The Tarnished Chalice (15 page)

‘It might slough off and land on someone,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In Cambridge, we once had a man die when a great mass of ice fell from a roof. We did not find his body for months.’

She crossed herself. ‘I will warn Mayor Spayne. Perhaps he can build barriers, to stop folk coming too close. Of course, then the guildsmen will say he is claiming part of a common highway for himself. They will moan if he tries to protect people, and they will moan if someone is hurt. Vile men! Tell me, did you really travel here with a member of the Suttone clan?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why?’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘It is a great honour – they are so well thought of in these parts. Bishop Gynewell was delighted when he heard one was in holy orders and might be persuaded to take a prebendal stall. Everyone likes the Suttone family.’

Bartholomew was amused. ‘We had no idea we were in
such exalted company. Have the Suttones taken a side in the city’s feud?’

She shook her head. ‘They do not come to town very often – perhaps because when they do, the Guild and the Commonalty try to recruit them.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Mayor Spayne had business with Sheriff Lungspee this morning, sir. I doubt he is still there, but one of the soldiers might know his plans for later. You will find the castle on top of the hill.’

Lincoln’s main street was so spacious in places that it was able to accommodate a whole string of markets. First, there was an area where corn was traded, which had pigeons picking at the filthy ground and sturdy scales ready for weighing sacks of grain. Then there was the Pultria, or Poultry, which was fringed with tightly packed houses and churches. The air was full of clucks, hisses, coos and quacks, and underfoot, feathers, eggshells and bird droppings had been trodden into the mud to form a thick mat. The fish market was next, but the silting of the Fossedike meant it took too long to bring the catch from the sea, and the specimens on display were dull-eyed and smelly. Gulls soared overhead, diving occasionally to snatch a morsel from under the feet of the haggling fishmongers, and cats stalked and crouched in the shadows. Then came the High Market, with ramshackle stalls that sold everything from ribbons to rabbits. It reeked of old urine and decaying meat.

The houses on the high street were mostly handsome, but when Bartholomew glanced along some of the alleys that radiated off it, he saw Lincoln’s grandeur was superficial. Groups of men slouched aimlessly against cracked, crumbling walls, and their eyes were dull and flat, as though they were resigned to the hopelessness of their situation. He assumed most were weavers, whose forebears had
flocked to Lincoln half a century earlier, when there were fortunes to be made in the wool trade.

‘I do not understand,’ said Cynric, regarding them with pity. ‘This is a rich city, with its great minster and fine Norman houses. So why are its people poor?’

‘Apparently, it is because the Fossedike is clogged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It means the weavers cannot send their finished cloth for export, and they are losing out to those who live in more easily accessible ports. I read that royal parliaments were once held in Lincoln, but I do not think His Majesty would be very impressed by what is here now. I have never seen streets more choked with filth, not even in Cambridge.’

‘Not even in France,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And that is a terrible place.’

They passed through the gate that divided the lower part of the town from the plateau known as the Bail. Then they turned left, towards a fortress that transpired to be as dilapidated as the rest of the city. Unimpressed, Cynric announced that to storm it would take no more than a good, hard shove at one of its teetering walls.

‘Oh, no!’ he breathed suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist in a pinch that hurt. Before the physician could look around, he found himself hauled backwards and pressed into a doorway. ‘It is Bishop Gynewell! We do not want him to see us.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘He seems a pleasant man.’

Cynric regarded him in disbelief. ‘He is a demon, boy! You only have to look at him to see he is one of Satan’s imps – he makes no effort to disguise his horns. And if that is not obvious enough for you, then bear in mind that he likes roaring fires and food made with powerful spices. Ask anyone.’

Bartholomew studied him warily, wondering if it was a jest to take his mind off Matilde, but could tell by the earnest expression that his book-bearer was perfectly serious. ‘Gynewell is not a demon.’

Cynric’s amazement intensified. ‘But he is! And you should remember it when you visit him – it might save your life. Or better yet, do not enter his domain at all. He might spear you with his pitchfork or rip you to pieces with his claws.’

Bartholomew was about to argue further when Gynewell started to walk in their direction. With a grim face, Cynric gripped Bartholomew’s sleeve in one hand, his sword in the other and shot through the door to someone’s house. He slammed it behind him and made for the back entrance, ignoring the astonished gaze of the family that was sitting around their kitchen table. Bartholomew grinned sheepishly as he was hauled past them, unable to break free of Cynric’s iron grip.

‘Hello,’ he said, feeling he should make some effort at conversation. ‘It is cold today.’

‘It is indeed,’ stammered the man at the head of the table, while his wife and children sat with mouths agape. ‘We shall have more snow soon.’

And then Bartholomew was in their private garden, where Cynric marched down a path and ushered him through the rear gate and into a lane.

‘There,’ said the book-bearer, closing it firmly. ‘We have escaped. The castle is up here, I believe.’

Leaving Bartholomew at a loss for words, Cynric strode towards the barbican’s ancient metal-studded door. When he knocked, Bartholomew noticed the wood was so rotten that his fist left indentations. On closer inspection, he saw he could probably hack his way inside with one of his little surgical knives, and knew its neglected
defences would present no obstacle at all to a serious invader.

‘Mayor Spayne,’ repeated the guard who came to ask what they wanted. ‘Let me see my list.’

He was a slovenly fellow, with bad teeth and a festering boil on his neck that he kept rubbing with grime-coated fingers. He made a great show of consulting a piece of parchment, which Bartholomew saw was a well-thumbed gaol-delivery record. He was puzzled, wondering why Spayne should be on a register of felons, but then saw the document was held upside down, and realised the ‘list’ was the guard’s way of impressing illiterate visitors with a show of administration.

‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually, rolling up the warrant in a businesslike manner. ‘He left several hours ago.’

‘Do you know where he went?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed.

The guard shook his head. ‘But Sheriff Lungspee might. Sheriff! Sir! Over here!’

Before Bartholomew could demur, a man with long greasy hair and a shabby leather jerkin started to walk towards them. The physician swore under his breath, knowing it was unwise to draw the attention of city officials after what had transpired at Kelby’s house the night before. He started to back away, hoping to avoid the encounter, but Lungspee was too close, and it would have looked suspicious to make a dash for it.

‘Look at this,’ said the sheriff, proffering a hand adorned with a large emerald ring. ‘Have you ever seen a more magnificent object?’

‘No, sir,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it rather gaudy. He could not imagine wearing such a thing himself. It would be in the way when he examined his patients and he would almost certainly lose it. However, many of his medical colleagues
believed that emeralds controlled unruly passions, and he wondered whether he should invest in one for Michael. ‘Can I buy one like it in Lincoln?’

‘Not these days, unfortunately,’ replied Lungspee sadly. ‘Flaxfleete gave it to me, although it had nothing to do with his acquittal, you understand. It is even better than the three white pearls I had from Miller, around the time I released Thoresby following the Dalderby affair. What do you think?’ He hauled a purse from under his jerkin and showed off a trio of milky gems.

‘Very nice. What Dalderby affair?’

Lungspee pursed his lips as he put the jewels away. ‘You must be a stranger, or you would know about our town and its troubles. Thoresby threatened to chop off Dalderby’s head – he would have done it, too, if I had not stopped him. Then Miller gave me these pearls, and I decided Thoresby had learned his lesson, so I let him out of prison. Dalderby was not very pleased, but I made up for it by looking kindly on his friend Flaxfleete yesterday. It is a delicate business, being sheriff.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew weakly. ‘I imagine it is.’

Lungspee looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any items of value you would like to share with me? Your clothes are of decent quality, and a man of good standing always has a few baubles to pass to the sheriffs he meets, especially if he wants a favourable verdict at some point in the future.’

Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable. Should he oblige, lest he and Michael were accused of foul play over the business with Flaxfleete, or would the fact that they were innocent be enough to see any spiteful accusations dismissed? He glanced at Cynric, who winked and nodded, indicating he thought coins should change hands. But Bartholomew had never bribed an official in the past, and was loath to start now.

‘Actually, I am looking for Mayor Spayne,’ he said, aware of Cynric rolling his eyes in disgust at the lost opportunity. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

‘No, I am sorry,’ said Lungspee. ‘Pleasant man, Spayne. There is only one flaw in his character: his failure to impress his local sheriff with small gifts that demonstrate his affection. Is that all you wanted? You did not come here to tell me your side in a legal matter?’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound shocked. He did not think he had ever encountered such brazen corruption. ‘I just wanted to speak to Spayne.’

‘He left hours ago, and might be anywhere by now. He often journeys to distant villages on business, but since the Guild would dearly love to place an arrow in his back, he seldom confides his travel plans. All I know is that he told me he intends to sleep elsewhere tonight, but that he hopes to be back in Lincoln by tomorrow evening. Of course, if he were to die in mysterious circumstances, then a guildsman would not be long in following him to his grave. That is the way of this city, and has been ever since Canon Hodelston died during the plague. That was what started it all.’

‘Someone mentioned Hodelston to us before,’ said Bartholomew, trying to recall why.

‘He was a dreadful fellow, even after he became a priest,’ explained Lungspee obligingly. ‘Charges of theft, rape and even murder followed him around like flies, and his minster friends were hard-pressed to find something nice to say about him at his funeral.’

‘And him a canon, too,’ muttered Cynric, shaking his head censoriously.

‘Well, someone has to be. But he did do one good thing: he founded the Tavern in the Close. And that place is a boon to us all, because it keeps the clerics inside the cathedral
precincts at night, and stops them from rampaging through the city.’

‘We were told Canon Hodelston was poisoned,’ said Cynric, rather salaciously.

‘That was the rumour,’ acknowledged Lungspee. ‘I thought we were better off without him, but his fellow canons took umbrage at his murder and made a terrible fuss. Personally, I think we should all concentrate on more important issues, like draining the Fossedike.’

‘Lincoln’s link to the sea,’ said Bartholomew.

Lungspee nodded. ‘Funds were raised for its repair, but they were divided between the Guild and the Commonalty for “safekeeping” and they seem to have disappeared. I would pay for the work myself, but I am struggling to keep this castle in one piece. The King might visit one day, and I should like to show him at least one wall that is not in imminent danger of collapse.’

Bartholomew surveyed his domain critically, trying to pinpoint some part of it that might be sound. ‘That round tower looks all right.’

‘Dry rot,’ confided Lungspee. ‘I wrote to the King thirty years ago, telling him we were in a bit of a state, but he did not reply.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Then perhaps you should try again. He may not be pleased if he decides to avail himself of your hospitality, and the roof caves in on him while he is asleep.’

‘That would not create a good impression,’ acknowledged Lungspee, glancing around dolefully. ‘So, if he comes, we shall have to allocate him an upstairs room. From personal experience, I can tell you that it is better to drop through a floor than to have a ceiling drop on you.’

* * *

The following day was cloudy, and it was still dark when Bartholomew was shocked from sleep by the harsh jangle of the Gilbertines’ bells. He leapt from his bed, but managed to stop himself from snatching up his sword when he realised it was a call to prayer, not a call to arms. Michael watched, then turned back to his psalter without comment, although his silence said more about his disapproval than any words could have done. They attended the beginning of another deafening prime, but the monk strode out in disgust when some of the Gilbertines started to clap in time to the music. Bartholomew followed him, relieved to be away from the racket.

‘It is too much,’ complained the monk petulantly. ‘It is a chapel, not a tavern. We should sing prime at the cathedral tomorrow, because I do not think I can stand much more of this … ’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.

After breakfast, he and Bartholomew sat on a low wall near the refectory while he reviewed what he knew about Aylmer. He had not been pontificating for long when Hamo bustled towards them.

‘Is anything amiss?’ the newly created Brother Hospitaller asked, licking his moist, pink lips anxiously. ‘Neither of you ate much, and we would be horrified to think you were dissatisfied with our humble fare. Prior Roger was saying only last night how good it is to have a Suttone under our roof, and he has written to the family, to let them know you have elected to stay with us. They have promised to remember us in their wills, you see, and some have plans to be buried in our chapel. It would be terrible if you were to go elsewhere. And if you did, Prior Roger might demote me.’