The Tarnished Chalice (35 page)

‘Sunday trading is a sin,’ announced Kelby. ‘And anyone who attends Miller’s Market will be damned in the eyes of God.’

Bartholomew watched uneasily as Ursula de Spayne overheard and stalked towards him. Around them, the clatter of voices stopped as people waited to see what would happen.

‘You can go to Hell for hypocrisy, too,’ she declared. ‘You were trading last Sunday yourself. I saw you. You sold Dalderby three ells of cloth at the butts.’

‘That was an arrangement between friends,’ said Dalderby. ‘It was not trading.’

‘You can go to Hell for lying, too,’ retorted Ursula. Her brother suddenly became aware that she was the centre of attention, and hurried to her side.

‘And you will burn for murder, madam,’ retorted Kelby, pointing a finger that shook with rage. ‘You had one death on your conscience with your careless use of cures, and now you have another. Poor Flaxfleete, murdered with poisoned wine.’

‘Please, Kelby,’ said Spayne quietly. ‘This is no place for such a debate. Come to a tavern with us. I will buy ale, and we can discuss this like civilised—’

‘So she can poison me, too?’ demanded Kelby. ‘No, thank you!’

‘I have poisoned no one,’ snarled Ursula. ‘However, I heard Flaxfleete’s death served a very useful purpose. It balanced out Aylmer and Nicholas Herl – both members of the Commonality.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Kelby furiously. ‘That I murdered Flaxfleete, to disguise the fact that I also killed Herl and Aylmer? You have taken too many of your own potions, woman, because you are mad if you think I would harm a much-loved friend.’

‘God will know,’ said Ursula smugly. ‘And He will punish accordingly.’

‘Come, sister,’ said Spayne. His face was taut with suppressed anger, although whether with Ursula or his rivals was impossible to say. He grabbed her arm and pulled; he was a strong man, and she could not resist him for long – at least, not without an undignified scuffle. She was livid as he hauled her away.

Meanwhile, Kelby spluttered with impotent fury. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he had guessed what Ursula’s barbed comments had meant very quickly. Bartholomew himself had not understood her oblique insinuation immediately, and he wondered whether there was a good reason why Kelby had. He glanced at Dalderby, and saw him regarding his colleague with a troubled
expression, as though the physician was not the only one asking the question.

Bartholomew left the Pultria, and went to the nearby Church of St Cuthbert, where he spent an hour standing at the back of the nave, mulling over what he had learned. He realised he had nothing solid to tell Michael, only more supposition and theories. He shivered in the damp chill, and emerged to find snow falling thickly. It coated the streets in a fluffy white carpet, which was soon churned to slushy black ruts by carts, hoofs and feet. Cynric had finished exploring the market, and was waiting for him, so they walked down the hill together. Spayne emerged from his house as they passed. His expression was grim, and Bartholomew supposed he had ordered his argumentative sibling to stay indoors. If so, it was good advice: the air of menace that had seethed when her accusations were levelled was tangible, and he sensed a violent encounter between Guild and Commonalty was looming fast.

Bartholomew smiled as Spayne greeted him. For good measure, he reached out and gripped the man’s arm, to assess whether there was a bruise that might make him wince, but Spayne returned the gesture with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Bartholomew was not surprised: he had never shared Michael’s conviction that Spayne would have attacked him.

‘This snow,’ said Spayne unhappily, glancing up to where the flakes were large grey puffs against the brightness of the sky. ‘It is doing my roof no good at all. If I did not know better, I would say Kelby had asked the bishop to conjure up some foul weather.’

‘But you do know better,’ said Bartholomew. Spayne started to walk down the hill, and the physician fell into step with him, Cynric at his side. ‘Gynewell remains aloof from this feud.’

‘Actually, I meant that Gynewell would never petition the Devil for snow, because he hates the cold. If sweltering heat was afflicting us, I would have no doubt that he had been using his powers.’

‘What powers?’ asked Cynric immediately.

‘I had an unpleasant experience last night,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Spayne might be about to fuel the flames of Cynric’s superstition. ‘Felons attacked Michael and me in the Gilbertines’ orchard.’

‘The orchard?’ asked Spayne, startled. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Trying to reach the guest-hall,’ supplied Cynric, his tone verging on the accusatory. ‘The porter had been drugged, obviously to make sure they were obliged to go round the back, where someone was waiting to dispatch them.’

Bartholomew watched Spayne intently, but the man revealed nothing other than shock that such an incident should have occurred in the first place.

‘It is not the first time decent folk have suffered the depredations of villains recently,’ said Spayne worriedly. ‘Miller’s Market has encouraged some very rough men to visit our town. Last night, an alehouse quarrel ended in violence, and Chapman was badly injured.’

‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Injured where?’

Spayne regarded him oddly. ‘Outside the Angel.’ He pointed to a sign depicting a debauched-looking cherub, which seemed to be the only thing in the city not coated with snow.

‘I mean where on his body?’

Spayne gave a grin that smacked of relief. ‘Of course, you have a professional interest in these matters. He was stabbed in the arm.’

‘The arm,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully.

‘Surgeon Bunoun fears for his life,’ Spayne went on.

‘Then perhaps Miller might appreciate a second opinion,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding eager agreement at his side. ‘It sounds as though you were a witness to this attack.’

‘I was elsewhere when it happened, but I saw folk milling around as I came home – the Angel is between where I was conducting my business and my house. Miller wants revenge, but I think I have convinced him to reflect on the matter before doing anything rash.’

‘Revenge? Was it an attack on the Commonalty, then? You implied it was a tavern brawl.’

‘It was, but Miller still wants someone to pay. Unfortunately, that is the way of things in this city.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’

Spayne grimaced. ‘It is more than sorry – it is tragic. Lincoln is a lovely place, and I hate to see it torn apart by petty rivalries and jealousies. Look around you – indigent weavers who cannot feed their families; the Fossedike full of silt; beautiful buildings crumbling from neglect. If we were to put our energies into solving those problems, Lincoln would be great again.’

‘It does look as though it has fallen on hard times,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘I am sorry I cannot help you find Matilde,’ said Spayne suddenly. ‘I wish I could, but they are her secrets and it would be improper for me to betray her confidences. If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you herself. I know this is not what you want to hear.’

‘Very well ’

‘Do not be angry. I prayed to St Hugh last night, and asked for his guidance. No great insight came, but then I realised that was his answer: I should not intervene one way or the other.’

‘Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor are preparing me a list,’ said Bartholomew, rather defiantly.

Spayne smiled. ‘Good. I hope they tell you all I know and more. Then you will have what you want, and I shall have a clear conscience. It is the best of all solutions.’

They talked a while longer, and Bartholomew found Spayne hard to dislike. He wondered what it was about him that Michael had taken exception to, and was seriously considering his offer of a cup of wine when Cynric prodded him, to remind him of his duties to the monk and his investigation.

‘Visit me soon, and I shall show you a scroll I bought recently,’ said Spayne, disappointed by the refusal. ‘It is by the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meryonnes, and sheds a good deal of light on the mysteries of Blood Relics, which we discussed on Saturday. I would like your opinion.’

‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘Do not wait too long,’ said Spayne. ‘The only member of the Commonality with the wits to debate such a subject is Langar, but now his lover, Nicholas Herl, is dead, he has lost his zest for life. But, if you will not debate Blood Relics with me now, I should be about my business.’

‘What business?’ asked Cynric nosily.

‘Mercantile affairs. It is dull stuff, and you would not be interested. Good morning, Doctor.’

‘What I find interesting is for me to decide,’ said Cynric, after Spayne had gone. ‘Not him. And I certainly would be intrigued to know why he was passing the Angel last night. You have to go by there if you are walking between the Gilbertine orchard and his house.’

‘And if you are walking between his house and a good many other places,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Both are on the main street. Besides, it sounds as though Chapman has suffered a wound that may have been caused by a sword. We
should speak to him before accusing Spayne of foul play.’

Cynric turned around and strode up the hill again, obviously disgusted that the strenuous detour had provided no clear evidence of the mayor’s guilt. ‘You were attacked by four assailants, and Chapman is only one man. And Spayne is furtive – not telling us where he was last night. I know folk say he is decent, but he has thrown in his lot with some very dubious characters.’

‘You dislike him because you think he should help me, but it is unfair to hold a grudge against a man who is acting as his conscience dictates.’

‘I do not think so,’ declared Cynric. ‘Look! Here come Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon, fresh from being mea sured for new vestments. It is a good opportunity to ask Simon about his lovers and brothers.’

‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew, ‘because then he will know we have read his private prayer.’

‘He should not have left it in a public place, then.’

‘He did not leave it in a public place, Cynric.’

Cynric waved an airy hand, and the physician knew he would ask his questions if the occasion arose. ‘Chapman’s wound is an excellent excuse to visit Adam Molendinarius, frater,’ he said with a predatory smile. ‘And Simon, de Wetherset and Suttone will be our protection.’

Dean Bresley was with the three canons-elect. All four were in earnest conversation, and Bartholomew heard the dean clank as he walked, as if metal objects had been shoved down the lining of his cloak. The others seemed too intent on their discussion to notice.

‘Think of an excuse to take the dean, too,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I heard he favours the Commonalty. You will be safer when you visit Miller if Bresley is with you.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, losing his nerve. ‘I cannot do it. We do not know who attacked us last night, and de Wetherset is a complex man, well skilled in intrigue. He might have tried to rid himself of us, for reasons we do not yet understand.’

‘De Wetherset?’ asked Cynric doubtfully. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He lies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We caught him out over Simon’s alibi, and I do not like his old association with Miller and his cronies. It is odd that he was a juror when they were acquitted, and all just happen to be in Lincoln now. And speaking of that trial, it is stupid to go to Miller’s house. I am sure Langar did not believe me when I said I did not remember it.’

‘They will not harm you in broad daylight,’ argued Cynric. ‘And I will be close. So will de Wetherset, Suttone, and Dean Bresley, if you tell them to accompany you.’

‘I have decided to follow Simon’s example, and present the cathedral with a gift at my installation,’ announced Suttone to Bartholomew, as their paths converged. ‘But what should it be? Simon and the dean suggest an altar frontal.’

‘A relic is better,’ declared de Wetherset in his dogmatic manner. ‘An altar frontal will require a chest for storage and women to repair it when moths attack. These cost money. On the other hand, a relic will bring funds to the cathedral, because they attract pilgrims. Perhaps Simon will introduce you to the relic-seller who sold him the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Yes,’ said Suttone eagerly. ‘An item as significant as the Hugh Chalice would be a perfect gift.’

‘I cannot,’ said Simon shortly. ‘He has left Lincoln, and will never return.’

‘You seem very certain of his plans,’ said Bartholomew, astonished by the brazen lie.

‘I am,’ said Simon curtly. ‘He has gone to … to Jerusalem, where he will retire. But the local relic-seller is Walter Chapman. He may have items to offer, although I have been informed that his wares are not always genuine, so you will have to be careful.’

‘I can tell the difference between something sacred and something fraudulent,’ boasted de Wetherset. ‘Take us to him, Simon, and I shall give Suttone the benefit of my unique skills.’

‘That may be difficult,’ said Dean Bresley. ‘The poor man was stabbed in a brawl outside the Swan tavern last night, and he is very ill.’

‘The Swan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it happened outside the Angel.’

‘The Swan,’ repeated Bresley firmly. ‘I was a witness to some of the violence myself.’

‘Spayne said it was the Angel,’ breathed Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘He lied to you.’

‘It may have been a slip of the tongue,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘Taverns are turbulent places,’ the dean was saying, while Cynric looked manifestly unconvinced by the physician’s explanation. ‘Surgeon Bunoun thinks Chapman might die.’

‘If that is so, then discussing sacred objects will be good for his soul,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘And he may even donate something to the cathedral. Then Suttone will not have to part with his silver, but can still bask in the credit of arranging a gift.’

‘That would defeat the purpose,’ said Suttone. He reconsidered as avarice got the better of him. ‘Although I imagine the cathedral will not mind who pays, as long as it receives something valuable.’

‘True,’ said the dean. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you,
and point out that gifting a relic to St Hugh may effect a miraculous cure.’