him in surprise. ‘Shirlok? I thought I saw him in the Angel, but everyone told me I was mistaken. I knew he had survived his execution, but he would be a fool to come here and—’

  ‘Bunoun did the honours,’ said Lora. She shrugged when Langar gaped at her. ‘He said no one would hire a surgeon with a criminal past, and Miller did not like being blackmailed, either. There was no need for you to know, Langar, although I am surprised you have not smelled him. He reeks, and Miller said it was only a question of time before you investigated the basement.’

  Langar continued to stare, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to spread dissent. ‘There are other things they have kept from you, Langar – such as the Hugh Chalice being in Lincoln for the last twenty years. Where was it, Lora? In the cellar?’

  Lora grinned. ‘Yes – and you have no idea how surprised we were when we arrived here, and found a chest containing the lion’s share of Shirlok’s treasure among our crates. We did not steal it, though, so we have done nothing wrong.’

  Bartholomew had continued to slither away, but he had reached the hill and moving down it backwards on the slippery snow was not easy. ‘Then I imagine you were delighted when Bunoun eliminated Shirlok. It meant you could sell the Hugh Chalice at last.’

  ‘Is it the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Lora. ‘Chapman believed in its sanctity, but the rest of us are sceptical. And now we are done talking, because if I slide all the way down this hill, I shall have to walk up it again, and I need my strength for slaughtering guildsmen.’

  ‘Will you let her murder me?’ asked Bartholomew of Langar. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. ‘She who has kept secrets from you, and has hidden the bodies of murdered men in your home? She and Miller obviously do not trust you, or they would have shared this information.’

  ‘They often keep me in the dark,’ said Langar with a shrug. ‘It makes it easier for me to defend them in court – I do a better job if I do not know they are guilty. But hurry up and make an end of him, Lora. There is a lot to do, if we are to stand any chance of winning against Kelby.’

  Lora launched herself forward with single-minded determination, and Bartholomew scrambled away from a swing that was intended to decapitate him. He turned, intending to make a run for it while she was off balance, but his foot slipped, and he stumbled to one knee. He tensed, anticipating her blade would be driven into his back, but Lora was overly eager, and when she dived forward, ice sent her sprawling flat on her face. Bartholomew struggled upright, but Langar grabbed his cloak, yanking it hard enough to drag him off his feet again. Lora took her sword in both hands, while Langar held the physician down, to make the killing easier for her.

  Bartholomew kicked out as hard as he could – not at Lora, whom he could not reach, but at Langar, causing the lawyer to crumple across him. Langar shrieked in pain and shock as Lora’s sword bit into his shoulder. He released Bartholomew’s cloak, and the physician rolled away, cursing when the snow stopped him from gaining his feet as fast as he would have liked. Lora ignored her groaning colleague, and came after Bartholomew with a series of hacking blows, swearing when her blade hit the wall of a house and sent pain shooting up her arm. She dropped the weapon and clutched her wrist. Bartholomew clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could, trusting he would soon be invisible in the swirling snow. He heard Langar and Lora yelling at each other as he disappeared.

  He was near Spayne’s home, so he located the narrow alley that separated it from Kelby’s house, and ducked inside, praying no one would follow the footprints he had left. Moments later, Lora lumbered past, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Langar was a considerable distance behind, hand to his injured shoulder, and the lapsed time was enough for wind and snow to have masked the tracks to some extent. Cynric would not have been deceived, but Langar was not the book-bearer, and he staggered past without noticing. Then they were gone, and Bartholomew heaved a shaky sigh of relief.

  He moved farther down the alley when he heard shouting, afraid Langar had met with reinforcements, and found himself in the yard at the back of Spayne’s house. The remains of the blackened storerooms were smothered in snow, and he supposed Spayne would be alarmed for his roof. More yelling told him that he would be wise to stay out of sight for a while, so he huddled against the back of the house, near one of the window shutters. He wondered how long it would be before the trouble eased, and con sidered taking refuge with Spayne. But their last encounter had been uneasy, and he was not sure his welcome would be a warm one. Indeed, Spayne might even betray him, so he would not be asked to reveal what he knew about Matilde. He decided to stay in the yard, wrapping his cloak more closely around him, and pulling his hat down to cover his ears.

  But the hollering was becoming more agitated, not less, and he saw he was going to be in for a long wait. Eventually, he heard the bells chime for a cathedral ceremony he knew was due to take place at two o’clock, and ventured out to assess the road. It was fortunate he had moved stealthily, because Miller himself was standing near the end of the alley, in conversation with Spayne. The two men nodded agreement and separated, Spayne to go back inside his home and Miller to address a group of weavers. Bartholomew retraced his steps and hunkered down in his chilly refuge again.

  It began to grow dark, dusk coming early because of the low clouds. He felt the cold seep into him, and hoped the weather would drive both sides back into their houses for the night. Then there was a hissing sound from above, and he leapt up in alarm when he recalled how the tile had almost killed Michael earlier. But it was only snow, sloughing off to land in a slippery pile near Spayne’s rear door. Heart thumping, he decided to abandon the yard. The falling flakes and encroaching night might be enough to hide him, but if not, then Lora’s sword was a better end than being buried alive. He was just rubbing life into his frozen legs in anticipation of escape, when he heard a familiar voice. Spayne had guests.

  ‘ … is the pity of it,’ came Christiana’s clipped tones. ‘I do not know what else to say.’

  ‘It was an accident, I swear,’ replied Ursula, her voice unsteady. ‘I did not mean to harm her.’

  Bartholomew frowned, wondering why Christiana should be visiting the sister of a man she so obviously despised. He put his eye to the gap under the shutter, to see inside the house.

  ‘You did harm her, though,’ Christiana was saying flatly. ‘Matilde was right.’

  ‘She was not,’ shouted Ursula. ‘She was misguided and spread vicious rumours about me.’

  ‘You have been telling everyone that your mother asked Ursula for cuckoo-pint deliberately,’ came Spayne’s voice. He sounded confused. ‘You believe she wanted to die.’

  Christiana’s voice was colder than Bartholomew had ever heard anyone speak. ‘My mother had everything to live for. She would never have entertained suicide. I spread that tale so no one will look to me when Ursula dies.’

  A dark chill gripped Bartholomew as he knelt in the snow. He had hoped for proof that Christiana was the killer, but he had not expected it to come in the form of another death. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Spayne would not allow his sister to be dispatched – or would he? He recalled what Simon had told him: that Spayne had been an abbey oblate, and knew nothing about arms and fight
ing. Perhaps he would be powerless to pre vent it.

  ‘Your mother and I were friends,’ said Ursula wheedlingly. ‘Why would I harm her?’

  ‘Because she was going to marry Kelby,’ said Christiana in the same icy voice. ‘And her dowry would have made him stronger and richer than your brother. You could not stand the thought of that, so you intervened in a spectacular way. You killed her.’

  Bartholomew poked the window shutter with his knife, grateful to find it rotten. Quickly, he bored a hole, so he could better see what was happening within. He winced when the hinge protested at the pressure, but the room’s occupants were more interested in each other than in strange sounds from outside. When he put his eye to the hole, he was astonished to see not three people, but four. Spayne and Ursula sat side by side on a bench on the far side of the hall, while Christiana stood near the hearth. Hugh was with her, and Bartholomew saw he held a small bow – the kind children used when they learned archery. His face was alight with curiosity, and Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised the boy would be out when mischief was in the air.

  ‘The sadness is that it was unnecessary,’ said Christiana quietly. ‘My mother did not love Kelby and would never have wedded him. She was going to ask Prior Roger to marry her secretly to the man who had captured her heart – the man whose babe she carried.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’ asked Spayne, and the expression on his face was both stricken and guilty.

  ‘I am her daughter,’ said Christiana. ‘Of course she told me.’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts reeled as he tried to understand what they were saying. Then he looked at Spayne, and had his answer in the way the mayor’s eyes flicked around the room: a man who enjoyed prostitutes, but who had declared himself celibate. Bartholomew found his hands were shaking, and wondered whether Matilde had known that Spayne had lain with her closest friend.

  ‘My mother was pregnant with your child,’ said Christiana softly. ‘But Matilde held your heart. You were in a quandary. Should you do the dutiful thing and allow Prior Roger to marry you to my mother? Or should you put your own happiness first, and wed Matilde?’