Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Suttone seemed to accept the point, and Hamo began to elaborate on Matilde’s abrupt departure from his city. Bartholomew’s brief flare of hope had died at the mention of six years. She had been in Cambridge since then, and he suspected her Lincoln friends would know even less about her most recent wanderings than he did.

  ‘Who is she?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, pointing to where an unusually tall lady in the white habit of a Gilbertine nun was walking towards the chapel, holding a lamp to guide her. The robe accentuated her slim figure, and she moved in a way that suggested she knew she was attracting admiring glances. At her side was an older woman, slightly bent with age, but still moving quickly enough to make her younger companion stride out to keep pace with her.

  ‘That is Dame Eleanor,’ replied Whatton, his voice softening with quiet admiration. ‘As a child, she was presented to the old queen, who gave her to us. She has been here for nigh on six decades.’

  ‘You mean Queen Isabella?’ asked Suttone. ‘The wanton wife of the second King Edward?’

  ‘No, the queen before her,’ replied Hamo. ‘Eleanor – whose memorial stands outside our gate. We are very proud of that, because it is a symbol of the esteem in which our priory is held by monarchs. But our Eleanor – Dame Eleanor Darcy – has dedicated her life to Lincoln’s saints, and climbs the hill every day to tend their shrines in the cathedral. She is a devout and venerable lady.’

  ‘Is she the one who deplores gluttony?’ asked Suttone keenly. ‘You mentioned her earlier.’

  ‘What saints?’ asked Cynric, as Hamo nodded his answer to Suttone’s question. ‘Does your city have saints of its own?’

  Hamo nodded again. ‘They are called Little Hugh and Bishop Hugh, both buried in the cathedral.’

  ‘I meant the other lady,’ said Michael impatiently, eyes fixed on the apparition in white that glided along the snow-dappled path. ‘The younger one.’

  ‘That looks like a woman,’ supplied Suttone unhelpfully. ‘The Gilbertine Order enrols them in its priories, as you mentioned earlier. It is an odd rule, and I do not consider it a wise one.’

  ‘Women have just as much right to live in this fine convent as men do,’ said Whatton coolly. ‘And problems with cohabitation occur only when folk are weak and given to fornication. Benedictines could never manage it, and neither could Carmelites, but male and female Gilbertines have been living side by side without trouble or sin for nigh on two hundred years.’

  ‘I applaud your achievement, but who is she?’ pressed Michael irritably, overlooking the slight to his Order in the interests of learning what he wanted to know.

  ‘Christiana de Hauville,’ replied Hamo, glaring at his colleague for his intemperate remarks to honoured guests. ‘She is technically a lay-sister, although she is nobly born and owns property in the city. Dame Eleanor has taken a liking to her, and they are often together. As you can see, they are going to the Chapel of St Katherine for evening prayers.’

  ‘Eleanor says she has taken Lady Christiana under her wing,’ said Whatton. He smiled indulgently. ‘Yet it often appears the other way around – Christiana looks after Eleanor. But, suffice to say, they are devoted to each other. It is cold out here. Would you like to come inside?’

  ‘I would like to visit your chapel,’ said Michael transparently. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’

  ‘You can do it by your bed, Brother,’ said Suttone, shooting Michael a look to warn him that the honour of his Order was at stake, and he should not prove the Gilbertines right by ogling the first female who crossed his path. ‘Our horses are already installed in a warm stable with a bucket of hot mash, and I would like to do the same.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Hamo, startled. ‘I was planning to put you in the guest-hall, and provide you with a supper of roasted goose. But, of course, if you would rather eat oats—’

  ‘The guest-hall will be acceptable,’ said Michael, tearing his eyes from the chapel and indicating that Hamo should lead the way. ‘And I might manage a sliver of roasted goose, especially if it comes with a few parsnips and a loaf of bread.’

  ‘We are delighted to have you here, and we will cook you whatever you want,’ replied Hamo generously. Bartholomew hoped he would not regret the promise: Michael had a formidable appetite. ‘Ask for anything, and, if it is in my power to give, you shall have it.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Michael, inclining his head. ‘You are most hospitable.’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ agreed Whatton pleasantly. ‘We like guests, especially ones who might leave us a donation to mend our roofs. We suffered badly in the Death – there were sixty of us, but now we are only twelve – and Prior Roger says we may never recover. The biggest problem is that there are not enough of us to collect the tithes we are owed, and we sink ever deeper into poverty and debt.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Suttone. ‘But surely you can hire a bailiff to help you?’

  ‘We tried, but they kept absconding with our money,’ said Hamo mournfully. He opened the door of the long building that formed the guest-hall. ‘Here we are. You shall have the upper room, because it is nicer than the ground-floor chamber. Warmer, too.’

  He led the way through a dark, vault-like hall that had bedding piled around the edges, and headed for a spiral staircase. It emerged in an attractive room with clean white walls, wooden floors and the exotic luxury of a stone sink in one corner with a pail of icy water underneath it. He and Whatton set about lighting a fire, while Michael opened a window shutter to inspect the chapel. Bartholomew paced restlessly, thinking about William de Spayne, and hoping, despite the practical part of his mind that told him he was wasting his time, that the mayor might be able to tell him something useful about Matilde.

  ‘You mentioned a Miller’s Market when you asked why we had come to Lincoln,’ said Suttone conversationally while the Gilbertines busied themselves at the hearth. ‘What is that, exactly?’

  ‘It is an annual occurrence now,’ said Hamo, rolling straw into a ball for kindling, ‘although it does not usually coincide with the installation of canons. Those two events – along with the General Pardon – are why our city is so busy at the moment, and every bed taken.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Michael, thinking about the empty chamber below.

  Whatton applied a tinderbox to Hamo’s straw. ‘Every convent is bursting at the seams, and every inn seethes with visitors. Except us.’

  ‘That is because our priory is the one farthest from the city, and people dislike walking the extra distance,’ added Hamo quickly, seeing his guests’ thoughts naturally turn to the man who had been murdered that day.

  ‘You still have not told us what Miller’s Market is,’ said Michael.

  ‘A merchant named Adam Miller started it five years ago, when he baked cakes and sold them at cost to the town’s poor,’ replied Whatton. ‘The next year, other members of the Commonalty – that is the city’s ruling council – followed his example, and the poor had ale and leather goods. And so it has continued, although the promise of cheap supplies encourages evil types – thieves, pickpockets, beggars and scoundrels – to flock here, too.’

  ‘You said you have come to be enrolled as canons,’ said Hamo, rather more interested in eliciting information than dispensing it. ‘Which stalls will you occupy?’

  Suttone smiled with more pride than was right for a man in a vocation that advocated humility. ‘Brother Michael will have the Stall of South Scarle, and I shall have the Stall of Decem Librarum – which is valued at six pounds, eighteen shillings and seven pence a year.’

  ‘That is a lot of money, Father,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘What will you do with it?’

  ‘As canons, we shall have specific duties to perform,’ explained Suttone. ‘But obviously we cannot live here, since we have our University teaching to do, so we shall spend a portion of it on paying a deputy – called a Vicar Choral – to act in our stead.’

  ‘You will pay him almost seven pounds a year?’ asked Cynr
ic, awed. ‘May I apply? I can read a bit of Latin – Doctor Bartholomew taught me when we were in France.’

  Michael smiled indulgently. ‘We only need pay our assistants a fraction of our earnings – our prebends, as they are called. The rest we can keep for ourselves. I shall give some to Michaelhouse, some to my mother abbey at Ely, and spend the rest on good wine to share with friends. But Suttone and I do not accept these posts for the money, but because they represent an acknowledgement of our academic prowess.’

  ‘They represent the fact that you have connections to the men who can control these things,’ corrected Whatton baldly, making Bartholomew laugh. ‘Who is it? The Bishop of Ely? Our own Bishop Gynewell?’

  Suttone’s face was stony. ‘I am related to the Lincolnshire Suttones, who—’

  ‘Gynewell, then,’ said Whatton, nodding his satisfaction that he had been right. ‘The Suttones are a powerful family in these parts, and Gynewell is obliged to pander to them at every opportunity.’

  Hamo beamed in delight, and reached out to grasp the Carmelite’s hand. ‘Then you and I are kin, Father, because I am Hamo de Suttone. I hail from a lowly branch of the dynasty, it is true, but I am proud of it anyway. I had no idea that our humble priory was about to entertain such an auspicious guest.’

  ‘But you both plan to appoint Vicars Choral and join the ranks of Lincoln’s many non-residentiary canons,’ said Whatton, not as impressed as his colleague. ‘Most of your prebends will go to other foundations, and not to poor Lincoln. Still, it cannot be helped. At least you are English. Most of the last lot were French – and us at war, too!’

  ‘Shameful,’ agreed Cynric with considerable feeling.

  ‘Whatton mentioned a murder earlier,’ said Suttone, glancing towards the door to ensure it could be barred from the inside. ‘But he did not say whether you had caught the culprit.’

  ‘We have not,’ replied Whatton, standing up as the logs caught at last. ‘But there is no need for alarm. I doubt the killer will attack anyone else.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  Whatton smiled serenely. ‘Because of the man Aylmer was – debauched, sly and dishonest. No one was surprised when he was found dead with a dagger in his back.’

  ‘Do you mean John Aylmer?’ asked Suttone. He swallowed hard. ‘From Huntingdonshire?’

  Hamo nodded. ‘You know him? He was certainly the kind of fellow to stick in a man’s mind.’

  ‘He is certainly stuck in mine,’ said Suttone weakly. ‘He is my Vicar Choral.’

  ‘I cannot wait until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, pacing up and down in the guest-hall. The Gilbertines had gone, Suttone was out in search of the latrine, and the physician was alone with Michael and Cynric. ‘I keep thinking Hamo may be right – that Spayne might know where Matilde is now. If he was going to marry her six years ago, then they were obviously close.’

  Michael inclined his head. ‘But think about her arrival in Cambridge, Matt. It was roughly six years ago, so she probably went there immediately after she left him. She mentioned this betrothal to you once, which suggests that either they parted on bad terms or he did not mean that much to her. Do not rush this. You waited the best part of a term before coming to investigate this particular lead, so surely you can manage a few more hours?’

  Bartholomew was not sure he could. The possibility, however remote, that Spayne might be able to help him gnawed at his senses like a worm. ‘I know it is dark, but it is not late, and I cannot see Spayne being in his bed before seven o’clock. I am going to see him tonight.’

  ‘It is not wise to wander around strange towns after dusk,’ said Michael gently. ‘You know this.’

  ‘I will go with you,’ offered Cynric, seeing the physician was not to be dissuaded. He stood and slipped his sword into his belt.

  Michael looked around for his cloak. ‘Then so will I. Cynric can protect you with his blade, and my habit may make footpads think twice about molesting you.’

  ‘It did not work yesterday,’ Cynric pointed out ruefully.

  ‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall say a prayer before we go. In the chapel.’

  ‘You mean the chapel that lady went into?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Then go and fulfil your religious obligations, Brother. I do not need an escort.’

  Michael was right: it was dangerous to explore unknown cities at night, and Bartholomew did not want to put his friends at risk just because he was impatient. They listened to his arguments for them remaining with the Gilbertines, then followed him outside anyway. Snow lay in untidy heaps, where it had been swept, and the ground was slick with hoarfrost.

  ‘You have been more than patient with my hunt,’ said Bartholomew, buckling his sword to his waist as they walked across the yard. He never carried weapons in Cambridge, but his travels in France and along some of England’s robber-infested highways meant he was now more cautious. ‘Both of you. And I shall make you a promise: this is the last time I race off in search of shadows. If I cannot find Matilde this time, I shall concede defeat.’

  ‘I shall hold you to it,’ warned Michael, selecting a tortuous route that avoided the bigger drifts. ‘You cannot spend the rest of your life haring around countries with which we are at war, and we need you at Michaelhouse. We have students eager to study with you – you taught them more last term than Doctor Rougham managed in a year – and England needs University-trained physicians. If Suttone is right, and the Death is about to come back, the importance of your work cannot be overestimated.’

  ‘You give me too much credit. Physicians were worthless during the plague – worse than worthless, even, since I sometimes wonder whether our advice and practices made it worse. But even if we cannot cure the pestilence, then I suppose there are other ailments to treat. We still have our uses.’

  ‘You do,’ agreed Michael. ‘Oh, look! We just happen to be at the Gilbertines’ church. Give me a few moments to say my prayers, and then we shall visit Spayne together.’

  The Chapel of St Katherine was an attractive building, which had been raised by Normans. It boasted small roundheaded windows, and the arches in the nave were adorned with brightly painted dog-tooth mouldings. Its chancel was longer than its nave, although not as wide, and its stone floor made their footsteps echo as they walked towards the high altar. It smelled damp, as though the roof was leaking somewhere, and it was icy cold. It was also empty, although a doused but still-warm lamp suggested that Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana had not long left their devotions.

  Michael grimaced before kneeling to recite a psalm of deliverance. Unlike Bartholomew, who enjoyed being on the road and seeing new sights, the monk considered travel a dreadful ordeal, and was genuinely grateful to have arrived in Lincoln unscathed. While he chanted, Bartholomew wondered what it was about Lady Christiana that had caught Michael’s attention, thinking she could not hold a candle to Matilde’s radiant beauty. But then, he acknowledged wryly, he could not look at a woman without comparing her unfavourably to Matilde these days. It was hardly healthy, and he knew he should stop before he drove himself insane.

  ‘You should leave some coins,’ Michael called over his shoulder, as he climbed inelegantly to his feet. ‘St Katherine will appreciate them, and we need all the good graces we can muster, since we have to ride home again in two weeks.’

  When Bartholomew did as the monk suggested, he saw others had left oblations, too. In pride of place was a silver chalice. It was a simple thing, quite small, and its tarnished appearance suggested it had seen better days. Other people had used it as a receptacle, and several pennies and a ring lay on its bottom. Bartholomew dropped his offering in with them, then stood in the shadows, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for the monk to finish.

  Eventually, Michael was ready and they left the priory, ignoring the unhappy strictures of Whatton at the gate, who told them they would miss supper if they took too long. Bartholomew was not hungry, his appetite vanished at the prospect of new
information, while in his newly ‘slender’ form, Michael had trained himself to miss the occasional repast. And Cynric was an old soldier, used to eating at irregular times, and was adept at obtaining what he wanted from locked kitchens anyway.

  The first obstacle they were obliged to surmount was a tall, narrow structure known as the West Bargate. It straddled a foul-smelling dyke, and comprised a vaulted arch with a stout wooden gate – the heavy bar that secured the gate from inside gave the building its name – and a guard-room above. Smoke issued from the chimney, and a good deal of hammering and shouting was required before the soldier could be persuaded to leave his cosy domain. Once they had his attention, it cost fourpence to be allowed through, and another fourpence to extract the promise that they would be let out again later, to return to their lodgings.

  Bartholomew expected to find himself in the city once they had passed under the West Bargate’s dripping portal, and was surprised when the guard said Lincoln was still a mile away: the churches and houses that lined the road ahead comprised the elongated suburb-settlement of Wigford.

  The first of Wigford’s dozen churches was a stately affair dedicated to St Botolph. Next was St Margaret’s, once fine, but now showing signs of neglect. Then came Holy Cross, adorned with a handsome steeple, but with its priest’s house a blackened shell at the far end of its churchyard. Some of its parishioners were moving around the ruins with torches, and the rattle of saws and the tap of hammers showed they were rebuilding it, lending their labour once their day’s official work was done. A young priest – no more than a boy – had been given the job of stirring the mortar, but he was unequal to the task, and his parishioners’ complaints rang in the still night air.

  Eventually, after a stumbling walk that took twice as long as it would have done in daylight, they reached a river spanned by a bridge of stone. On the other side was a substantial gatehouse. The building appeared to be several hundred years old, and was the kind of crumbling, unstable edifice that did not encourage people to linger underneath. The Michaelhouse men paid another toll and hurried through its cracked arches, relieved when they reached the city on the other side.