The Tarnished Chalice (32 page)

‘I fell over,’ he said, when Roger demanded an account of his explorations. ‘I hurt myself.’

‘Can I do anything to help?’ offered Bartholomew tiredly.

Hamo shook his head. ‘I will be better in the morning. In fact, I shall retire now.’

‘You did not recognise these villains?’ asked Roger of Michael, when Hamo had gone.

Michael shook his head. ‘Tetford dropped the lamp, and all I could see were shadows. They had hoods over their faces, too. I do not know how we shall identify them.’

‘One will have a bruised arm,’ said Cynric. ‘I shall look
at the limbs of every man in Lincoln tomorrow, if need be. No one attacks my—’

‘I doubt the culprits will be out and about,’ predicted Roger. ‘Not if they know that sort of inspection is in effect. You will only trap them by cunning. Personally, my money is on Miller. I heard you declined to accept a favour from him, Brother, and he will not have liked that. No man appreciates his bribes being rejected, because it makes him feel soiled. Do you not agree, de Wetherset?’

De Wetherset was not amused to be singled out for such a question. ‘I would not know.’

‘All yours are accepted, are they?’ Roger turned back to Michael. ‘These felons were bold, entering my convent for this evil work.’

He walked to the table, and poured himself some wine. As he went, Bartholomew saw his boots were muddy. Had he been out in his gardens with bows and daggers, determined to dispatch the man who was investigating the death that had occurred in his domain? Bartholomew thought about Hamo, retiring to bed because he had taken ‘a fall’. Meanwhile, Whatton and others were wet and bedraggled from their search of the grounds, making it impossible to determine whether they had been out before or after the attack. If Prior Roger or his Gilbertines had been responsible, then it was a clever tactic to start a hue and cry – to provide a legitimate excuse for any bruises or inexplicably soiled clothing.

‘You should not have accepted Gynewell’s commission,’ said Suttone to Michael. ‘I could have told you it would lead to trouble. Sin stalks our country, and the Death—’

‘Fetch more wine, Whatton,’ ordered Roger. ‘Then go to the gatehouse and ask why the porter did not answer Michael’s knock. I will relieve him of a week’s pay if he was sleeping.’

‘He may have been locking doors,’ said Whatton. ‘I have ordered regular patrols, since there are so many vagabonds arriving for the Market, and that means he is not always at the gate.’

‘You need to employ more porters, then,’ said Michael. ‘And just closing your back gate at night would be an improvement on your current security.’

‘That is always locked,’ said Roger indignantly. ‘The cook sees to it, and he is very reliable.’

‘Except on those occasions when he is baking pies for the Tavern in the Close,’ muttered Michael.

Within moments, Whatton returned in a state of agitation, reporting that the guard was so deeply asleep, no one could rouse him. On going to examine him Bartholomew detected claret and poppy juice on the man’s breath, and knew they would have no sense from him that night.

‘I doubt he will tell us much in the morning, either,’ said Whatton, holding up a wineskin. ‘This is still half full, which means that he passed out before he could finish it. It must be very strong.’

It occurred to Bartholomew that he should sit with the porter, to make sure he was not ordered to lose his memory as soon as he opened his eyes. ‘He will know who gave it to him,’ he said, to test the Gilbertines’ reactions.

Whatton’s expression was vaguely triumphant. ‘I doubt it. People often leave anonymous gifts at our door – to be distributed to the poor – and it will not be the first time a guard has helped himself. Look at Hamo’s pre decessor, Fat William, who ate anything he could lay his hands on, and died from a surfeit of oysters. Any sort of ale or wine left will almost certainly be sampled by our porters.’

‘And folk in the city know it,’ added Roger. He turned to Suttone. ‘It could happen anywhere, Father, so I hope this unfortunate incident will not encourage you to leave us.’

‘Leave you and go where?’ asked Suttone, to Roger’s satisfaction. ‘Every bed in the city is taken.’

‘So, someone wanted us to go to that rear door,’ mused Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone again and in their room. Cynric came to sit with them, anticipating that his expertise might be needed in analysing what had happened. ‘Where an ambush was waiting.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by so many questions and no real answers. ‘We had already started looking for another way in when Tetford offered to guide us to that particular gate. Was he part of it, do you think, and was shot by mistake?’

Cynric did not think so. ‘If he knew what was about to happen, he would have stayed in the lane. No man steps willingly into a dark place, knowing there are nocked arrows waiting.’

‘Perhaps they were expecting Matt and me, and were confused by the presence of a third person,’ suggested Michael. ‘Their quarrel killed Tetford, but that still left two of us ready to fight them.’

Cynric nodded. ‘They were obliged to resort to blades, which they had not anticipated. They were unprepared, explaining why two fled before the fighting really began.’

‘We helped them, of course,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Michael screeched up a storm when he fell in the nettles, warning them that we were coming. And while Tetford probably was not part of the ambush, his intentions were not entirely honourable, either. Here is his wineskin.’

Michael took it. The crossbow bolt had gone clean through the middle, and it was empty except for a dribble of liquid in the bottom. Bartholomew indicated he should sniff it.

‘Fish?’ asked Michael, wincing. The scent was powerful and unpleasant.

‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The same substance that
saw Nicholas Herl drown in the Braytheford Pool and that gave Flaxfleete his fatal fit.’

‘Tetford offered it to me,’ said Michael aghast. ‘Are you saying he was trying to commit murder?’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming he knew the wine was tainted.’

‘He wanted me to drink it first,’ said Michael unsteadily.

‘True, but that may have been simple good manners. A dead canon does not need a Vicar Choral, so I suspect you would have been more useful to him alive.’

‘Perhaps he wanted the Stall of South Scarle itself,’ suggested Cynric, ‘and did not like the notion of spending a year as a deputy. Men have killed for a good deal less. I am more worried about the other four, though, Brother. Tetford is no longer a problem, but these others may try to harm you again.’

‘You seem to think the attack was aimed at me. Why not at Matt?’

‘Because I am not the one charged to find Aylmer’s killer,’ answered Bartholomew.

‘But you are here to search for information that may help you locate Matilde, and I have already told you Spayne does not like it.’

‘None of our attackers was Spayne.’

‘Did you see their faces? No, because they were careful to keep them hidden. The tall swordsman who tackled you could easily have been Spayne. I imagine he was trained to use a blade in his youth.’

‘And do not forget Miller,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘You denied knowing anything about Shirlok’s trial, but there is nothing to say he believed you. He is sensitive about it, and may want to silence you before you say anything. Then you both declined to accept his bribes on Friday. And then you had that set-to with Chapman this morning.’

Bartholomew did not argue, because Cynric was right. ‘So there were two separate attacks on us tonight: the quartet with daggers, bows and sword. And Tetford with poison.’

Michael nodded. ‘I think we can safely say that someone does not want us here.’

The next day was windy, and rattling window shutters woke Michael long before dawn. He tossed and turned for a while, then noticed Cynric sitting by the hearth, prodding life into the dying embers of the fire. He went to sit next to him, stretching chilled hands towards the feeble glow. They were not alone for long. The gathering gale disturbed Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone, too. They clustered around the blaze, talking in low voices, so as not to disturb Bartholomew, although Michael knew it would take more than wind and a discussion to rouse his friend. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and very little woke him once he was asleep – the notable exception being the Gilbertines’ bells.

‘You really heard nothing of our fracas?’ asked Michael, recalling the racket they had made.

‘You know how loudly they sing here,’ replied Suttone. ‘It is enough to wake the dead, and I heard nothing else at all. The only reason Cynric did was because he was in the kitchen.’

‘I was one of the warblers,’ said Simon. ‘So I heard nothing but my own sweet music.’

De Wetherset was thoughtful. ‘Now I see how easy it must have been to dispatch Aylmer. When he was stabbed, he probably uttered no more than a startled gasp, which would have been inaudible to anyone except his killer.’

‘Someone wants my investigation to fail,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps Spayne dislikes us looking for Matilde.’ He did
not mention his suspicions about Miller, because that would entail discussing the Shirlok trial, and the physician’s wariness of de Wetherset was beginning to rub off on him.

‘Mayor Spayne would never hire killers,’ declared Simon. ‘He is not that kind of man.’

‘Then what about you, Father?’ asked Michael. ‘Since Aylmer’s death is intricately associated with your Hugh Chalice, you have a very good reason for not wanting the matter probed too deeply.’

Simon glared at him, offended by the bald accusation. ‘I told you: I was at my devotions, both when Aylmer died and when you were attacked last night. I am involved in neither incident.’

‘Lincoln is home to dozens of unemployed weavers who are desperate for money,’ Michael went on. ‘I imagine it would be easy to find someone willing to kill in exchange for a good supper.’

Simon regarded him coldly. ‘I imagine so, but that assumes I am afraid of what your investigation might reveal, and I am not. The Hugh Chalice is genuine, and if you say it is not, you will be wrong.’

‘Michael will not denounce the Hugh Chalice,’ said Suttone confidently. ‘It is real, so there cannot be any evidence to the contrary.’

‘How do you know it is real?’ asked Michael, startled by the conviction in his colleague’s voice.

‘Gynewell told me, and he is a friend of the family. He would never be deceived by a false relic.’

‘This particular cup has undergone some very sinister travels,’ said Michael, deciding not to address Suttone’s peculiar rationale. ‘Ever since it was stolen twenty years ago.’

‘Perhaps, but its movements cannot be relevant to its sanctity,’ argued Suttone. ‘The bishop and Simon are right:
it does have an aura. I feel in my heart that it is the genuine article.’

‘People said the same thing about the Cambridge relic – the one dubbed the Hand of Justice,’ said Michael. ‘And I learned then that men’s beliefs are something quite different from the truth.’

‘You should see to your friend,’ said de Wetherset, after a few moments during which the debate became quite heated. ‘You are virtually yelling and still he sleeps.’

Concerned, Michael went to the physician’s bed and touched his shoulder. When nothing happened, he prodded him hard with a forefinger, relieved when he stirred and sat up.

‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael. ‘I was just making sure you have not been poisoned. There seems to be a lot of it about these days.’

‘Poisoned with what? We have had nothing to eat or drink since we left the Bishop’s Palace.’

‘Ignore me, Matt. My nerves are all afire this morning. Lord! There go the Gilbertines’ bells. I am tempted to ask Cynric to steal their clappers. That would stop them in their tracks.’

Michael was unwilling to leave the convent before it was light, so was obliged to attend prime in St Katherine’s Chapel. Bartholomew stood at the back until he was sure Prior Roger had noted his presence, then slipped away to read in the refectory instead. After a breakfast in which the Michaelhouse men were served smoked pork and boiled eggs but everyone else had oatmeal pottage, he and Michael went to look at the chalice again. Michael stared at it for a long time, shaking his head.

‘I am not the best of monks, but I should be able to tell a brazen fraud from something sacred. I suspect I could
gaze at this thing until Judgement Day and be none the wiser. What do you think?’

Bartholomew inspected it closely. ‘St Hugh died about a hundred and fifty years ago; this cup is thin, battered and tarnished, and might well be that old.’

‘Is that a yes or a no to its authenticity?’

‘It is an “I have no idea”. I do not feel the urge to fall to my knees, but I do not want to pick it up and toss it out of the window, either.’

‘St Hugh really did own a chalice with a carving of the Baby Jesus on it – it was recorded by his chronicler. So perhaps we should give it the benefit of the doubt.’

‘You did not come, Michael,’ came a soft voice from behind them. The monk jumped in alarm and spun around. ‘You said we should meet last night after vespers. I waited an hour, but you never came.’

Christiana looked especially lovely that morning, her cheeks pale in the flickering light of the candles. She wore a cote-hardie of gentian blue, which almost exactly matched the colour of her eyes. Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered whether she had abandoned the Gilbertine habit she usually favoured in order to remind Michael that she had not yet taken monastic vows, and all they entailed.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘It slipped my mind.’

Her expression was incredulous, and Bartholomew saw she found it hard to believe that she could ‘slip’ anyone’s mind. He imagined it would be a stunning blow to her ego. ‘You forgot about me?’

‘Not forgot,’ hedged Michael uncomfortably. ‘My attention was snagged by another matter. Someone tried to kill me last night.’

Her jaw dropped in shock. ‘I heard a commotion, but no one told me what it was about.’

She gasped in horror when Michael told her what had
happened and she learned how close the attack had come to succeeding. With a sense of unease, Bartholomew saw she had definitely developed a soft spot for the fat Benedictine.

‘This is terrible!’ she cried, aghast. ‘You must hurry to the Shrine of Little Hugh immediately, and ask him to watch over you. I shall do the same. And tell the bishop to appoint someone else to do his dirty work. Giving him answers about Aylmer’s death cannot be worth your life.’

‘No,’ agreed the monk. ‘However, I shall be on my guard now, and will not be easy to dispatch. Of course, it may not have been me these villains wanted.’

Christiana regarded Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Why should you be a target?’

‘Spayne knows he would like to find Matilde,’ explained Michael, keeping his suspicions about Miller to himself, ‘but he refused to help, even though he may have some idea as to where she might have gone. Perhaps he decided that killing Matt was the best way to ensure the hunt for her ends.’

‘That does not sound like Spayne,’ said Christiana. Her expression became wistful. ‘Dear Matilde. I shall never forget her kindness to me when my mother died. Perhaps it was my grief that prompted her to persecute poor Ursula so vigorously. I never did tell her my contention that my mother determined her own destiny. I intended to, but she was gone before I had the chance.’

‘Have you given any more thought to where Matilde might be?’ asked Bartholomew after a short sil ence, during which the cathedral bells began to chime in the distance. ‘I would be grateful for even the smallest piece of information. And so would Michael,’ he added as an afterthought.

She frowned thoughtfully. ‘She must be very important to you.’

‘To both of us,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘She is a good friend, and all we want is to be sure she is safe.’

‘Then Dame Eleanor and I will make a list of all the places she ever mentioned,’ said Christiana with sudden determination. ‘We are no Mayor Spayne. We will help you find her.’ Bartholomew smiled gratefully, promptly revising his unflattering opinion of her. ‘Thank you.’

Her own smile faltered as she returned her gaze to the monk. ‘Your story of dangerous felons attacking you with knives will play on my mind all day, Brother. Were you hurt?’

‘Yes.’ Michael held up his hands, swollen from their battle with nettles. ‘I was badly stung.’

‘And you have given him nothing to alleviate the pain?’ cried Christiana, turning on Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were a physician!’

‘I found him a dock leaf,’ he said defensively.

‘ It was rough – and so is he when he wields them,’ explained Michael to Christiana, in a voice that came very close to a whimper. ‘And I had suffered enough.’

‘There is a balm in the hospital,’ said Christiana kindly. ‘I have used it on nettle rashes myself. Come with me, dear Brother, and we shall soon have you feeling better. Dame Eleanor will be there, so do not worry about propriety.’

‘I shall not,’ promised Michael.

‘What is in this poultice?’ asked Bartholomew, starting to follow.

‘Dock leaves,’ replied Christiana, with a wry grin. ‘But a gently applied paste is far more soothing than being rubbed with foliage. I will show you, if you like.’

‘You need not come, Matt,’ said Michael airily. ‘I shall be perfectly happy with Lady Christiana.’

‘I am sure you will,’ murmured Bartholomew, watching them walk away together.

With Michael ensconced with Christiana, and the hospital doors firmly closed against any would-be intruders – even Cynric could not hear what was going on inside, and he was a far more experienced eavesdropper than Bartholomew would ever be – the physician found himself at a loose end. He did not want to visit Spayne again, despite the open invitation, since he suspected he would never have what he really wanted from the man. It was not his duty to investigate the death of Aylmer, and he had no idea how to move forward on it anyway. And the other murders were none of his affair – he did not think anyone would thank him for meddling, and, given the events in the garden the previous night, he was inclined to stay away from the whole business. He was restless, even so, feeling as if he should be doing something, and his sense of unease was exacerbated by the growing agitation among Lincoln’s citizenry. The talk in the convent, by the tradesmen who came to deliver victuals, and by the people who passed the gate outside, was full of the brewing crisis between Guild and Commonalty.

‘I thought we would be riding to Matilde by now, having new clues as to her whereabouts,’ said Cynric, standing next to him at the guest-hall’s window and staring across the yard. ‘I shall enjoy watching Brother Michael canonised, but it is not what I was expecting to be doing next Sunday.’ ‘Not canonised, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. He shivered. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the sky at a vigorous lick, and the wind roared through the trees. It was going to snow again, and there would be a blizzard. ‘He is not a saint yet. And he never will be, if he allows himself to be seduced by Lady Christiana.’

‘She is not seducing him!’ exclaimed Cynric, shocked. ‘What a thing to say! He is a monk and she is a widow. They would never engage in lewd behaviour.’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the Welshman was apt to be prim. ‘I wonder if Spayne would be more forthcoming if he knew my real reason for trying to find Matilde.’

‘I imagine that would make him even less helpful. Brother Michael thinks he might have guessed anyway, which is why he is being stubborn – if he cannot have her, then neither will you. I could visit his house and have a poke around if you like. He might have written down her whereabouts, lest he forgot.’

‘I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing one commits to parchment. Besides, it is not a good idea to burgle the houses of wealthy merchants, Cynric. People are hanged for that sort of thing.’

‘Like Shirlok was, twenty years ago in Cambridge,’ said Cynric, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I heard Miller talking about it in the Angel tavern yesterday. I told you I was going to listen to a few—’

‘You eavesdropped on Miller?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘That was rash! The man is dangerous.’

‘You took me to Poitiers,’ said Cynric wryly. ‘Is Miller more dangerous than that?’

‘He was talking about Shirlok, you say?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to admit that the book-bearer had a point. He supposed Langar recognising him in the cathedral had prompted a discussion of the old case, which made him uncomfortable, since it meant they had been bothered by it. Perhaps Michael was right, and the Commonalty had decided to prevent the matter from being raised again, so had tried to dispatch the man who might do it.

Cynric nodded. ‘They were recalling how fast they had left Cambridge after the trial. Lora Boyner was bemoaning the abandonment of expensive brewing equipment, and Miller kept telling his cronies – Langar, Chapman, Surgeon Bunoun and others – how he hates being reminded of the whole affair.’

Bartholomew frowned, puzzled. ‘They were acquitted, so there was no need for them to go. Do you remember what I told you about Shirlok? That he was still alive after his hanging?’

‘Of course. It is a splendid tale, and I often tell it at Christmas. It scares the wife, see. But you are not the only one who knows he still lives. So do the Commonalty. Or some of them, at least.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because of what I heard in the Angel. They were mulling over the whole affair, from the moment they learned that Shirlok intended to betray them, to their arrival in Lincoln a few weeks later.’

‘Did any of them see Shirlok after his execution?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the man would have been a fool to make himself known to them – but that did not mean he had not done it.