‘The honour is ours,’ said Michael graciously. ‘However, I am a Benedictine and my brethren will expect me to—’
‘You will not want to reside with them,’ declared Roger. ‘They are deeply in debt, and their guests nearly always go hungry. You do not look like a man who likes to go hungry, Brother.’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Michael. ‘But—’
‘And the Carmelite Friary has its drawbacks, too,’ Roger went on, addressing Suttone. ‘It is too near the river and stinks to high heaven. We are upstream, so do not suffer such miseries.’
From the artful way he spoke, Bartholomew wondered whether the stench that afflicted the White Friars was because of something the Gilbertines did.
‘I do not mind a little—’ began Suttone.
‘And they have a rat problem,’ added Roger.
‘That is not as unnerving as a murder problem,’ Michael managed to interject.
Roger waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is the first time we have ever lost a visitor to a killer’s blade, although the other convents have had deaths galore. You are better off here, gentlemen. As I said, we are always pleased to have canons-elect sharing our humble abode.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the glint in his eye that he would go elsewhere if he wanted. ‘Not everyone has been so eager to accommodate us during our long and arduous voyage from Cambridge.’
‘Not everyone knows how much canons are paid,’ Bartholomew was sure he heard Roger mutter. The prior cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. ‘I promise you shall have the best of everything.’
‘You will,’ agreed Hamo. ‘And if another convent offers you something we do not have, tell me what it is and I will get it for you. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He glanced at his prior, to see if he was being sufficiently obsequious.
‘It is our duty to God,’ said Roger. He crossed himself. ‘Praise His holy name. Alleluia!’
‘Alleluia!’ shouted Hamo in reply, raising his hands in the air and gazing at the ceiling.
Suttone nudged Bartholomew with his elbow when he became aware that the physician was more amused than religiously inspired by the demonstration, and then did the same to Michael. ‘Behave yourselves!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘They will think us godless heathens if you stand there chortling at their heartfelt expressions of reverence, and they may tell Bishop Gynewell. We do not want to be ejected from our stalls before we have claimed the money that goes with them.’
‘You are the godless heathen, if you are only interested in the post for its stipend,’ Bartholomew shot back.
‘There she is again!’ breathed Michael, gazing out of the window when he spotted a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He moved to one side for a better view.
‘Lady Christiana and—’
‘And Dame Eleanor,’ said Roger, coming to stand next to him. ‘We are fortunate to have them in our convent. Dame Eleanor is little short of a saint, and her devotion to St Hugh is legendary. She also prays for Queen Eleanor, whose funeral cross stands outside our gate. God rest her soul.’
‘Amen,’ chorused Hamo.
‘We saw that,’ said Suttone. ‘It is a—’
‘The King is grateful to Dame Eleanor for her care of his grandmother’s soul,’ said Roger. ‘And it is always good to have a king pleased with one of your residents. You should engage Eleanor in a discussion about theology, Brother. You will find her sharp-minded and erudite.’
‘And Lady Christiana?’ asked Michael. ‘Will she benefit from a theological debate, too?’
Roger glanced sharply at him, but answered anyway. ‘She lost her husband in the French wars, and the King asked us to look after her until she recovers from the shock. The maintenance he pays for her keep is invaluable, and Dame Eleanor has grown fond of her. They are often together.’
‘There is a lot of traffic on the road outside,’ observed Suttone, not particularly interested in the convent’s females. ‘I have counted six carts in the last—’
‘They are gathering for Miller’s Market,’ said Roger, his face darkening with disapproval. ‘Wagons have been pouring into the city all week, and the event is not due to start for another ten days. Lincoln is bursting at the seams, but still they come.’
‘Very few fairs take place in winter,’ said Suttone. ‘It must be—’
‘I doubt God approves,’ Roger went on. ‘Some will claim Miller is a good man for his generosity, but he did not start his fair out of the kindness of his heart. He did it out of spite.’
‘The poor probably do not mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will prefer a festival to a—’
‘So, we shall have to make sure our singing seduces them away from their pagan diversions,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘A few alleluias will bring them back to their senses.’
‘I warned you,’ Suttone whispered fiercely to his colleagues, when the prior raised his hands towards the rafters and began to sing in a booming voice; Hamo joined in. ‘If you cannot refrain from sniggering, you should leave before he hears you. Say you are unwell.’
Bartholomew was halfway to the door when there was a thundering knock that startled the prior into a blessed silence.
‘Who is that?’ asked Roger, as if the Michaelhouse men should know. ‘I said we were to be left in peace as long as important visitors were with me – and a pair of canon s-elect, one of whom is kin to the Suttones, qualify as the most important guests we have had in years.’
The door flew open before Hamo could reach it, and a tiny man bounced inside. He barely reached Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his head was covered in a thick mop of wiry curls, some of which twisted into points at the side of his head and gave the uncanny appearance of horns. His ears were large and round, and when he smiled he revealed several missing teeth. He wore the simple robes of a Dominican, although the purple ring on his finger showed he was one who held an elevated position in the Church.
‘Good morning, Roger,’ he piped cheerfully. ‘It is only me.’
‘My Lord Bishop,’ said Roger with a courtly bow.
Bishop Gynewell skipped across the chamber and presented his episcopal ring for Roger to kiss. He barely reached the Gilbertine’s chest, and the tall prior was obliged to bend absurdly low to reach the proffered bauble. The prelate had not come alone, and was accompanied by a handsome young priest who was weighed down with parchment, scrolls and writing materials. When Bartholomew went to help him, the reek of wine was overpowering. The physician concluded, from the clerk’s liverish appearance, that he consumed a lot of it on a regular basis. There was something familiar about him, and Bartholomew tried to recall where he had seen him before. Then the memory snapped into place: he had been one of the men slumped unconscious across Kelby’s table the previous night. As the physician dived to save a pot of ink from falling to the floor, something hard bumped against his hand. He stepped away smartly, wondering why a man in holy orders should want to conceal a sword under his robes.
‘This is a dangerous city,’ explained the clerk, guessing what had happened. He glanced at the bishop, to ensure he could not be heard. ‘I seldom go anywhere without a blade.’
‘Why would anyone attack you?’ asked Bartholomew. He thought about the conflict that was tearing the city in half. ‘Because you are a Guild member?’
The clerk waved a hand to indicate that was unimportant, and several scrolls pattered on the floor. ‘I am not worried about Miller and his cronies – they do not have the wits to best a clever fellow like me. I am more concerned about my fellow priests; they are where the real danger lies.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Have you not heard what happened to Aylmer in this very convent? He was a Vicar Choral and he was stabbed to death, so do not tell me canons’ deputies are a peaceful band of men. The only way to defend myself is with a sharp sword, and if you visit the cathedral, I recomm
end you wear one, too.’
He moved away to stand near the door when Prior Roger finished paying homage to his bishop, coincidentally ending up near a tray on which stood several goblets of wine.
‘How are you, Roger?’ chirped Bishop Gynewell merrily, wholly unaware that his secretary was slyly raiding the Gilbertines’ claret. ‘Any more murders today?’
‘No, My Lord,’ replied Roger shortly. ‘It was an isolated incident, as I told you yesterday. And we should not be discussing that now anyway.’ He flicked his head at his three visitors in an indiscreet way that made Bartholomew want to laugh again.
‘Brother Michael, I presume,’ said the bishop, turning to beam at the fat monk. ‘And you must be Master Suttone. I shall soon count you two among my canons, although I was disappointed to hear you have appointed Vicars Choral and plan to return to your University. Well, that is to say, Michael has appointed a deputy. Suttone will have to find another.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Suttone, bowing over the prelate’s hand. ‘This is our colleague Matthew Bartholomew. He is a physician.’
‘I guessed as much from his bag,’ said Gynewell, resting his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder when he stepped forward to make his obeisance. ‘I know the scent of valerian and woundwart when I come across it.’
‘He used those to treat an injured pedlar we encountered yesterday morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop in amazement. ‘You are an observant man, My Lord.’
‘Thank you, Brother; I shall consider that a compliment.’ Gynewell trotted to a chair next to the fire and climbed on to it, folding his legs in a way that made him look more like a pixie than one of the most powerful churchmen in the country. ‘I am surprised you have elected to stay with Prior Roger, rather than with me at my palace. I extended an invitation to you, through Bishop de Lisle.’
‘Did you?’ asked Michael, peeved. ‘He neglected to pass it on. However, I—’
‘The good brother is settled with us now,’ said Roger smoothly. ‘He enjoyed our energetic prime this morning, and will want to repeat the experience tomorrow.’
‘Will he?’ asked Gynewell in surprise.
‘It was energetic,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I—’
‘All our guests find our style of worship uplifting,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘They say it makes a change from the sober muttering of the other Orders.’
‘There was certainly no muttering involved,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, this is the first time I have ever set foot in a Gilbertine House, other than the one in Cambridge and that is a very staid foundation. Are they usually so … expressive?’
‘This is the only convent I know that praises God at such high volume,’ said Gynewell. ‘I cannot imagine it is anything but unique.’
‘We like to make an impact,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Why murmur when you can yell, I always say.’
‘So do fishwives,’ said Suttone in an undertone. ‘And it is not seemly.’
‘May I have a word with Brother Michael alone, Roger?’ asked Gynewell, after several attempts to change the subject had failed, and they were still discussing the Gilbertines’ unusual approach to their devotions a quarter of an hour later. ‘Please stay, Doctor. What I have to say is not private.’
‘No?’ asked Roger, settling himself behind his table. ‘Then I shall stay, too.’
‘It pertains to Cambridge, Roger,’ said Gynewell, prodding the fire with a poker. He added several logs and jabbed them until the flames roared. ‘You will be bored, and I am sure you have a lot to do.’
‘Not really,’ said Roger, leaning back comfortably. ‘And I am always interested in learning about new and exotic locations. I hear Cambridge sits on a bog, just like Ely.’
‘And I hear Lincoln is full of imps,’ retorted Michael, irritated by the dual slur on his town and his abbey. ‘Little ones, which hurl rocks at the choir during masses.’
Gynewell cackled his mirth, and it occurred to Bartholomew that he looked rather demonic himself, with his horn-like hair and gap-toothed grin. ‘The Lincoln imp is a charming folk tale, Brother. But I am starving. Would you mind showing Ravenser here where you buy those lovely red marchpanes, Roger? He can never find the right shop, and I am sure you will not mind obliging your old bishop.’
‘And purchase a few Lombard slices while you are at it,’ suggested Michael opportunistically. He smiled slyly. ‘The Benedictines will certainly provide me with an unlimited supply of pastries if I stay with them. But if the Gilbertines do the same, I shall have no reason to leave.’
Roger stood reluctantly, knowing he was outmanoeuvred. ‘The bakeries will open soon, so I shall see what we can do. However, the Black Monks will not give you Lombard slices, Brother. I told you – they have no money with which to pamper their guests.’
‘And if they did, they would spend it on themselves,’ added Ravenser nastily, swallowing a second goblet of wine before turning to leave.
‘I shall come with you, Father Prior,’ said Suttone. ‘I dislike Lombard slices, and red marchpanes sound unpleasant. I must make sure you buy something I will enjoy, too.’
He, Roger, Hamo and Ravenser left together, and Gynewell grinned conspiratorially at the monk. ‘I see you and I will work excellently together, Brother. Roger is a good man, but I did not want to talk to you while he was listening.’
‘And your clerk, My Lord?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did you send him away?’
Gynewell did not seem to take offence at what was essentially an impertinent question. ‘We do not need a written account of this meeting – not that Archdeacon Ravenser would have made a decent record anyway. Did you see the state of him? He was at a Guild meeting last night, and they can turn very debauched. Poor Ravenser seems incapable of refusing a cup of wine, but I think he drinks to lessen his desire for women.’
‘Perhaps you should try it, Matt,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would be a lot safer than traipsing across half the world hunting them out.’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about Ravenser’s fragile health.
Gynewell glanced at the door. ‘They will not be gone long, so we had better speak while we can. Have you heard about this murder?’
‘You mean Flaxfleete’s?’ asked Michael. ‘We had nothing to do with that.’
‘I know. John Suttone told me you tried to help him. Poor Flaxfleete. He would have made a diligent canon, although I suspect he would have been argumentative in Chapter meetings. But I was not referring to him. I meant Aylmer – Suttone’s Vicar Choral.’
Michael sighed wearily. ‘Yes, I heard about it.’
Gynewell grinned again. ‘De Wetherset says you and Bartholomew were very good at solving murders when he was Chancellor, and thinks you must be even better at it by now.’
‘He is exaggerating, My Lord,’ said Michael unhappily.
‘Perhaps, but Bishop de Lisle also extolled your virtues, and he seldom has a good word to say about anyone. You are exactly the kind of man I would like in my cathedral Chapter, and I hope you will stay with us for a very long time before you leave young Tetford in charge.’
Michael’s smile was pained. ‘Unfortunately, I have pressing duties in Cambridge, and I am obliged to leave the day after the installation.’
Gynewell’s face fell in dismay. ‘So soon? There is so much I want to show you!’
‘I will return,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘In the summer, when the students are no longer in residence, and my own town is quiet. Then I shall spend two or three months here.’
Gynewell’s expression was wistful. ‘That would be delightful, although it seems a long time to wait. Will you help me with Aylmer’s murder? Prior Roger seems content to let the matter lie, but an unlawful killing on sacred ground is a serious matter, and I would like the culprit under lock and key as soon as possible. I shall grant whatever authority you need to investigate.’
Michael frowned. ‘Surely you have your own agents for this kin
d of thing? De Lisle does.’
‘Of course, but they are busy policing the felons gathering for Miller’s Market, and have no time to look into the death of a man no one liked very much.’
‘He was unpopular?’ asked Bartholomew, his heart sinking on Michael’s behalf. If Aylmer had a lot of enemies, it might be very difficult to locate the real killer.
‘It grieves me to speak ill of the dead,’ said Gynewell. ‘But there is no point in my telling you he was an angel, because he was not. I would not be so concerned, if it were not for this chalice.’
‘What chalice?’ asked Michael.
‘The Hugh Chalice,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It belonged to St Hugh of Lincoln, so is a very valuable relic. Father Simon has offered to donate it to the cathedral when he is installed, but I am not sure we should accept it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If it really did belong to St Hugh, it will attract pilgrims. And pilgrims bring trade to the city and will leave donations at his shrine. And the shrine is in your cathedral.’
‘I know,’ said Gynewell. ‘But this particular relic has an odd history. The story goes that Hugh was holding it when he died in London’s Old Temple. It stayed there for a hundred and thirty years, until my predecessor, Bishop Burghersh, arranged for it to be brought here.’
‘Burghersh died years ago,’ said Michael. ‘Did his arrangements fail, then? And why is it Simon’s to donate?’
‘It never arrived,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It was stolen on its journey north twenty years ago, and its whereabouts were a mystery until it reappeared in the hands of a relic-seller recently. It was fortunate Simon happened to hear about it, or one of Lincoln’s convents might have snapped it up. However, I cannot help but wonder at the coincidence.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.
Gynewell shrugged. ‘Let us say I am suspicious. It was missing for two decades, and then suddenly it is about to be presented to the cathedral for no charge. It is too good to be true. In essence, I would like to know where it has been in the interim.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 10
