‘What do you think?’ asked Bartholomew. The monk regarded him askance. ‘Of the chalice, Brother! What do you think of the chalice?’
Michael tore his attention away from Christiana’s trim shape, and looked at the goblet. ‘It is very small, and too tarnished to be handsome, although someone has tried to buff it up. Is it silver?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea how to tell. However, I do know that some kinds of tin can be made to gleam like precious metals.’
Michael turned the cup over in his hands. ‘Even if it is silver, it is thin and light, and I doubt it is worth much for its weight alone. Is there a carving on it? My eyes are not good in dim light.’
‘It is worn, but I think there might be a child with a halo around its head.’
Michael squinted at it. ‘As Simon told us so condescendingly, a Baby Jesus etched on a chalice is often associated with St Hugh – it is one of his icons. I suppose that might mean it is authentic.’
A shadow suddenly materialised at the physician’s side. It was Cynric. Michael leapt so violently that the goblet flew from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Christiana turned to gape at him, and Sabina issued a shriek of alarm, so the monk hastened to cover his clumsiness by pretending he had done it on purpose.
‘It is silver,’ he pronounced authoritatively, bending to retrieve it. ‘See how easily it dents?’
‘Be careful, Brother!’ breathed Cynric, round-eyed with shock. ‘St Hugh may not like his relic tossed about like a turnip. Of course, it is probably a fake, but you would be wise to be wary, nonetheless.’
‘You should not creep up on people like that,’ hissed Michael irritably, once Christiana had turned back to her prayers. ‘And how is it that you are suddenly in a position to make declarations about the authenticity of sacred cups?’
‘I have a good sense for what is holy,’ objected Cynric, hurt by the reprimand. ‘And a good sense for what is unholy, too. Speaking of unholy, did you see Bishop Gynewell’s statue in the cathedral? It is in the Angel Choir, looking longingly at Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb. It is probably trying to work out how to get inside and earn itself a meal.’
‘Gynewell does not like to be reminded of the similarity between him and the imp,’ said Michael. ‘So you had better keep your thoughts to yourself, unless you want to feel the end of his pitchfork.’
‘You think he might attack me?’ asked Cynric, appalled. ‘He is definitely one of Satan’s own. Master Quarrel of the Swan tavern told me that the fellow likes so much hot spice in his food, it is inedible to mere mortals. And he wears a Dominican habit to conceal his tail.’
‘Quarrel told you that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
‘Not the bit about the tail,’ admitted Cynric. ‘That is my own conclusion. You see, I have been in alehouses all afternoon, listening to gossip for you about Aylmer. Since I was there, I decided to ask a few questions about Gynewell, too. I went to the Swan first, then the Angel. The Swan is preferred by guildsmen, and the Angel is frequented by the Commonalty.’
‘What did you find out?’ asked Michael. ‘About Aylmer, I mean, not Gynewell.’
‘He arrived about twenty years ago – a few weeks after Miller – and immediately started work as Miller’s scribe. Then Langar came, and was better at clerking, so Aylmer elected to dabble in various other trades instead, but was never very successful. Apparently, he always said he was in holy orders, but no one believed him, so he was obliged to take his vows again a month ago. He was accused of theft, see, and needed to claim benefit of clergy. It is all wrong, if you ask me, and there will be a rebellion. People do not like priests tried by different rules to the rest of us.’
‘So you have been saying for years,’ said Michael, well aware of Cynric’s seditious sentiments. ‘What did he steal?’
‘A cup,’ said Cynric. ‘It may have been the Hugh Chalice, but the men at the Swan could not be sure. The fellow who lodged the complaint was Flaxfleete, but he withdrew his accusation when the property was returned. Word is that the bishop did it.’
‘Did what?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘Stole whatever it was that Aylmer was accused of taking?’
‘Returned it to its rightful owner,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘And the other thing I learned was that Aylmer was good at Latin, and mocked priests who were not. They did not like that at all, apparently, especially John Suttone and Simon. I shall try listening to gossip in a few more taverns tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Miller suspects I witnessed Shirlok’s trial, and Michael’s investigation has a dangerous feel to it. You will not be safe in these places.’
Cynric regarded him askance. ‘I can look after myself. The only thing I fear is Bishop Gynewell. So, I had better say a few incantations, to ward him off.’
While he went to kneel next to Christiana, Michael approached Sabina, who was rubbing chicken droppings off the eggs in her basket. ‘You are freezing,’ he said sympathetically.
She nodded, blowing on her hands. ‘I do not understand how Lady Christiana can kneel for so long in here. Dame Eleanor is the same. They both spend hours at shrines and in chapels.’
‘You said you were ordered to work at this priory as penance for kissing Aylmer behind the stables,’ said Michael. ‘How long did you say you had known him?’
‘I did not confide that particular detail. Why? Would you like to steal a few kisses from me, now he is not here?’
Michael glared at her. ‘How long have you known Aylmer?’ he repeated.
She sighed. ‘We were friends for years. He was fond of Nicholas, and often visited our house.’
‘But your Nicholas died before Aylmer did,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘So Aylmer could not have been killed by that jealous husband.’
Sabina’s expression was wry. ‘Especially not by that one. Nicholas loved Langar, not me.’
‘Nicholas was Langar’s lover?’ asked Michael, startled.
Suddenly, Bartholomew had the answers to several questions – why Sabina had never seen the scar on her husband’s shoulder, and why she had been willing to marry a man she did not love. Nicholas had given her a home; she had reciprocated by providing him with a respectable image; and they had both gone about their separate lives unfettered. And the physician recalled Langar’s angry re action when Sabina was mentioned earlier that day; the lawyer had been envious of the relationship Nicholas had shared with his wife, regardless of the fact that it had almost certainly been chaste.
‘You and Nicholas were still friends, though, which is why you are keen to know how he died,’ he said. ‘And you also mentioned that you would have preferred to marry Aylmer, but he was in holy orders. He took his vows a month ago, when he was accused of stealing from Flaxfleete.’
She shook her head. ‘He retook his vows a month ago. He was in holy orders for more than two decades, although he lived a riotous life, and few believed he was a priest. That is why he would never marry me; he said it was a step too far along the road of sin. However, Langar’s affair with Nicholas should tell you why he is investigating that death, and why he is happy to let you find Aylmer’s killer. He cannot do both, and has chosen the one that is important to him.’
‘Could Langar have killed Aylmer?’ asked Michael. ‘Perhaps he thought it was Aylmer who gave Nicholas the poison that saw him topple into the Braytheford Pool and drown.’
‘Aylmer did not hurt Nicholas, because he was with me that night, and Langar knows it. Hence Langar did not kill Aylmer, which is a pity for all of us. It would have made for a neat solution, and once Langar is gone, Miller and the Commonalty will fall. I would love to see Langar hang.’
‘That is an interesting reaction from a woman who was accused of dire crimes at Miller’s side,’ said Michael. ‘De Wetherset told me. I am sure you recall that he was one of the jurors.’
She stared at the floor. ‘It is true, to my shame. Aylmer always said he wanted to escape from Miller and his cronies, but he neve
r did anything about it. I have, though. I no longer take part in their evil dealings, and I am becoming a good daughter of the Church.’
‘A good daughter who kisses ordained priests behind the stables?’ remarked Bartholomew.
She pulled a face at him. ‘I am human, with human failings. None of us is perfect.’
‘Did Aylmer seem different before he died?’ asked Michael, not very interested in her feeble attempts to walk the straight and narrow.
She nodded. ‘He was thoughtful – contemplative. He was moved by the offer of Vicar Choral, and I think he was going to do his best for Master Suttone. He was weak, though, and the likes of Ravenser and Tetford would have urged him to mischief before long, so I doubt his good intentions would have lasted. I loved him dearly, but he was not a man for self-restraint.’
‘What about the other flaws in his character,’ said Michael, ‘such as his dishonesty?’
‘He did steal, on occasion,’ she admitted. ‘But I was working on that.’
‘Working for how long?’ asked Michael archly. ‘You have known him for at least two decades, given that you were both named by Shirlok in Cambridge.’
‘Shirlok,’ she repeated softly. ‘There is a name from the past!’ She shivered, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.
‘I will guard Lady Christiana while you go to the kitchen with Cynric and Matt for a hot posset,’ offered Michael generously. ‘It is cold in here, and your fingers are blue. Do not worry about propriety – her virtue will be quite safe with me. I am a monk, after all.’
‘But you are also a man, and Hamo said—
’ ‘Hamo will not mind me playing chaperon,’ asserted Michael firmly. ‘I am a Benedictine, so my morals are above reproach. Go to the kitchens, child, and warm yourself before you take a chill.’
Sabina hesitated only a moment before nodding her thanks, and Bartholomew thought he saw a sparkle of tears as she turned to leave. He wondered whether she was touched by Michael’s ‘thoughtfulness’, or whether she still grieved for the deaths of old friends. Obediently, Cynric rose to escort her, although Bartholomew was not so easily dismissed. He hovered in the shadows.
‘Do not gulp your posset,’ called Michael after Sabina, as he moved towards his quarry, ‘or it will do you no good. And I am in no hurry to leave.’
CHAPTER 6
In the still silence of the chapel, Bartholomew watched Michael stalk towards Christiana, and kneel next to her, placing his hands together in an attitude of prayer. Christiana glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and Bartholomew saw her start to smile. Michael was not the most handsome of men, and was too fat to be truly attractive, but he possessed a certain allure that appealed to women. Bartholomew lingered uncertainly, not sure whether to leave them to their own devices – they were both adults, after all – or whether he would be a better friend to Michael by staying.
‘Good evening, Brother,’ simpered Christiana. She turned in surprise when she heard the rustle of Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Doctor! I thought you had gone with Sabina.’
‘So did I,’ said Michael meaningfully. ‘He invited me to pray with him,’ lied Bartholomew, suddenly determined not to go anywhere.
‘I am sure I did not,’ said Michael, eyeing him coolly. ‘And Prior Roger wants you to visit his hospital. There is a perplexing case of tertiary fever.’
‘He said nothing to me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it must be very perplexing indeed, since nobody has tertiary fevers at this time of year.’ He expected Christiana to be irritated by his stubborn refusal to leave, and was surprised to see a flash of amusement in her eyes.
‘Do not stand so far away,’ she said, ignoring Michael’s frustrated grimace. ‘Join us. We can talk about something Hamo told me – that we all have a mutual acquaintance in a lady called Matilde.’
Bartholomew nodded as he approached. ‘Hamo remembers her living in Lincoln six years ago.’
‘I arrived here about a month before Mayor Spayne asked Matilde to be his wife,’ said Christiana. Her expression became distant, as though she was lost in memories. ‘I was preoccupied with my own troubles at the time, but I recall that quite clearly – a woman made an offer of marriage by a man she did not love. It was at that point when I realised the same thing might happen to me, once the King decides I have had long enough to recover from my grief.’
‘Matilde did not love Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How do you know?’
She regarded him in amusement. ‘We women can tell such things, Doctor. Besides, she would have accepted his offer had she loved him, given that he is handsome, rich, kind and gentle. Her standards must be very high. As are mine.’ She included Michael in her next enigmatic smile.
‘You have avoided being trapped so far,’ said Michael. ‘
’Yes, but my period of grace is coming to an end. His Majesty is beginning to be exasperated.’ Christiana sighed. ‘I adored my first husband, and would like to feel at least a modicum of affection for the second. My mother was on the verge of marrying a man she despised, and I saw how miserable it made her.’
‘Kelby,’ said Michael, remembering what Suttone had told him. ‘Unfortunately, she died before the ceremony could take place.’
‘She did not “die”, Brother,’ said Christiana softly. ‘She took medicine to ease a cough, and it killed her. She was with child, you see, but did not tell anyone. She swallowed the electuary she was given, but it contained cuckoo-pint, which is dangerous for ladies in such a condition—’
‘That was your mother?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘We heard Ursula de Spayne had prescribed an inappropriate remedy to a pregnant woman, but no one told us her name.’
Christiana nodded. ‘It was her. Matilde and my mother were friends, and Matilde was furious when she learned what Ursula had done. But, perhaps Ursula was as much a victim as anyone. My mother was deeply unhappy about the match with Kelby, and told me she would rather die than marry him. She would never have taken her own life, so she did the next best thing: she asked Ursula for a tonic, and she neglected to mention her pregnancy.’
‘How could she have known Ursula’s remedy would have such a deadly effect?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘And I do not mean to distress you, but bringing about the premature expelling of a child is not an easy end.’
Tears sparkled in Christiana’s eyes, and she rubbed them away impatiently. ‘She was a devout woman, and saw her suffering as penance for what was so dangerously close to self-murder. She had been caring for the hospital inmates here, so had some knowledge about the medicinal properties of plants. I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she asked for that particular electuary.’
‘If your mother did not love Kelby, then who was the father of her child?’ asked Michael.
Christiana managed the ghost of a smile. ‘That is an ungentlemanly question, Brother! However, not all couplings take place with both parties willing, and my mother was given an unpleasant glimpse of her life to come.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Matilde know about … ?’
‘My mother’s rape? I doubt it. It is not the kind of thing one chatters about, and Matilde would have been very angry. She would have said or done something to make matters worse. If you know her, then you will be aware that this is true.’
‘She would not have ignored it,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Did your mother tell you all this?’
Christiana nodded. ‘To warn me against taking a man I do not like. Our lives had been parallel until then – both married at fifteen, and widows ten years later. She urged me to take the veil rather than accept a man who is unworthy, and she told me why. I have shared this with very few people, and I am uncertain why I am confiding in you now. Perhaps it is because you have a kind face, Brother.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Your confidences are safe with us.’
‘It is not really a secret, although you will appreciate the subject is a painful one for me. So, based on her advice, I info
rmed His Majesty that I would rather become a nun than accept a man I do not like, and since the Crown will not benefit financially if I join a convent, he is prepared to grant me a degree of leeway.’
‘There is nothing wrong with life in the cloister,’ said Michael.
‘Maybe not for men, who can enrol at universities and ride across the country to accept lucrative honours. But women are locked away until they grow old enough to be abbesses, at which point they prefer to stay at home by the fire. It is no life for a lady with an enquiring mind.’
‘There are ways around those difficulties,’ began Michael. ‘I am—’
‘Did Matilde tell your mother where she might go, if she ever left Lincoln?’ blurted Bartholomew, certain the monk was about to regale her with a list of ways to enjoy amorous liaisons without being caught, and equally certain he would be no friend if he let him do so.
Christiana dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, and took a deep breath, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘Matilde once expressed a desire to see Cambridge, and she said she had kin in Poitiers.’
‘She is not at either of those places now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
Christiana regarded him with a puzzled frown. ‘You told Hamo that you just hoped to renew an acquaintance with Matilde, but it seems to me that you want to do rather more than that.’
‘Everyone at Michaelhouse loved Matilde,’ said Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, trying to think of a way to reply without revealing too much about his intentions. ‘And we were concerned when she left Cambridge so abruptly. All we want is to be sure she is safe and happy.’
‘She once told us a story,’ said Christiana. Her eyes became distant again, as if she had transported herself to another time. ‘It was about a woman about to be pressed into an unwelcome marriage, but she conspired to disappear so completely that no one ever knew what happened to her. Matilde’s purpose was to show my mother that there was an alternative to life with Kelby, but it also proved to me that she knew how to make herself vanish, too. I was under the impression she had done it before – perhaps even that it was her own story she was telling.’
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