The Tarnished Chalice (24 page)

‘Listen to the choir chant the responses,’ said Dame Eleanor softly, when Bartholomew went to stand next to her. ‘Can you imagine anything more beautiful?’

‘It is certainly more tuneful than Prior Roger and his ear-splitting ensemble.’

She frowned when she became aware of Claypole’s lounging posture. ‘That wicked young man is asleep again, and I have woken him twice this morning already! If he went to bed earlier, he might stay awake for the duties he is paid
to fulfil. He is lucky Ravenser is of a mind to be diligent this morning.’

‘Is Ravenser not usually diligent, then?’ ‘I think he prefers non-secular activities to religious ones, although he has been working very hard this morning. I can only assume it is penance for some sin committed during his latest revelries.’

Bartholomew suspected that Ravenser was simply trying to make a good impression on a woman generally regarded as a saint in the making. With practised movements, the archdeacon laid out the vessels for mass, slapping his hand down sharply when a sudden draught caught the Host and flipped it into the air. He placed a paten across it, so it would not happen again. Dame Eleanor returned to her prayers, while Bartholomew let the choir’s singing envelop him. He could hear Michael’s baritone among the lower parts, and de Wetherset’s creaking tenor. Then there was another voice, this one discordant and jarring. Claypole woke with a start.

‘The dean,’ Bartholomew heard him mumble to Ravenser, ‘sings like a scalded cat.’

Eleanor shot them an admonishing look when they started to guffaw, causing Ravenser to complete his duties and leave hastily. Claypole, meanwhile, heaved himself upright and rubbed his eyes. When a burly canon sauntered past, Claypole went to talk to him, and Bartholomew noticed that while Ravenser’s weapon had been mostly concealed under his robes, Claypole wore his sword brazenly, and did not care who saw the unusual addition to a priestly habit. Claypole and the canon leaned non-chalantly against a nearby wall, and Bartholomew assumed, from their vaguely obscene gestures, that the discussion had little to do with religion.

‘Christiana is their only hope,’ said Eleanor, following the
direction of his gaze. ‘When she is here, they at least try to act like men of God.’

‘They seem a quarrelsome rabble,’ said Bartholomew. The old lady winced. ‘They should be ashamed of themselves. And they will regret their wicked ways when the plague comes again, and those with black souls face God’s judgement. Your friend Master Suttone told me last night that the worst sinners will be struck first.’

She went back to her prayers, so Bartholomew left her and began to wander around the cathedral. The milder weather had not yet percolated inside the building, and it was bitterly cold. He wondered how an elderly woman like Dame Eleanor coped with the chill. Still listening to the music, he passed the spot where Cynric was inspecting Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb, and aimed for the South Choir Aisle, walking briskly in an attempt to warm himself up. Dawn was breaking, but the first glimmerings of light had not yet touched the shadowy corridor, and the only light was from a single brazier.

When he reached the tomb of Little Hugh, he saw Christiana there, lighting a candle. He hung back, loath to disturb her, and watched as she stepped up to the statue and grabbed the flask of holy water that stood behind it. Furtively, she removed a second jar from under her cloak, and emptied its contents inside the first, replacing both vessels smartly when voices echoed along the aisle. Bartholomew ducked behind a pillar as Claypole, John Suttone and Ravenser approached; Christiana dropped quickly to her knees and put her hands together. The three priests loitered in a way that indicated they wanted her attention, shuffling and coughing until she had no choice but to look around. When she did, they vied for her attention like besotted schoolboys.

‘Please,’ she said gently, resting her hand on Ravenser’s arm and smiling sweetly at Claypole and John. ‘I want to
pray, and I cannot do it while you three fuss and fidget behind me.’

‘Perhaps we can help,’ offered Claypole, unwilling to be dismissed. ‘We are priests, after all.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you might. I would like to light another candle for my mother, and I would like a wreath of leaves to place on Little Hugh’s statue. The old one is sadly wilted. Would you be kind enough to fetch them for me?’

They shot away to do her bidding, but then she became aware that yet another person was lingering in the shadows. She sighed, and there was a weary expression on her face.

‘Do I have to devise errands for you, too, so I can pray uninterrupted?’

‘Is that what you are doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or are you here to exchange Dame Eleanor’s holy water for something else?’

She grimaced in annoyance. ‘You saw me, did you? Damn! I add wine to her water occasionally, because I have learned that it eases the ache in her legs brought on by the cold. She does not know, and I would rather you did not tell her. She believes a small miracle takes place when it happens – that Little Hugh is watching over her – and I would not like her to think otherwise. Look.’

She handed the jug to him, and while he thought Dame Eleanor would probably disapprove of being deceived, he supposed it was being done with the best of intentions. He tasted the contents, and was not surprised the old lady enjoyed it: Christiana had been generous in her mixing, and there was far more wine than water. It was good quality claret, too, and he supposed it might well help to keep the aches of a cold winter morning at bay.

‘It is very strong,’ he observed. ‘Does she ever fall asleep halfway through the morning?’

Christiana looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, she does, but that is just her age. Is it not?’

‘Reduce the amount,’ he advised. ‘Excesses of wine are unhealthy too early in the day.’

Her face burned red with mortification. ‘I am not doing her any harm, am I?’

‘Not if you practise moderation. Indeed, you may be doing some good.’

She smiled, relieved. ‘Dame Eleanor is the best of friends to me. I was lonely and frightened after my mother died, but she was kind and patient, and taught me to take pleasure in serving the saints in this magnificent cathedral. I do not think I would have survived without her.’

Bartholomew backed away. ‘Then I will leave you in peace.’

The physician continued his circuit of the minster. When he reached the nave, he saw Tetford hurrying towards the chancel, rubbing his eyes as though he had overslept. He was carrying the alb he was supposed to be altering for Michael. Ravenser approached him, fingering his dagger. Tetford’s hand dropped to his own belt, then scrabbled about in alarm when he realised he had forgotten to arm himself. Ravenser whispered something and, with a heavy sigh of resignation, Tetford produced a thick beeswax candle from the satchel he carried over his shoulder. Ravenser snatched it from him and darted towards Christiana, not seeing the obscene gesture Tetford made at his retreating back. Eventually, Bartholomew’s wandering brought him to the Angel Choir again, where he had started. It was possible to see through the carved screen to the sanctuary beyond, and he found Cynric there, looking from Bishop Gynewell to the stone imp in its lofty niche.

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew, before the Welshman
could whip himself into too much of a frenzy. ‘Some of the angels have faces similar to living people, too.’

‘But angels are heavenly beings,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘And Gynewell is one of Satan’s imps. Just look at him! His horns are particularly noticeable today.’

Bartholomew wanted to contradict him, but Cynric was right. The bishop had evidently risen in a hurry, and had raked his fingers through his hair to ‘tidy’ it. As a result, the twisted curls at the sides of his head looked very much like horns in the unsteady light of the candles, and the way he hopped about behind the altar did little to enhance a sense of episcopal dignity, either.

‘If Gynewell is a demon, he will evaporate in a puff of smoke when he touches the Host,’ he said.

Irony was lost on Cynric, whose eyes gleamed in eager anticipation. ‘I will stay here and watch, then. I have never seen a devil consumed by flames, and it would make a good tale to tell of a winter night – along with my accounts of Poitiers. Perhaps there will be another earthquake, too, like the one that brought down the old cathedral. It probably happened when Gynewell first arrived. It is common knowledge that the denizens of Hell are hundreds of years old.’

Bartholomew looked through the screen and saw that Michael and de Wetherset were virtually the only ones paying any attention to Gynewell’s mass. The Vicars Choral were clustered around Tetford, who was relating some anecdote about the alb he held; they sniggered loudly enough to attract a stern glare from the dean. The Poor Clerks were sitting against a wall, half asleep, while the choristers – young Hugh among them – darted about in some complex, but relatively soundless, game of their own. They did not even stop when it was time to sing, trilling the notes as they ducked this way and that. Bartholomew
could not imagine such antics permitted at Michaelhouse, and suddenly experienced a sharp desire to be back there again, among familiar things and faces.

Eventually, the rite was over, and Bartholomew waited for Michael to emerge. He watched the monk shake his head when Gynewell skipped towards him and asked a question, but then the bishop’s attention was caught by the dean, who was in the process of removing something from the altar. Gynewell took Bresley by the arm and hauled him away to one side. Tetford passed unnecessarily close to them, and made some remark that had the dean blushing furiously. Bartholomew looked away. Lincoln was as bad as Cambridge with its petty quarrels, rivalries and feuds.

‘You should forget you saw that,’ said Tetford, when he reached the physician. He leered slyly, as he stooped to ensure a lock was secure on an oblations box. ‘The dean, I mean.’

‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tetford grinned. ‘With an attitude like that, you would make a good canon yourself. I intend to be one soon. Perhaps I shall be given Brother Michael’s Stall of South Scarle.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Canons are installed for life, so I doubt it.’

‘Maybe he will resign,’ said Tetford with a careless and unconvincing shrug. ‘But now I am a Vicar Choral, there is no reason why I should not aspire to be a prebendary. And, once I am a full member of the cathedral Chapter, I shall do something about that dean.’

‘Something like what?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was a threat on Bresley’s life – and on Michael’s.

‘That is in God’s hands,’ said Tetford, striding away.

* * *

As soon as the mass had ended, and the streets were beginning to fill with the dim, grey light of pre-dawn, Bartholomew and Michael went to Spayne’s home. While the monk tapped on the door, then fidgeted impatiently for his knock to be answered – he disliked being kept waiting – Bartholomew stood back and inspected the house. It was a fine building, larger but not as tall as Kelby’s home next door. The window shutters looked new, and were brightly painted.

By contrast, Kelby’s abode was suffering from the same air of neglect that afflicted the rest of the city, and lacked the care that had been lavished on its neighbour. Loose tiles hung from its roof, and its chimney leaned in a way that suggested it might not survive the winter. The whole shabby edifice told a story of a merchant in financial decline – that while the wool trade might have allowed men to secure fat fortunes in the past, it was more difficult to make profits in the present economic climate. Thus Kelby could not afford to have his façade replastered, or even apply a coat of paint to conceal his rotting timbers. Would encroaching poverty among the mercantile classes intensify the feud between Guild and Commonalty? Bartholomew imagined it would, and that jealousy might well induce resentful guildsmen to burn down the storehouses of their wealthier rivals.

And Spayne? Bartholomew examined the mayor’s house more closely, and on reflection decided the gleaming paint-work and new shutters were more indicative of urgent repair than meticulous maintenance. There were scorch marks on the beams at the left side of the building, suggesting a recent conflagration. When he took a few steps to look down the narrow alley that separated the two houses, he saw Spayne’s walls were dark with soot, and the yard at the end of the house contained a burned-out shell. He had assumed the storehouses Flaxfleete had ignited were in some distant
place, perhaps near the river, and it was with a shock that he realised they were actually at the back of Spayne’s home. It put the crime in an entirely different category – one that suggested Spayne’s goods might not have been all Flaxfleete had intended to incinerate.

‘Do not tell Spayne the real reason why you want to locate Matilde,’ said Michael suddenly. ‘He may be the jealous type, and might refuse to help you because she slipped through his own fingers.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. His months of searching in France, the Italian peninsula and remote parts of England had taught him that not everyone was inclined to be sympathetic to his quest.

Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Then let me do the talking. Some people are like the traders in the Market Square at home – they have ways of knowing when you really want something, and they raise the price accordingly. I suspect you will learn more from Spayne if the questions are put by someone who is not quite so desperate for answers.’

Bartholomew was sure he was right, and the fact that Lincoln – and Spayne – represented his last hope meant it might be difficult to conceal his true feelings. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said gratefully.

Eventually, the door was answered by Ursula. She gave a cool smile when she recognised her visitors, but stood aside so they could enter, gesturing them into the hall within. It was a fine room, although its proportions were marred by the addition of a heavy pillar near the central hearth, and there was a pan at one end to catch drips from a leaking roof. Windows opened to the front and back of the house, although the rear ones were shuttered, indicating that Spayne probably did not want to look into a yard containing the charred remains of his warehouses.