The Tarnished Chalice (34 page)

‘I have to return a scroll to the library anyway. And Cynric is always eager for an opportunity that might end in an encounter with Bishop Gynewell.’

Cynric’s sense of humour did not stretch to irony, and he was bemused by Bartholomew’s comment. He spent most of the journey up the hill regaling the physician with reasons why it was wise to avoid Gynewell, a feeling that seemed to have intensified as he had learned more about him. Hugh’s mention of devil’s cakes had been carefully analysed, and Cynric had convinced himself that the baker had summoned culinary assistance from Hell, to create fare suitable for a demonic palate. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, recalling how Matilde had smiled at Cynric’s fixations and prejudices. She would certainly have derived plenty of amusement from his theories regarding the hapless prelate.

They reached the cathedral, where they walked through its echoing expanse, looking for the duty librarians. However, Ravenser and John were nowhere to be found, and the Vicars Choral supervising the pilgrims at the Head Shrine and Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb said they had not seen them all day. Cynric crossed himself, as he gazed up at the carved imp.

‘Do you think it chose that spot, so it has a good view of these regal entrails?’ he asked. ‘Everyone knows demons are interested in guts, and that imp is perfectly positioned to devour Queen Eleanor’s when they rise up on Judgement Day. She will not be able to stop him, not while the rest of her is in London. By the time she gets here, it will be too late.’

Bartholomew fought the urge to laugh, and led the way down the South Choir Aisle, past Little Hugh. Unusually, the child’s tomb was devoid of petitioners, so he stopped to look at it. Through the delicate tracery in its side, he could see the gifts that had been inserted – coins, prayers on pieces of parchment, jewellery, and flowers that had withered. Few were near the edges, and he supposed that either pilgrims made sure their offerings were shoved well into the middle, or people – hopefully cathedral officials – had removed the more readily accessible items for safekeeping.

He saw a new piece of white parchment, and supposed it was the one Hugh had put there. Cynric noticed it, too, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he had drawn his dagger and speared it out.

‘I doubt that cheeky lad will bother. Make sure it is the right one, and I will put it in its proper place. Both saints will be pleased, and we need their good graces with that bishop on the loose.’

‘I cannot read a man’s private petitions,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Only a priest can do that.’

Cynric sighed. ‘I shall do it, then, although it will take me a while. Despite your teaching, I am still slow at Latin.’ He jumped out of the way when Bartholomew made a grab for it. ‘Fortunately, Simon has big writing. It is just a list of names, though. Look.’

‘No!’ Bartholomew lunged a second time, but was no match for the agile Welshman.

Cynric frowned in concentration. ‘Simon asks the saint to remember him at his canonisation. Then he asks for a blessing on someone called
pater et mater mea, mortuum
’

‘His parents,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dead parents. Stop it, Cynric. This is highly unethical.’

‘Then there is a bit I damaged with the tip of my dagger. It says
ami … Christi …
possibly with another
mortuum
.

Hah! It must say Christiana amantes, mortuum. That means his dead lover, Christiana. So, now we know the real father of the older Christiana’s child.’

Bartholomew’s jaw dropped at the liberal translation. ‘Rubbish, Cynric! It could mean all manner of things, including amicus Christi – Christ is dear to me. And the declension of amator—’

Cynric was not interested in grammatical niceties. ‘Next, his sorora – sisters! – again with a mortuum, and a frater called Adam Molendinarius, with no mortuum. That must be his brother …

’ He stopped backing away abruptly, allowing Bartholomew to snatch the parchment from his unresisting hand. The physician folded it quickly and posted it back inside the tomb, giving it a hard shove that saw it well beyond the reach of men with knives. He suspected Cynric was right, and young Hugh would not bother to rectify his mischief, but better the prayer lay in the wrong shrine than left in a place where it could be retrieved and pored over by nosy visitors.

‘His brother,’ said Cynric softly. ‘His brother, Adam Molendinarius.’

‘The miller,’ translated Bartholomew. ‘Adam the miller.’

‘Adam Miller,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Simon is Adam Miller’s brother.’

‘It is a common name, Cynric, and a common occupation. Although … ’

‘Although Miller had a brother who stood accused with him at the Cambridge court,’ finished Cynric. ‘He was acquitted with the others. Michael told me. I am sure his name was Simon.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They look nothing alike, and how can you believe a priest and a fellow like Miller are related? Besides, Miller told us himself that his brother is dead – died in prison.’

‘Probably a lie,’ said Cynric, happy to dismiss facts that did not fit his theory. ‘Simon told you he came to Lincoln two decades ago. That means he and Miller fled Cambridge together and came here to rebuild their lives. And Simon – oddly for a religious man – elects to side against the cathedral and with Miller, whom he says is misunderstood and the subject of unkind rumours. I am right here, boy.’

‘What if you are?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘A lot,’ declared Cynric. ‘Or they would not have gone to such pains to conceal it.’

Bartholomew and Cynric argued about Simon’s possible family ties and past lovers until they reached the room that housed the cathedral’s books, when Cynric fell sullenly silent. The library was open, but neither Ravenser nor John were in it. Bartholomew was tempted to leave scroll and book on one of the desks, but he was bound by his promise to deliver the Hildegard into their hands and no on else’s. Claypole occupied the large table in the centre of the room, in earnest conversation with several friends. He stopped talking when Bartholomew tapped on the door, annoyed by the interruption. The physician noticed he had exchanged his sword for a dagger, and supposed Tetford’s death must have reduced the need for a larger weapons.

‘Try their houses,’ he replied curtly, when Bartholomew asked politely for the duty-librarians’ whereabouts. He looked as though he had taken a leaf out of Ravenser’s book, because he was pale and heavy-eyed, as though he had had one too many cups of wine the previous night. ‘They live in Vicars’ Court.’

‘I am sorry Tetford is dead,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat provocatively. It had occurred to him that Claypole’s obviously delicate health might have been a result of him
celebrating the event. Claypole made a moue of impatience when a burly canon called John de Stretle stood to speak. ‘Thank you,’ Stretle said. ‘We are sorry, too.’

‘Very,’ said Claypole insincerely. He lowered his head and pointedly started to whisper again. Bartholomew heard the name ‘Bautre’, and when ‘inept’ followed it, he supposed he was plotting against the man who had been promoted to the post that had been his.

‘We shall miss his running of the Tavern in the Close,’ added Stretle, ignoring Claypole and continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘Although he did inform us yesterday that he planned to shut it. His uncle, Bishop de Lisle, offered some sort of financial incentive for a year of seemly behaviour, but Tetford would eventually have found a way to have the reward and live his life as he pleased. He was a clever fellow, and liked his fun. It is a damned shame he is dead.’

Another fat canon grimaced. ‘I was shocked when he announced his resignation. I felt like shoving a knife in him myself! Life in the Close will not be the same without his genius for entertainment.’

Others nodded heartfelt agreement, and Bartholomew saw it was the loss of lively evenings they mourned, not the man who had provided them.

‘I doubt Ravenser will be a worthy successor,’ predicted Stretle gloomily. ‘John Suttone would have been better, and it is a pity he declined our offer. I thought I made a convincing case, too.’

‘You did,’ said the fat canon. ‘However, while he would have managed the books with consummate skill, he would have imposed too many restrictions for our liking, especially concerning women—’

His words were lost amid a sudden hammering. Claypole had an inkwell, and was banging it on a wall to regain their
attention. ‘We came to talk about Bautre, not the damned alehouse. Now, where were we?’

Bartholomew left, trying to mask his distaste for the men and their plotting. He started to feel sorry for Michael, having connections to such a place, before he realised the monk would revel in the intrigues and double-dealing, and might even make them worse. He and Cynric walked around the outside of the cathedral, then followed a paved lane south until they reached the quiet yard known as Vicars’ Court. Ravenser and John were standing in the middle of it, yelling at each other. They stopped when Bartholomew approached. John was stiff and angry, but Ravenser shot the physician a grin that suggested he was glad of the interruption.

‘Dame Eleanor would like to return this,’ said Bartholomew, handing over the book.

‘Good,’ said John, taking it. ‘Father Simon has requested it from tomorrow, as material for his inaugural sermon on the Choirs of Angels.’

‘God’s blood!’ muttered Ravenser. He reeked of wine, despite the early hour. ‘That promises to be tedious. I have read some of Hildegard’s ramblings myself, and they are all but incomprehensible.’

‘It is not worth perusing, then?’ asked John, turning it over in his hands. ‘I thought I might look at it tonight, since the Aristotle is out with the dean, and Gynewell has Dante’s Inferno.’

‘You let the dean have a book?’ asked Ravenser, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’

‘He asked for it,’ said John defensively. ‘And I did tell Gynewell.’

‘Well, if Gynewell knows … ’ Ravenser turned to Bartholomew. ‘We were sorry about Tetford.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you did not like him.’

‘True, but I did not want him dead.’

‘He had closed his tavern and sold his stock,’ said John. ‘I think he was serious about wanting to be a decent Vicar Choral, although the others were sceptical.’

‘Who will benefit from his death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You, John? It means Michael is now looking for a replacement deputy, as well as Suttone.’

John grimaced. ‘I would like to be promoted, but not at the cost of my life. And the deputies appointed by you Michaelhouse men seem to meet untimely ends.’

‘And I will not benefit, because I am an archdeacon, so senior to a Vicar Choral already,’ added Ravenser. ‘Obviously, neither of us killed Tetford.’

‘I hear you plan to take over his tavern, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that was an extremely good motive for murder. By all accounts, it was a lucrative and popular enterprise.

The archdeacon nodded, pleased. ‘The canons asked John to do it, but when he declined, I put myself forward. If Tetford were alive, he would want me to take up where he had left off.’

‘He would not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of you.’

‘We had a recent – and temporary – misunderstanding over a lady called Rosanna,’ said Ravenser stiffly. ‘But we were friends before she booked us both on the same night and he refused to bow to my seniority, and we would have been friends again, once our tempers had cooled.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Anyway, I have laid in a stock of the Gilbertines’ famous rabbit pies and rehired our favourite serving wenches,’ Ravenser went on. ‘I shall open tonight.’

‘You should experience the Tavern in the Close for yourself,’ said John, although there was a gleam of spite in his
eye as he spoke – he had not extended the invitation because he was being nice. ‘Bring your friend the monk. You will have an interesting evening, I promise.’

‘Do come,’ said Ravenser, graciously including Cynric in the invitation, too. ‘The ale arrived an hour ago. It is from Lora Boyner, who produces the sweetest brew in the city. And Kelby has donated three kegs of good claret for the occasion.’

‘The last time I saw someone drink wine provided by Kelby, it was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Poor Flaxfleete,’ said Ravenser insincerely. ‘Come at five o’clock tonight. You will have to knock, since the Close is locked at dusk, but John will wait for you, and let you in.’

‘I will take you up on your offer,’ said Cynric keenly. ‘I like good ale as much as the next man.’

Bartholomew did not reply, but he was tempted to go, just to see what happened when the prudish Welshman learned he had agreed to spend an evening in a brothel.

The market area called the Pultria was always busy on Mondays, and the steep street was a stark contrast to its silence of the previous day. It was full of people, despite the snow that was now falling in earnest, and traders used bells, rattles and voices to attract customers to buy their wares. Bakers’ boys with trays of pastries weaved among the crowds, although the fragrant scent of their goods was lost among the more powerful reek of chickens and geese. Women from the outlying villages sat in huddled heaps on the ground with winter-brown vegetables displayed in front of them, and carts vied for space with the animals that were being taken to the slaughterhouses.

Most of the people who thronged the stalls were poor. Some knew the traders, and addressed them by name,
pleading for credit, but others were labourers from the farms and estates outside the city, or vagrants attracted by the prospect of Miller’s Market. Many of the locals had a pinched, dull look about them, and Bartholomew heard one trying to sell a blacksmith his oldest child.

Cynric liked markets, even ones that sold chiefly birds and eggs, and the physician trailed after him for want of anything better to do. He heard people talking enthusiastically about Miller’s fair, and rather less keenly about the installation. A few folk claimed they would absent themselves from the fair because it would take place on a Sabbath, and Bartholomew supposed they were guildsmen – or in the employ of them – taking a stand against the Commonalty. One person particularly vocal in denouncing Miller’s event was Kelby. He was with his friend Dalderby, who wore a massive bandage around his upper arm: Surgeon Bunoun was obviously of the belief that a patient liked something to show for his sufferings, and that the size of the dressing was directly proportional to the sophistication – and expense – of the treatment.