Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I am a physician, Brother. I cannot stand by while a man chokes to death.’

  ‘This is not a good idea,’ warned Michael, following with considerable reluctance. ‘They are sure to remember who visited before this murder – and who was first to arrive when the alarm was raised.’

  ‘It is not murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘He is still alive.’

  But when he knelt beside the stricken cleric, he could see it was no fit that afflicted him. Flaxfleete was blue around the nose and lips, he was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide and frightened in his waxy face. His body twitched convulsively, and he had vomited violently enough to cause bleeding in his stomach. Even as Bartholomew knelt beside him, he knew that all the skill in the world would not save the man. He started to loosen clothing, in an attempt to ease his breathing, but Flaxfleete resisted.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, grabbing Bartholomew’s tunic and hauling him down so he could speak without being overheard. ‘Keep me covered. I am cold.’

  It was an odd request under the circumstances, but as Flaxfleete’s struggle for air became increasingly frantic, Bartholomew had no choice but to pull the habit away from his neck. As he did so, he saw a strange blue mark on the cleric’s skin, on the point of the shoulder. It was not large – perhaps half the length of a little finger – and was the kind of blemish he had seen soldiers make with ink and needles, as a sign of brotherhood. It was a strange thing to see on a merchant-cleric who had probably never seen a battle. Suddenly, Flaxfleete’s convulsions reached a critical point, and all Bartholomew’s attention was focussed on trying to hold the man’s head in a way that might enable him to draw air into his lungs. But it was to no avail, and it was not long before he stood and raised his hands apologetically.

  ‘I am sorry. You should summon a priest.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘You wear the garb of a physician,’ said Kelby, regarding Bartholomew with appalled eyes as he stood in the bright light of his hall. ‘I will pay whatever you ask if you save him. Gold, jewels, anything.’

  ‘I wish I could help,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But your friend is beyond my skills.’

  ‘He has stopped twitching,’ argued Kelby desperately. ‘The fit is over, so he will recover now.’

  ‘He is not moving because he is dead,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I shall anoint him,’ said Michael. He knelt reluctantly, giving the impression that he wished Bartholomew had heeded his advice and walked away from the whole business.

  ‘He cannot be dead!’ cried Kelby. ‘He was perfectly healthy a few moments ago, clamouring for wine. You saw him. He was waiting for the new keg to arrive, because we drank more than usual tonight, and we ran out. We have a lot to celebrate, what with the acquittal. How could this happen?’

  On the dying man’s breath, Bartholomew had detected the rank, fishy odour of a substance familiar to most physicians – one that occurred on some rye grain and that was sometimes used by midwives to control post-partum bleeding. It was highly toxic, and Bartholomew had been told by a witch in southern France that it was also the cause of the disease called Holy Fire. His medical colleagues had rejected her explanation out of hand, although he found it more convincing than the commonly accepted perception that the sickness was the Devil’s doing.

  ‘Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’ he asked. Flaxfleete’s symptoms had certainly been similar to those exhibited by folk afflicted with Holy Fire, and people who had been stricken once were liable to suffer future attacks.

  Kelby gazed at him. ‘You know he did, because we told you about it – it was when he burned Spayne’s storerooms. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Do not answer,’ murmured Cynric, who had come to stand behind Bartholomew. His hand rested on his dagger, and his eyes were watchful, as though he anticipated violence. ‘It is safer to say nothing.’

  ‘You should summon the sheriff,’ said Michael. There was definitely something odd about the merchant’s abrupt demise, and Cynric was right to advise them to have nothing to do with it.

  ‘Why should we do that?’ demanded Kelby. Shock had sobered him up, and although he was still unsteady on his feet, his wits seemed sharp enough. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Are you saying there is something suspicious about poor Flaxfleete’s sudden illness?’

  ‘He does not know,’ replied Michael before Bartholomew could speak. ‘That is why you should ask the sheriff to come. It is his job to ascertain what happened, not a passing physician’s.’

  A tall man with dark hair stepped out of the watching throng and crouched next to his fallen comrade. He wore a priest’s robes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Suttone; as he inspected the dead man, Bartholomew wondered whether he was one of the Carmelite’s Lincoln kin.

  ‘This is odd,’ said the priest, sniffing the air with a puzzled expression. ‘He smells of fish. The last time I encountered such a stench, it was on Nicholas Herl after he threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. There is a medicine for women that carries a similar reek, although I do not know why Flaxfleete should have swallowed any – just as I did not know why it should have been inside Herl.’

  Kelby was bemused. ‘Medicine will not harm anyone – it is supposed to make folk better.’

  ‘Many medicines are poisonous when administered wrongly,’ said Bartholomew. He did not add that the one imbibed by Flaxfleete must have been unnaturally concentrated to produce such a dramatic result – and to smell so strongly on his body.

  Kelby pointed at the wine keg, which had already been broached. ‘Did anyone other than Flaxfleete drink from this? Do you know, John?’

  The priest was thoughtful. ‘He tapped the barrel himself, and swallowed the first cup because someone told him it might be bad. He said he was less drunk than the rest of us, so better able to assess its quality.’

  ‘You do not seem drunk,’ observed Michael.

  John inclined his head. ‘I never touch strong brews. And when men are poisoned while in their cups, it makes me glad I practise abstinence.’

  Kelby was unimpressed with his sanctimonious colleague. ‘Then, since you are so steady in your wits, you can tell us what happened to Flaxfleete.’

  ‘It would be wrong of me to try – I am no sheriff. But I can say Flaxfleete was the only one to drink from this barrel. He downed the first cup in a gulp, declared it good, then poured himself a second. He did not fill the jug for the rest of you, but went back to the table and sat down. I was filling the pitcher – at your request, Kelby – when he complained of feeling unwell. And we all know what happened next.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, earning himself a glare from Michael for his curiosity.

  ‘He said he was cold, even though he was next to the fire,’ replied John. ‘And that there was a pain in his chest and a numbness in his hands. Then he clutched his head and dropped to the floor. You saw the rest.’

  Bartholomew went to the cask, where the familiar fishy odour was just recognisable under the scent of strong wine.

  ‘Is it tainted?’ asked Kelby. ‘Poisoned?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Call the sheriff, and let him establish what happened.’

  ‘We shall,’ declared Kelby, grief turning to anger. ‘Dalderby will fetch him.’

  ‘Me?’ asked a fellow with a thick orange beard and an expensive cote-hardie of scarlet and yellow. ‘I have a sore foot and will be too slow. Send someone else.’

  ‘You will not mind enduring a little discomfort for Flaxfleete,’ said Kelby harshly, shoving him towards the open door. Bartholomew wondered why Dalderby was loath to leave. Was it because he felt unsafe when a fellow guildsman had been murdered? Or was he simply more interested in what was unfolding in Kelby’s hall, and did not want to miss anything?

  ‘This barrel came from the Swan,’ said John, when the unwilling Dalderby had been dispatched on his errand. ‘So, someone from the Swan must have tampered with it – put the medicine inside.’

 
‘Master Quarrel has sold me good wine all my life,’ cried Kelby. ‘Why would he change now? Besides, can you imagine what impact it would have on his trade, if it became known that he poisons his wares? It was not Quarrel or anyone at the Swan. I will stake my life on it.’

  John pointed to the floor. ‘Do you see those drops? They run all the way to the door, which means the keg was leaking when it was brought in. If wine was dripping out, then it means something may have been dripped inside, too.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Michael, as he inspected the trail. ‘That does suggest the poison was added when the cask was at the tavern.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ cried Kelby in anguish. ‘Someone will swing for this!’

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Michael calmly. ‘However, I hope you will remember that it had nothing to do with us. We were talking to your neighbour, Ursula de Spayne, when your friend met his end.’

  ‘That witch,’ sneered Kelby. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that she poisoned poor Flaxfleete. She has a knowledge of herbs and potions, and regularly offers them to anyone foolish enough to trust her. She hated Flaxfleete and will delight in his death. She is the culprit!’

  It was a sober supper for the Michaelhouse scholars that night. The meal – provided uncommonly late on account of Bartholomew and Michael going out – was served in the guest-hall’s main chamber. Not everyone had taken to his heels after the recent stabbing, and a handful of men huddled near the meagre fire at the far end of the room. Most were poor, as evidenced by their threadbare clothes and thin boots, and it was clear they simply could not afford to go elsewhere. There were baleful glares when Hamo provided them with day-old bread and a few onions, but brought roasted goose for the more valued party from upstairs.

  Bartholomew barely noticed them. His thoughts had returned to Matilde, and all he could think was that Spayne might be able to tell him where she had gone. He did not feel like eating, and picked listlessly at the slab of fatty meat Michael slapped on to his trencher. The monk made up for his lack of appetite by eating more than was wise, and then complained that his stomach hurt. Cynric was withdrawn and morose, and became more so when Suttone began a defensive monologue about the man he had hired to be his Vicar Choral, claiming that John Aylmer was a paragon of virtue, despite Hamo’s statements to the contrary.

  ‘What is the matter, Cynric?’ Bartholomew asked, pulling himself out of his reverie when he noticed something was bothering his book-bearer. The man had been with him all his adult life, and was more friend than servant. He did not like to see him unhappy.

  ‘I do not like this place,’ said Cynric, waving a hand that encompassed guest-hall, convent and city, all at the same time. He saw Suttone had broken off his tirade and was listening. ‘You should … pay your respects to Spayne, and leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be best.’

  ‘You cannot do that, Matthew!’ cried Suttone in alarm. ‘Michael and I are helpless monastics and need the protection you two provide for our journey home. What is wrong with Lincoln, anyway?’

  ‘It is shabby,’ declared Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘It looks as though it was fine, but has fallen on hard times – just like this priory, in fact. It is also set to be destroyed by an earthquake at any moment, and I am uncomfortable with the notion of murdered saints, queens deprived of their innards, and men poisoned with wine. And Brother Michael was right in what he said: Kelby and his friends may decide to blame us for Flaxfleete’s death, just because we are strangers.’

  ‘We are going to be canons,’ said Suttone indignantly. ‘No one would dare offend us with unfounded accusations.’

  ‘You are going to be a canon, Father,’ corrected Cynric morosely. ‘I am a book-bearer.’

  ‘He has a point,’ said Michael to Suttone. His next comment was directed at Bartholomew. ‘But we can avoid trouble if we keep to ourselves, and do not meddle in matters that are not our concern. Lord, my belly aches! Are you sure being near that poisoned wine did me no harm, Matt?’

  ‘When you were out, Hamo told me about a rift that is pulling Lincoln apart,’ said Suttone, watching Bartholomew prepare his usual tonic for overindulgence. ‘Virtually every man, woman and child is either on the side of the cathedral and the Guild of Corpus Christi or they support something called the Commonalty. Bishop Gynewell manages to stay aloof, and so does Sheriff Lungspee – but only so he can accept bribes from both parties.’

  ‘The bishop is neutral?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I thought he would side with his cathedral.’

  ‘Apparently, he thinks that if he refuses to align himself, then others will follow his example and the bitterness will heal,’ explained Suttone. ‘Although there is no evidence the ploy is working so far. Still, at least he is trying. He tried to stop the General Pardon for the same reason.’

  ‘You mean the ceremony in which everyone is going to be forgiven crimes committed when they pretended to be afflicted with seasonal insanity?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he object to that?’

  ‘Because it is another step in the escalating dissension,’ said Suttone. ‘First, there was the installation of canons. In defiance, Adam Miller said he was holding his Market on the same day – to entice people towards secular activities. The cathedral immediately responded with the General Pardon. Gynewell tried to prevent it, lest Miller invent something else.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go home,’ said Michael, sipping the tonic. ‘There is almost certain to be trouble, and I am disturbed by the fact that people think I have been honoured with the Stall of South Scarle because the Bishop of Ely arranged it. I do not want to be accused of simony.’

  ‘Do not be so fastidious, Brother,’ said Suttone impatiently. ‘Michaelhouse is desperate for funds, what with the hall in need of painting and the conclave roof leaking like fury. You should not allow a dubious moral stance to prevent you from taking what is freely offered.’

  ‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘Should I put my College before my personal integrity and accept this post? Or should I risk offending my bishop by handing it back?’

  ‘De Lisle will not appreciate his efforts being for nothing,’ warned Bartholomew, thinking the monk should have considered such issues before accepting the appointment in the first place.

  ‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But Whatton made me feel … less than honourable about the situation.’

  ‘Ignore Whatton,’ advised Suttone. ‘Everyone knows the nomination of canons is a political matter, and that greed and favouritism are an integral part of the system. I fully accept that I owe mine to the fact that the cathedral is eager to have a Suttone in its ranks. Besides, we have just spent two weeks getting here, and it seems a pity to return home empty-handed.’

  ‘Make reparation, Brother,’ suggested Bartholomew facetiously. ‘Take some of this new income and offer a gift to the cathedral, or to one of the city charities.’

  Michael regarded him coolly. ‘So, your advice is for me to buy myself a clean conscience? Very well. I shall see what the silversmiths have to offer tomorrow – assuming it is safe to go out.’

  ‘Do you have a kinsman called John?’ asked Bartholomew of Suttone, thinking of the dark-haired priest they had met at Kelby’s house and his resemblance to the burly Carmelite.

  Suttone nodded. ‘A first cousin, once removed. His father was a tanner, but he perished in the Death, God rest his soul. John Suttone is a Poor Clerk.’

  ‘Why poor clerk?’ asked Cynric curiously. ‘Does it mean he earns even less than I get from Michaelhouse?’

  ‘It is a rank in the cathedral hierarchy,’ explained Suttone impatiently. ‘At the top, there is the dean. He has a Chapter, which comprises the canons, like Michael and me—’

  ‘Not until Sunday,’ interrupted Bartholomew.

  Suttone ignored him. ‘Under us, there are the Vicars Choral, some of whom are in priest’s orders and include men like my deputy, Aylmer—’

  ‘But he is dead,’ said Cynric gloomily, crossing himself. ‘Stabb
ed in this very room. Right there, in fact, and you can still see his blood to prove it.’

  Bartholomew looked to where the book-bearer was pointing and saw a sinister stain beneath one of the beds. He went to inspect it, noting that although an attempt had been made to scrub it away, not much effort had been put into the task. He wondered whether it had been left for a reason – perhaps as a warning to others, or because whoever had been detailed to clean the mess had had an aversion to the blood of a murdered man. People could be superstitious that way.

  Suttone continued his lecture on cathedral government. ‘And under Vicars Choral are Poor Clerks, who serve the altars, act as recorders for Chapter meetings, bring the dove and so on.’

  ‘Bring the dove?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

  Suttone shrugged. ‘I am not sure what it means, either, but it is an official post, just like my cousin John’s proper title is Clerk to Rouse the People.’

  ‘I suppose that means stopping folk from falling asleep during services,’ surmised Cynric. His expression was one of sympathy. ‘It sounds an onerous duty.’

  ‘Why did you appoint Aylmer as your Vicar Choral, and not your cousin?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I imagine a kinsman would expect to be promoted under such circumstances.’

  ‘I did not want to be accused of nepotism,’ explained Suttone. ‘However, Aylmer is just a family friend, which is slightly different.’

  ‘He seemed a decent fellow,’ said Michael, not pointing out that it was only very slightly different. ‘Your cousin John.’

  Suttone raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I barely know him. However, he belongs to a city guild, and I do not approve of those. They tend to condone debauchery.’