The Tarnished Chalice (19 page)

‘It is a grim part of the building,’ agreed Ravenser, rubbing red eyes and looking as though he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘That old lady in the Gilbertine habit who escorted you here – Dame Eleanor – says the wind is St Hugh’s spirit, chilling all those with evil hearts. She says it never cuts through her, implying she has a pure one, I suppose.’

‘Well, she does,’ said Claypole. ‘And that is why it is unreasonable for her to expect us to follow her example. We are mere mortals, and her standards are impossibly high.’

‘You do not look as though you try very hard,’ said Michael, looking them up and down.

Before either could reply, the choir started to sing, and the voices of boys soared through the chancel, complimented by the lower drone of Vicars Choral and canons. Bartholomew glanced up at the carvings of angels high above, and his imagination led him to wonder whether it was celestial voices that rang so beautifully along the ancient stones.

‘The dean is not warbling, thank God,’ said Claypole, cocking his head to one side. He grinned at Michael. ‘We can tell, because none of the glass is vibrating in its frames.’

‘The dean sings like an old tom cat,’ laughed Ravenser.

‘But you must excuse us. It is time to say prayers for the canons who died in the plague – which was all except two, Brother.’

He walked away and Claypole followed, leaving Bartholomew staring after them uneasily. Ravenser’s words had sounded vaguely like a threat. Michael was not paying any attention to the archdeacon and his crony, however; he was listening to the music.

‘It makes me see what a long way from perfection I am with my own efforts at Michaelhouse,’ he said wistfully. ‘My choir will never sing like that.’

‘These are professionals,’ Bartholomew pointed out, not liking to admit the monk was right: the Michaelhouse chorus could rival the Gilbertines for enthusiasm, but without the benefit of any redeeming talent. ‘Do not underestimate yourself, Brother; you have performed little short of a miracle already.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out suddenly to grab someone in the process of darting behind a pillar, apparently as part of a game of hide-and-seek. His captive wore the blue gown of a chorister, which, added to his mop of golden curls, gave him a cherubic appearance.

‘Where does Mayor Spayne live?’ asked the monk mildly, lifting the boy so his feet dangled in thin air. Michael was a strong man, and held the struggling lad as though he was as light as a kitten.

‘Oh,’ said the chorister sheepishly, recognising him and promptly abandoning his startled bid for freedom. ‘Did I point you in the wrong direction, sir?’

‘You did,’ said Michael evenly. ‘Now why would you do that?’

‘It was not you I meant to annoy,’ said the boy, hanging quite comfortably at the end of Michael’s outstretched arm. ‘It was Flaxfleete. I do not like him, even though he is a
member of the Guild and they give us marchpanes on the first Sunday of every month.’

‘Was a member,’ corrected Michael. ‘He is dead, so will not be dispensing sweetmeats again.’

The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘Truly? Was he so angry with you for calling at the wrong house, that he challenged you to a fight? With swords? Or perhaps one of those new ribaulds they are using in the French wars? I would like to see men do battle with a pair of those!’ He jerked in the air as he made several violently descriptive gestures with his hands. Michael set him back on his feet.

‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘I am a monk, so I do not carry arms.’

The boy shot him a look that told him to try his claims on someone more gullible. ‘Our canons and Vicars Choral are also men of God, but they would never think of leaving home without a weapon. I am going to have a sword when I am fourteen.’

‘You do not intend to take holy orders, then?’ asked Michael, amused.

The boy shot him another withering look. ‘I am going to be a philosopher. Dame Eleanor tells me I have sharp wits, and will do well at a university.’

‘And how will owning a sword help you with your studies?’

The boy smiled cheerfully. ‘I will be able to defend my arguments better if I have a sharp blade.’

‘You will do well at a university,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think some of my students feel the same way.’

‘Tell me why you have taken a dislike to Flaxfleete,’ said Michael. ‘And why you send innocent victims to his door, just to annoy him.’

The boy shrugged, unabashed. ‘I liked Aylmer, because he let me pick cherries from his trees last year. Flaxfleete
hated Aylmer, so I hated Flaxfleete. Besides, Flaxfleete only became a priest because he thought he might hang for arson otherwise. He was a snivelling coward, not a true man at all.’

‘Why did Flaxfleete hate Aylmer?’

The boy shrugged again. ‘Probably because Aylmer was Miller’s friend, and Flaxfleete is Kelby’s. Adults take their squabbles very seriously, although they should just challenge each other to a duel and have done with it. That is what I would do.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Michael, watching him parry and thrust with an imaginary weapon.

‘Hugh Suttone.’ He pointed to the High Altar, where John Suttone – the cleric they had seen at Kelby’s celebration – was sweeping the floor. ‘That is my brother. He is the Clerk who Rouses the People, and this week he is in charge of the High Altar.’ There was pride in his voice.

‘We are friends of your cousin,’ said Michael. ‘The one who is to be installed as a canon.’

‘Thomas,’ said Hugh, with clear disdain. ‘My brother was offended when Thomas picked Aylmer to be his Vicar Choral. He said it should have been him. Do you think Thomas will choose John now Aylmer is dead? We were talking about it this morning, and John said the situation was looking a bit more hopeful.’

Michael tapped him gently under the chin. ‘Possibly, but you should not say this to anyone else. You may make people think John killed Aylmer, just to get his appointment.’

‘He did not, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought the same thing, you see, so I asked him, but he said he has killed no one. He never lies, so he is definitely innocent. Excuse me, Brother. The dean is coming, and I do not want him to lecture me about running in church when I am supposed to be singing.’

He was gone in a flash, leaving Michael quaking with astonished laughter. ‘I should hire him to help me with my investigation. There is something to be said for blunt questions.’

‘Yes, but perhaps not that blunt, Brother.’

Deans were the men who headed a cathedral’s hierarchy, and the office was thus an important one. Lincoln’s was a short man with a perfectly round head, which was bald with the exception of a thin fringe around the sides and back. His eyes were oddly small for the size of his face, which made him appear furtive. A strange clanking sound emanated from his robes as he walked, and Bartholomew saw Hugh dart from the shadows to grab a coin that appeared to have rolled from the dean’s person. He expected the boy to keep it, and was surprised when he trotted to the Head Shrine and dropped it through the railings. Dame Eleanor saw the gesture, too, and patted his shoulder encouragingly.

Three waddling canons intercepted the dean before he could reach Michael and Bartholomew, and the intense, whispered discussion that followed looked as though it might continue for some time, so the two scholars took the opportunity to visit the High Altar while they waited for it to finish, admiring the glitter of gold from a vantage point near Little Hugh’s shrine. When he spotted them, John Suttone came to pass the time of day.

‘I saw you with my young brother,’ he said, with a humourless smile that made him look very like Michaelhouse’s Suttone. ‘He is a rascal, so I hope he was not insolent.’

‘Not today,’ replied Michael. ‘Although the last time we met, he sent us to Kelby’s house when I had actually asked him for directions to Spayne’s.’

John grimaced. ‘He cannot help himself where mischief
is concerned. I am sorry I did not make myself known when you tended Flaxfleete on Wednesday, but I had no idea who you were. Bishop Gynewell tells us you have been asked to find Aylmer’s killer – hopefully before the installation ceremony. Is it true?’

Michael nodded. ‘And young Hugh tells me you are not the guilty party, despite the fact that you have a powerful motive – you might benefit from Aylmer’s untimely death.’

John looked alarmed. ‘I have killed no one! And you are wrong to think I have a motive. Cousin Thomas overlooked me once, and there is no reason to suppose he will not do so again.’

‘What about your cathedral colleagues? Do any of them have a reason to kill Aylmer?’

John was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! Most of us prefer the Guild to the Commonalty – an honoured few have even been invited to join its ranks. Conversely, Aylmer was a fully fledged member of the Commonalty, and so naturally people here distrusted him.’

‘Was their “distrust” enough to see him killed?’

‘I imagine so.’ John’s expression became a little spiteful. ‘Will you talk to them all? There are thirty Vicars Choral, ten Poor Clerks, twelve choristers, and a dozen chantry priests. Oh, and there are eight archdeacons, too. You will be busy, Brother.’

‘I have faced greater challenges in the past,’ said Michael, unperturbed. ‘But the dean has finished talking to those three fat canons now. We have not met, so will you introduce us?’

John made a choking sound that Bartholomew assumed was a smothered gulp of laughter at the monk’s description of his new colleagues – or perhaps it was a gasp of disbelief that such a portly fellow should so describe men who were, after all, considerably slimmer than him.

‘His name is Simon Bresley,’ said John, controlling himself. ‘He and the bishop are the only cathedral men who do not stand against the Commonalty. Gynewell refuses to be drawn to either side, while Bresley often accepts invitations to dine with Miller and his cronies.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Ask him – the rest of us do not understand it at all. Dean Bresley, may I present Brother Michael? And this is his friend Doctor Bartholomew, who tried to save Flaxfleete two nights ago.’

Bresley nodded a polite greeting, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘The music,’ he explained, when Michael asked if anything was amiss. ‘It is so beautiful this morning that one might be forgiven for forgetting that it emanates from the throats of devils.’

John gave another of his grim smiles, as if anticipating what was coming next, then turned to Michael. ‘Some of my High Altar candles were stolen this morning, and I need to replace them. Please excuse me.’

‘Devils,’ repeated the dean when he had gone. ‘And by “devils” I mean Poor Clerks, choristers and Vicars Choral. They may sing like angels, but they swear, fight, spit, talk through the divine offices, and carry swords under their robes. They are more like pirates than men of God.’

‘These are serious charges,’ said Michael. ‘As a canon, I shall speak out against such practices.’

Bresley gazed at him with burning hope. ‘Will you? It would be nice to have someone on my side in the war against sin. Just last week, I was obliged to fine Ravenser and Claypole for rape and being absent from their duties – both very serious matters.’

Bartholomew gazed warily at him. ‘Especially the rape. Who was she?’

‘One of the ladies who lives in the Close,’ explained the
dean. ‘There are several of them, and they save the Vicars Choral the bother of going into the city after dark for their vices. Listen!’

Michael cocked his head, although the music was insufficient to distract Bartholomew from his horror at the dean’s revelations. ‘Simon Tunstede’s Gloria,’ said the monk. ‘My favourite setting.’

‘How is it possible that such a heavenly sound can come from such wicked creatures?’ asked the dean. He led them to the Angel Choir, and pointed to the pier above the Head Shrine. ‘One such fiend was turned to stone many years ago.’

Bartholomew started in shock when he saw the carved imp. ‘That is Bishop Gynewell!’

‘Hush!’ breathed Bresley, looking around uneasily. ‘You are not the first to have noticed the similarity, but he does not like it. It is coincidence obviously, since the imp lived many years before Gynewell was born. However, no prelate appreciates being told that he bears an uncanny resemblance to a demon, so watch what you say.’

‘It is a rather unsettling likeness,’ said Michael. ‘No wonder he is sensitive about it.’

‘Cynric will feel vindicated,’ murmured Bartholomew, still gazing up at the statue. ‘He will see it as proof, right down to the horns.’

‘It is a pity you plan to be a non-residentiary canon, Brother,’ said Bresley. ‘You look like the kind of man who knows how to keep order among unruly clerics. I understand you are a proctor.’

Michael nodded. ‘And if my University is ever suppressed, or I despair of scholarship, I shall come here and teach you how to control spirited young men.’

‘Then I shall write to the King immediately, and ask him to put an end to the studium generale at Cambridge,’ said Bresley with a tired smile. ‘God knows, I could do with you.’

‘I am sure the bishop told you that I have been charged to investigate Aylmer’s death,’ said Michael. ‘Do you have any ideas regarding his killer?’

Bresley shook his head. ‘Although Aylmer’s appointment was unpopular with virtually every cleric in the minster. They interpreted it as a sign that Miller had started the process of invading their domain.’

‘I am told you side with Miller,’ said Michael.

‘I have attempted to befriend him, in the hope of reducing the animosity between the two factions. Some folk claim I betray my colleagues by taking such a stance, but they are wrong. Indeed, Miller’s company at dinner is invariably an ordeal. He is not mannerly, and I am obliged to endure spitting, teeth-wiping, nose-picking and belching in my quest for an end to the hostilities.’

‘So you did not mind Aylmer’s nomination as a Vicar Choral?’

‘On the contrary, I minded very much. While such a move could have ameliorated the trouble between Guild and Commonalty, in this case it would have made matters very much worse. Aylmer was debauched and dishonest, and would not have made a good deputy – although he probably would have fitted in with his new colleagues well enough, given time. Like attracts like, after all.’