The Tarnished Chalice (36 page)

‘Come with us, Bartholomew,’ ordered de Wetherset. ‘You can tell him he is in danger of death, which will make him listen to us more readily.’ He held up his hand when the physician demurred. ‘It is not dishonest. It is for the good of the cathedral, so the end justifies the means.’

‘If you go, Father Simon, you will be able to pay your respects to your brother,’ said Cynric with a guileless grin that made him look slightly deranged. Bartholomew closed his eyes.

Simon stared at the book-bearer. ‘What?’

‘Your brother,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Adam Miller. I see the family resemblance now.’

There was an uneasiness in Simon’s eyes that was apparent to even the least astute of observers. ‘Rubbish! I barely know anyone from the Commonalty, and they are certainly not kin.’

‘You know Chapman well enough to have bought the Hugh Chalice from him,’ said Bartholomew. He disliked being told brazen lies – it suggested Simon thought him gullible and stupid.

Simon was outraged. ‘I have already told you who sold it to me – someone who is no longer here.’

‘My colleague does not believe you, Simon,’ said Suttone, glancing at the physician. ‘But that is easily remedied. Swear on the Hugh Chalice that Chapman did not sell it to you. He will believe you then.’

‘You can swear that you and Miller are not kin at the same time,’ added Cynric opportunistically.

‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Simon. ‘I do not have to prove myself to anyone.’

‘You can do it without harm, Simon,’ said Bresley, although his tone was more unhappy than malicious. ‘It
is not the real one, so you can safely prevaricate and not be struck down.’

‘It is real!’ shouted Simon angrily. ‘Chapman told me … ’ He faltered. ‘Damn!’

‘Damn, indeed,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Why did you lie?’

‘Because of Chapman’s reputation,’ said Simon wearily. ‘I knew the Hugh Chalice was real as soon as I saw it, but I also knew that no one else would think so, if word spread that it had come from him. So I invented a different relic-seller, to avoid such an outcome. I did what I thought was best.’

‘We shall discuss the ethics of this tonight, by the fire,’ said de Wetherset loftily, beginning to walk northward. ‘First, however, we should see Miller. Do not dally, Bartholomew; we need your services.’

He strode away before the physician could tell him that frightening patients with gloomy prognoses went against all the oaths he had sworn at his graduations, but Cynric pointed out that they had needed an excuse to visit Chapman anyway, and pulled him after the portly ex-Chancellor. Bartholomew was surprised when Simon came too. The priest shrugged when he saw the physician’s bemusement.

‘Now you know the truth, it does not matter whether Chapman tells you he sold me the Hugh Chalice or not. And I am a cleric – if he is dying, he may require my services. He and Miller live in the parish of Newport, you see, and its vicar is Flaxfleete’s cousin. He may decline to give Chapman absolution, although I have never had anything against the Commonalty.’

‘And we know why,’ said Cynric pointedly. ‘What about Lady Christiana the elder?’

Simon looked at him askance. ‘I have no idea what she thought of the Commonalty. What a bizarre thing to ask.’

‘You knew her, then,’ pressed Cynric. Bartholomew cringed at the bluntness of the interrogation.

‘Of course. Why do you want to know?’

‘Is the Swan tavern noted for brawls?’ blurted Bartholomew. Cynric glared at him.

‘It is a respectable place,’ said Simon, still regarding Cynric with a puzzled frown. ‘Miller and his friends went there last night, probably because they did not feel like sliding down the icy hill to the Angel, where they usually drink. Quarrel usually manages to keep everything in order, though.’

‘He failed last night,’ said Bartholomew.

Simon nodded. ‘So it would seem.’

The suburb of Newport comprised a ribbon of houses that stretched along the main road north, two churches and a convent of Austin friars. Like much of Lincoln, Newport was poor, and Bartholomew supposed its inhabitants were mostly farmers and their servants and unemployed weavers. There was only one building of note, a handsome edifice surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. De Wetherset opened a gate, marched through the grounds, and tapped on the door.

Several of the Commonalty, including Chapman, live here with Miller,’ he explained. ‘And Lora Boyner’s brewery is near the stream over there. She claims the secret of her ale is that she uses water that has not yet flowed through the city.’

Bartholomew saw a neat, squat shed at the end of the garden. A horse was hitched to a cart, which was being loaded with barrels, and Lora was issuing orders to a pair of sweating apprentices. One keg was abandoned near the gate, and Lora and her people studiously looked the other way when a gaggle of women approached and began to roll it towards the nearest hovel. The weavers were proud, and Bartholomew was surprised the belligerent Lora should be sympathetic to their sensitivities.

‘Lord!’ said Suttone, gazing at Miller’s home in awe. ‘This is a mansion! Its owner must do very well at his trade – whatever it is. Is he a miller? There is a wheat-sheaf carved on his lintel.’

‘I do not think so,’ said the dean. He frowned. ‘Actually, I am not sure what he does.’

De Wetherset was better informed. ‘He is in the export–import business, although that cannot be easy with the Fossedike silting up. It means he sells things to people. In fact, if you express a desire to purchase anything, Miller is the man to get it for you. He has some very good contacts.’

‘Father Simon?’ asked Cynric innocently. ‘Can you be more specific about Adam Molendinarius’s work?’

Simon scowled. ‘I know nothing about his dealings. Why would I?’

The door was answered before Cynric could reply. A manservant conducted them to a solar, but insisted on remaining with them while a maid went to fetch Miller. It was an odd way to treat guests, but when Bartholomew looked behind him and realised Cynric had disappeared, he supposed Miller was right to be wary of men he did not know. He sincerely hoped the book-bearer would be careful, and refused to dwell on what might happen – to them both – if Cynric were caught snooping.

Within a few moments, Miller and Langar arrived. Both looked tired and pale, and Miller was oddly subdued. His voice was husky when he spoke, as though he had been shouting. Bartholomew looked at the daggers they carried in their belts and tried to ascertain whether they were the ones drawn against him and Michael the night before. There were no obvious signs that they had been used in a fracas, but he suspected that even if there were, Miller and Langar would claim they had resulted from the skirmish in the Swan tavern.

‘Surgeon Bunoun says Chapman will die,’ said Miller, when Suttone had explained why they had come. ‘So he cannot show you his relics.’

‘Does he need a priest?’ asked Simon.

Miller smiled at him, revealing his four teeth. ‘Not yet, although it is good of you to come.’

‘Then perhaps I can help,’ said Bartholomew, when de Wetherset shoved him forward with such force that he staggered. He had been watching the dean inspect a tray on which stood four gold goblets and a matching jug. ‘I have some experience with wounds.’

‘Recent experience,’ added Suttone helpfully. ‘He was at Poitiers, and his book-bearer says he treated many men with terrible injuries. He even managed to save a couple.’

‘Did you?’ asked Langar warily. ‘You did not offer to help when Dalderby was shot.’

‘Your surgeon was already there,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It would have been impolite to interfere.’

‘You are interfering now,’ Langar pointed out, not unreasonably.

‘He is here to provide a second opinion,’ said de Wetherset smoothly. ‘That is not interference.’

Miller regarded Bartholomew appraisingly, then blew his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come upstairs, then. I will take you, and Langar can stay here with the others. We never leave visitors alone, because—’

‘It would be rude,’ finished Langar loudly.

‘Right,’ said Miller with a tired sigh. ‘That is the reason. Not because we have anything to hide in our cellars. They are all empty, and we do not keep any goods of dubious origin in them.’

‘You should rest, Miller,’ said Langar sharply. ‘You were up all night with Chapman, and the lack of sleep has blunted your wits.’

‘Can we look at Chapman’s relics while we wait for Bartholomew?’ asked de Wetherset, while Miller stoically waved his lawyer’s concerns away. ‘Since we are here anyway?’

‘Lora will bring them,’ said Miller. ‘Come with me, physician.’

Bartholomew knew he would be a fool to let Miller separate him from the others, but could think of no way to avoid it without arousing suspicion. He followed him up a narrow staircase to the upper floor, feeling increasingly nervous with each step.

‘Father Simon tells me you and he arrived in Lincoln at the same time,’ he said, to break a silence that was both oppressive and unnerving. ‘About twenty years ago.’

It was a blunder of enormous proportion, and Bartholomew was heartily ashamed of himself for mentioning a date that held a far more meaningful significance for Miller than anything connected to Simon. Miller stopped abruptly and turned slowly to face him. Bartholomew felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the man regarded him with considerable malevolence.

‘What do you know about what happened twenty years ago?’ he asked, removing a dagger from his belt and using it to pick one of his teeth.

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘I am just repeating what Simon said. It is called the art of conversation, Master Miller – two men exchanging meaningless pleasantries as a way to pass their time together.’

‘Manners,’ said Miller with a disparaging snort. ‘Langar is always telling me I need to acquire some, but all they do is make a man something he is not. If I want to spit over my own table at dinner, why should I not do it? If I want to blow my nose and the tablecloth is available, why not use it? And what is wrong with drinking my pottage noisily? Dogs do it, and there is nothing wrong with dogs.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

‘Father Simon and I did arrive here within a few weeks
of each other,’ said Miller, replacing his dagger in its sheath as some of the anger left him. ‘But we did not come together. I left Cambridge because I am a sensitive man, and I did not like what was being said about me after my acquittal. He came because he had been offered the post of parish priest at Holy Cross Church, Wigford.’

‘Someone told me you were brothers,’ said Bartholomew, attempting a smile.

‘Well, we are not,’ said Miller firmly. ‘Do you want to see Chapman, or would you rather stand on the stairs and hone your “art of conversation” on me?’

Half expecting Miller to whip around and stab him, Bartholomew followed him up the rest of the stairs, along a corridor and into a pleasant chamber with real glass in the windows. A fire blazed in the hearth, and someone had set bowls of herbs on shelves, so the room was sweetly scented. Chapman lay on a fur-strewn bed, his arm heavily bandaged. He grimaced when he recognised the physician.

‘Go away. I told you all I know about the Hugh Chalice. It is genuine, and I bought it in Huntingdon. And if you accuse me of foul dealings again, you will have Miller to answer to.’

‘You questioned him about the cup?’ asked Miller suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Curiosity,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had not let Cynric talk him into undertaking something so manifestly stupid. ‘I wanted to hear for myself how Chapman came by such an important relic.’

‘It was more than curiosity,’ countered Chapman pettishly. ‘You grabbed me by the throat and your fat friend lobbed rocks at me. It was not a pleasant encounter.’

‘You were holding a dagger at the time,’ retorted Bartholomew. He saw Miller’s face assume its dangerous
expression again, and started to clutch at straws. ‘And we are friends of Master Thomas Suttone, kin to the great Suttone clan. He would have been vexed had we allowed you to stab us.’

‘Of course! You know the Suttones,’ said Miller in understanding. ‘It slipped my mind. Obviously, we would not want to offend them by knifing their acquaintances. At least, not unless it is absolutely necessary. Lie still, Chapman. Let him inspect you.’

Bartholomew sat next to the relic-seller and carefully removed the bandage, which was tight enough to have turned his fingers purple. It concealed a wound that was jagged, raw and already reddening from infection. When he looked closer, he saw specks of rust, and was able to conclude that it had not been the clean blade of his own sword that had caused the injury. Ergo, it had not been Chapman who had fought him in the orchard. The relic-seller chattered frantically as he worked, evidently to quell his nervousness at the treatment he was about to receive, and Bartholomew learned that the tavern brawl had occurred shortly before he and Michael had been attacked in the Gilbertine Priory.

‘I was busy at the time,’ said Miller cagily, just when Bartholomew had decided the Commonalty was innocent. ‘And I came back to find him like this. Surgeon Bunoun has done his best, but he says there is no hope. It does not look very serious to me, and we have had worse in the past, but Bunoun knows his business. If he says a wound will fester, it nearly always does.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Bunoun had seen more than his share of sepsis, if he was given to stitching up dirty wounds. ‘Is Bunoun the only medic to tend him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Miller, ‘although a crone came and presented
us with a healing balm. Chapman is well liked, you see, and she wanted to help. Bunoun said it would make no difference one way or the other, but we slapped some on anyway. She was trying to be kind.’

‘You could not be more wrong,’ said Bartholomew, fetching water from the pot over the fire and beginning to bathe the wound. ‘I can smell henbane in this salve, and that is poisonous.’

‘Poisonous?’ echoed Miller in shock, while Chapman lay back and groaned.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Will you send for more hot water and a clean cloth? This cut needs to be irrigated thoroughly and its edges resewn.’

‘You will stitch me again?’ asked Chapman, appalled. ‘But it was agony the first time.’

Bartholomew was not surprised: Bunoun’s handiwork was crude to say the least. ‘What did the “crone” look like?’ he asked, when Miller had finished issuing orders to a maid.

‘Old,’ replied Miller, after a moment of serious thought. ‘She was crouch-backed and her face was covered by her cloak. She was just a crone.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, sure a man in the devious-sounding ‘export–import business’ would know about disguises. ‘Tell me what happened in the Swan,’ he said to Chapman, when Miller did not seem able to provide a better description. ‘Who attacked you?’

‘A man,’ replied Chapman indignantly. ‘I went outside to relieve myself, and he was waiting for me. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was something about him that made me think it was Dalderby.’

‘How can that be possible?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was injured by an arrow, and is in no state to fight anyone.’

‘He has recovered,’ said Miller, in a voice that made it
clear he wished he had not. ‘Langar should not have encouraged Bunoun to save him.’

‘Langar is losing his touch,’ agreed Chapman. ‘He is full of bad advice these days. We were right to keep from him the business of … but we should not discuss this in front of strangers.’

‘I was attacked last night, too,’ said Bartholomew, speaking to fill an uncomfortable silence.

‘Then you are lucky you did not end up like poor Chapman,’ said Miller. His expression was impossible to read. ‘Lincoln can be a dangerous city.’

Bartholomew turned his full attention to his patient, and asked Miller to see what had happened to the hot water. When Miller opened the door to bellow down to the kitchen, Bartholomew glimpsed a shadow in the corridor, and knew it was Cynric. His uneasiness intensified: they were playing a reckless game. He could hear de Wetherset and Langar arguing furiously, and hoped the row would not erupt into violence. Uncomfortable and unhappy, he pushed up Chapman’s sleeve to inspect the wound more closely and gaped when he saw a blue mark on the man’s shoulder. It was a chalice.

‘What is that?’ he blurted, before it occurred to him that he should have pretended not to notice.

‘Something personal,’ replied Chapman suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ hedged Bartholomew, trying to smile and failing miserably.

Miller stepped forward, and Bartholomew tensed, expecting to feel powerful hands lock around his throat or hear the sound of a dagger being drawn. His hand dropped to his own knife.

‘Oh, that,’ said Miller, when he saw what they were talking about. ‘I have often wondered how you came by that.
Aylmer and Nicholas Herl had similar marks. I always thought they looked like cups.’

‘Yes, symbols of good living,’ said Chapman with a weak grin. ‘Claret, you know.’

‘Flaxfleete had one, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the bull by the horns. ‘Is it a sign of alliance?’

Miller made a guttural hissing sound that Bartholomew assumed was a laugh. ‘Flaxfleete hated the Commonalty – Chapman, Aylmer and Herl included. He would never have made an alliance with them, nor they with him. Eh, Chapman?’

‘Of course not,’ said Chapman shiftily. ‘As I said, it is just something to express my fondness for wine. But I do not want to think about wine now, not when I feel so ill. Please stay with me, Miller.’

‘If you insist,’ said Miller reluctantly. He plumped himself down on the bed, and took the relic-seller’s fluttering hand. ‘Although I do not like surgeons and the grisly things they do to living flesh.’

‘I am not a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’

‘University trained,’ explained Chapman, when Miller seemed unaware of the difference. ‘Surgeons just cut things off. Bunoun wanted to remove my arm last night, remember? You objected.’