It was pitch dark and the ground underfoot was frozen hard, although treacherous patches of ice indicated the Gilbertines’ main courtyard was more usually an expanse of soft mud and puddles. The air was bitterly cold, and Bartholomew shivered as he drew his winter cloak more closely around his shoulders. Above, the sky was clear, and thousands of stars glittered in a great dome of blackness. A fox yipped in the distance, and trees whispered softly in the wind.
Bartholomew was used to prime being a peaceful, contemplative affair, where the hushed voices of priests echoed around an otherwise silent church, allowing those participating to reflect on the day that was about to begin. Things were different at the Gilbertine convent. The brethren began by marching in to take their places in the chancel, their prior rattling a pair of wooden clappers as he went. Bartholomew knew lepers sometimes wielded such devices, but he had never seen one employed by a religious community, and especially not that early in the morning. Then there was a peculiar whining sound, and a good deal of hissing. Suttone cried out in alarm, and Bartholomew started to reach for his dagger before remembering that he had left his weapons in the guest-hall, in deference to the general rule against bearing arms in churches.
‘It is the organ,’ whispered de Wetherset, although the Gilbertines’ stamping feet and the prior’s rattle meant he could have spoken at normal volume and not raised any eyebrows. ‘Surely you have encountered them in divine masses before?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ replied Suttone, resting a hand on his pounding heart. ‘Such objects are best left in taverns, where they belong. We have no organs in Cambridge, and nor shall we – especially not once I am Chancellor.’
Bartholomew edged to one side and saw a man operating something that looked like a large pair of bellows. There were more creaks and wails, then a tune of sorts began to emerge. The Gilbertines – men and women together – cleared their throats and stood a little taller. Then the psalm of the day was underway, the Chapel of St Katherine was suddenly awash with such vigorous noise that the physician could not hear himself when he coughed. Suttone leapt in shock at the abrupt cacophony, and Michael started to snigger. Overwhelmed by the volume, Bartholomew moved away, hoping the aisles would render the racket a little less painful. Michael followed, his large frame quaking with laughter.
‘What a row! I thought the Michaelhouse choir was bad enough, with its love of the crescendo, but it has nothing on these fellows. Anyone would think God and His angels were hard of hearing.’
‘They probably are, if they are obliged to listen to this day after day,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be good for the ears. Like the ribauld, it will make men deaf.’
‘Like the what?’
‘The ribauld – a weapon that propels missiles through long tubes by means of exploding powder. The Black Prince had several, and the noise was appalling. The men operating them came to me afterwards, because they could not hear. One never did recover.’
Michael tried to imagine what one looked like. ‘Were they very dangerous to the enemy?’
‘Not as dangerous as they were to us. They regularly blew up or burned people, and I never saw a missile hit a Frenchman. But they were terrifying to anyone who has never seen one. They spit fire and produce black smoke which, combined with the din, was enough to make some men – and not just the enemy, either – turn and run for their lives.’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is something innately distasteful about using exploding devices to harm another person, even the French. The very notion should be anathema to any decent soul.’
Bartholomew nodded, but his thoughts had returned to the noise the Gilbertines were making, and he was considering its implications for Aylmer’s murder. ‘Everyone is bellowing at the top of his lungs. And while Father Simon is one of the loudest, I am not sure he would be missed, were he to slink away and stab a man who sat admiring his possessions.’
‘You do not like Simon, then?’ asked Michael, arching his eyebrows in amusement. ‘There is an entire convent of suspects to choose from, and you pick holes in his alibi.’
‘Because no one else has offered us one yet,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘De Wetherset was cunningly cautious about his whereabouts. All he said was that the Gilbertines make a lot of noise at their offices, which is not the same thing as saying he was here when Aylmer was killed. But no, I cannot say I have taken to Simon. He thinks himself better than you, because he intends to be a residentiary canon, and you will have to be an absent one.’
‘Well, we will not have to put up with him for long. It is Thursday now, and we can be gone a week next Monday – the day after my installation.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘Will you not stay a little longer? It will not look decent to grab the Stall of South Scarle and make off with its prebend the very next morning.’
‘At least I came in person to collect it, which is more than can be said for most of my colleagues. When you were asleep last night, de Wetherset told me that of the forty canons currently in office, only ten have ever set foot in the cathedral. Some live so far away that they might even be dead, for all the contact the dean has with them. They all hire Vicars Choral to do their work.’
‘That is what you plan to do,’ said Bartholomew, not really seeing the difference.
‘But I have made arrangements to hire a local man, a fellow named John Tetford, which should please the dean. The foreign canons appoint their own deputies, and they are not always suitable.’
‘The dean must find it difficult to maintain order. He will need the support of his Chapter, but if most of his canons are abroad, then he will not have it.’
‘I expect that depends on the Vicars Choral. If they are good deputies, his job will be easy enough. My bishop tells me that Tetford will do all he is asked and more, and that he will make an excellent substitute. The dean will probably fare better with him than with me.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Bartholomew, earning himself an offended glare. ‘It is true, Brother. You would be plotting against the dean before the week is out, given your love of intrigue, and he would find himself with a rebellion on his hands, not to mention a rival for his position. He does not know how lucky he is that you are obliged to be in Cambridge. However, none of this tells me why you are so determined to leave Lincoln early.’
‘Aylmer’s murder,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘I do not like the timing of it, and I do not like the fact that he was Suttone’s Vicar Choral. Suttone is opinionated and annoying, but he is a colleague, and I do not want him stabbed while he gloats over his belongings. And nor do I want you in Lincoln when it is full of felons wanting absolution – not with your current penchant for wearing a sword. It looks as though you want a fight. Everything about our situation feels dangerous.’
‘There are the priory’s noblewomen,’ said Suttone, coming to join them before Bartholomew could comment. He pointed to the back of the nave, where the tall woman in the white habit stood with her head bowed as she listened to the Gilbertines’ singing. Her friend, the elderly nun, knelt next to her, holding a candle. Immediately, Michael’s eyes lit with interest, murder and unease forgotten.
‘I wonder if they would appreciate a philosophical exegesis of this particular psalm,’ he mused. ‘As a theologian, it is my duty to educate all who might benefit from my expertise.’
‘I would not think they need your intellectual skills, Brother,’ replied Suttone, apparently unaware of the predatory gleam in his colleague’s eye. ‘Hamo tells me that Dame Eleanor is quite a scholar herself, while Lady Christiana – the younger one – is a highly valued member of the convent.’
‘Because she pays well for the honour of being here?’ asked Bartholomew, who knew how such matters worked.
Wealthy ladies often spent time in religious foundations when their menfolk were not in a position to look after them, and it could be a lucrative arrangement for a priory.
‘I expect that is the main reason,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They s
ay she is also upright, kind and popular with children. And Dame Eleanor, whom everyone reveres because she has devoted her entire life to Lincoln’s saints, thinks the world of her. Eleanor says Christiana is gracious in adversity.’
‘What adversity?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘First she lost her husband in the French wars, then her mother died. Incidentally, her mother was supposed to remarry, too. She was betrothed to that merchant you met yesterday – Kelby – but passed away before he could escort her to the altar.’
‘I would like to meet her daughter,’ said Michael, rather dreamily.
‘You do not have time,’ said Bartholomew, watching him uneasily. ‘First, you have a murder to solve, and secondly, you need to be fitted for your ceremonial robes. And then, as soon as you are properly installed at the cathedral, we are leaving. Remember?’
‘Are we?’ asked Suttone, relieved. ‘Good. I do not want to join the ranks of the dead: Aylmer, Flaxfleete and that wicked man who died during the plague – Canon Hodelston.’
‘I doubt those deaths are connected—’ began Bartholomew.
‘You can think what you like, but I know how I feel,’ said Suttone curtly. ‘And I feel like I want to leave. I shall introduce you to those ladies later, Brother. I see by the way your eyes are fixed on them that you are impressed by their piety.’
‘Oh, I am,’ agreed Michael. ‘Piety is a virtue very dear to my heart.’
* * *
By the time the service had been hollered, dawn was beginning to break. It was clear and blue, and the sun was just rising over the flat fields that lay to the east. Every roof was dusted with snow, and the long road that led arrow-straight towards the city was like a gleaming silver ribbon in the gathering light. As the temperature began to rise, a mist formed, and the cathedral sat above it, as though it was hovering. Bartholomew stood by the Gilbertines’ main gate and watched spellbound as the first sunbeams touched the yellow stone and set it afire.
‘It is like Ely,’ said Michael, coming to join him. ‘That floats above the morning fog, too.’
‘Yes, it does. Did you know that the central spire makes Lincoln’s cathedral the tallest building in the world? Yet it is so delicate, it looks as though it is made from lace. Stone lace.’
‘I hope you find Matilde soon, Matt,’ said Michael, beginning to walk to the refectory to break his fast. ‘I do not think I can stand many more of these coarse allusions, in which you compare lovely buildings to women’s under-clothes. Still, it is better than you prancing about with a sword, I suppose.’
He moved away, leaving the physician staring after him in astonishment.
The refectory was a large hall, with separate sections for each rank of inhabitant: Gilbertine brothers, Gilbertine sisters, hospital inmates, layfolk and guests. It was a hive of activity, and almost as noisy as the chapel. Voices were raised in conversation, pots clattered and there was frequent ringing laughter. Servants scurried here and there, carrying buckets of oatmeal and baskets of bread; although it was plain fare, it was plentiful and wholesome.
‘Did you enjoy prime?’ asked Simon, coming to sit next to them. His voice was low and difficult to catch. ‘When I was vicar at Holy Cross, I always came here for the dawn devotions, because I find the ceremony so uplifting. It is good to start the day by praising God with all one’s heart.’
‘You should consider praising Him a little more quietly tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You are so hoarse that you can barely speak.’
Simon regarded him askance. ‘God gave me speech to extol His name, so that is what I shall do with it. It will recover after a cup of breakfast ale – it always does. You might want to try it yourself.’
‘The breakfast ale?’
‘Some heartfelt worship. I saw you skulking in the shadows, muttering the psalm as though you were afraid of speaking the words aloud. Brother Michael was no better.’
‘He is right,’ said Hamo, coming to ensure his guests had enough to eat. ‘The Bible should be shouted to the skies, not whispered at the floor. I suggest you return to the chapel after breakfast and practise a few alleluias. I will come with you, and offer some advice.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew when he left. ‘The entire town is insane.’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘I do not hold with undisciplined piety, either, but it does not mean I condone that sort of language in a convent.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From now on, I shall swear only on unhallowed ground.’
Michael glared at him, not sure whether he was being mocked. ‘Well, just make sure you do.’
Once the food was on the tables, a tremendous rattling ensued when Whatton waved the wooden clappers in the air, and the hubbub of voices died away. The prior, a tall man with a large head, stood and began to intone grace in a voice loud enough to be heard by even the deafest diner. Then he sat, took a spoon in one hand and gestured with the other that his brethren could commence eating.
‘He likes to maintain silence during meals,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘They do not mind guests talking, though, as long as they are not too noisy.’
‘It is better just to eat,’ said Simon, grabbing a pan and helping himself to more of its contents than was considerate. ‘They do not take long over meals, and he who chatters goes hungry.’
Michael needed no further warning, and bent his head to the task in hand, managing to put away a monstrous amount before the prior said the final grace. He seized a piece of smoked pork as the platters were being cleared away, and slapped it in the physician’s hand.
‘It is cold outside, and we have a lot to do today,’ he said. ‘You cannot wander about on an empty stomach, because if you faint, I have no time to help you revive.’
Bartholomew smiled. It was a ritual they went through most days, ever since Michael had declared him under-nourished after his return from France. He was touched by the concern, but was also aware that the monk’s idea of thin was rather different from his own. He tore the meat in half, and they shared it as they left the refectory. They had not gone far before Suttone called them back.
‘I just went to pay my respects to Prior Roger de Bankesfeld, and he said he would like to see us in his solar,’ he said, rather breathlessly. ‘Now.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We can thank him for his hospitality, and inform him that we intend to stay with our own brethren for the rest of our sojourn in Lincoln. The Benedictines will find a corner for us somewhere. I certainly do not want to join the murdered Aylmer in the charnel house by lingering here.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew and Michael followed Suttone across the yard and entered the house that comprised the prior’s lodgings. In the half-dark of the previous afternoon, when they had arrived, Bartholomew had imagined it to be a handsome building, but daylight showed that it, like the rest of the convent, was in sore need of repair. Its roof was all but invisible under a cushion of snow, but the shape indicated it was sagging, and its walls were stained with lichen. Stones were missing from the chimney, and the thick white smoke that billowed out suggested a fire had only just been lit – an early-morning blaze was a luxury the prior did not permit himself. Hamo was waiting to escort them up the stairs to a solar that was pleasant despite its cracked plaster and uneven floorboards.
‘Here are the Cambridge men, Father,’ said Hamo, prodding Bartholomew when he was slow to follow the others inside – the physician was trying to finish the pork, not being as adept as Michael at devouring lumps of meat at speed. ‘Michael de Causton, Thomas Suttone and Matthew—’
‘Suttone,’ pounced the prior. ‘Kin to the great Lincoln Suttones. Hamo says you and he may share common ancestors, and he is distantly related to Bishop Oliver Suttone.’
‘Oliver was my grandfather,’ replied Suttone proudly. ‘I have a cousin who has invited me—’
‘Do not think of staying elsewhere,’ said the prior firmly. ‘You are welcome here. The Suttones are
a respected family, and it is a privilege to have one under my roof for a few weeks. And I intend to make Hamo our Brother Hospitaller today, too, so the Suttones will know I favour them and their kin. He will be a vast improvement on Fat William, God rest his soul, because he does not eat as much.’
Hamo’s moist lips split in a startled grin, while Bartholomew thought Michael would have to curb his appetite if he did not want to be tarred with the same brush. ‘Thank you, Father,’ stammered Hamo. ‘You will not regret it, I promise, and—’
‘I am sure you will be assiduous,’ said Roger. He sighed. ‘Well, pour us some almond milk, then, man! You are already slacking in your duties.’
Bartholomew studied Roger de Bankesfeld properly for the first time, as the man had been too far away in the chapel and at breakfast. Bartholomew was tall, but the prior was taller – although a good deal thinner – so the overall effect was spindly. He had huge hands with bony knuckles, and big yellow teeth that gave his head a skull-like appearance. He reminded Bartholomew of the grotesque tombs he had seen in southern France, where the sculptors had been overly obsessed with death.
‘We plan to stay only a few days, and—’ began Suttone.
‘It is an honour to receive you,’ said Prior Roger with a grin that did nothing to dispel the skeletal image. ‘Fortunately, there was something of an exodus after Aylmer’s murder yesterday, so we were not obliged to order people to evacuate the best room for you.’
‘That is very kind,’ said Suttone, swallowing uneasily. ‘But there would have been no need for—’
‘I said it is an honour to receive you,’ interrupted Roger with some annoyance. ‘And I meant it. Just because we are on the outskirts of the city, and we are a bit short of funds, does not mean we are less hospitable than the other Orders. Well, I accept that the Dominicans are conveniently close to the Bishop’s Palace, and the Franciscans have that lovely new guest-hall, but that is all irrelevant. We are very pleased you chose us, when you could have gone elsewhere.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 9
