Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘I was just making sure Lady Christiana did not slip on ice. The convent yard is very slippery, and it would not do for her to fall and injure herself.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘She is likely to break bones, while old Dame Eleanor would simply bounce back up again. What is wrong with you, Michael? You are like a lovesick calf.’

  ‘You know nothing of such matters,’ said the monk loftily, ‘or you would not be riding all over the known world in a futile attempt to locate the woman you let slip from your grasp.’

  Bartholomew was taken aback. ‘That is an unkind thing to say.’

  Michael was unrepentant. ‘It is true, though. Besides, you forget that I am bound by vows of chastity, so do not preach at me. And I am not—’

  He stopped suddenly, and when Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, he caught a glimpse of scarlet. ‘Chapman?’ he asked, straining his eyes in the swirling fog.

  Michael nodded. ‘Now what would he be doing here, when all the brothers are howling their devotions in the chapel? I doubt he has come to admire the quality of their music. After him, Matt!’

  Bartholomew regarded him coolly, still smarting from his remark about Matilde. ‘You go.’

  ‘Very well.’ Michael began the waddle that passed for a sprint in his eyes, calling over his shoulder as he went, ‘If he draws a dagger, I shall scream. Rescue would be appreciated.’

  Rolling his eyes at the brazen manipulation, Bartholomew trotted after him. It did not take long for him to catch up with and then overtake the lumbering monk, and he reached the building around which Chapman had disappeared far more quickly. He stopped, trying to see through the layers of mist. Then he glimpsed a flicker of movement and broke into a run. His footsteps were oddly muffled in the damp air, but they were enough to make his quarry glance behind him. Then there was a flash of crimson and Chapman took to his heels. Bartholomew ran harder, racing past the hospital and into the gardens beyond. Ahead was a gate, and Chapman was in the process of hauling it open when Bartholomew caught him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.

  ‘All right!’ Chapman shouted, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘I give up!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Chapman glared. ‘I came to see Simon, but he is in the chapel, so I decided to come back later.’

  ‘If your purpose was innocent, then why did you run?’

  Chapman pointed to Bartholomew’s sword. ‘I always flee from armed men.’

  ‘What did you—?’

  Suddenly, there was a dagger in Chapman’s hand, and he slashed at Bartholomew without warning. The physician jumped back, instinctively reaching for his blade, but it was a cumbersome weapon, and not quickly hauled from its scabbard. Chapman’s knife scored the thick material of his sleeve. Then the relic-seller reeled and slumped to his knees, gripping his head. Michael strolled up, wiping mud from his hands. He grinned, to show he was pleased with the accuracy of the stone he had lobbed.

  ‘I had him,’ said Bartholomew, bending to inspect Chapman and deciding it had been surprise, not injury, that had made him topple. ‘You did not need to break your vow to forswear arms.’

  ‘A pebble does not constitute “arms”, Matt, and this fellow is a sly fighter. I am not sure you would have won, which I confess pleases me. I was beginning to think you had turned into something of a warrior, and I am relieved to see you still reassuringly inept.’ Michael turned to the relic-seller, who was staggering to his feet. ‘So, we meet again, Master Chapman.’

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded the felon, trying to resist when Bartholomew removed the dagger from his hand. ‘You have no right to accost innocent men and chase them through gardens.’

  ‘I daresay you are right,’ said Michael. ‘But are you an innocent man? There seems to be an odd confusion about you. On the one hand, you are Miller’s friend and a member of the Commonalty, but on the other, you have made a living by selling relics to gullible priests. Like Father Simon.’

  ‘However, there is something peculiar about your dealings with Simon,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Prior Roger has seen you with him – as have I – but Roger did not recognise you as a man who has lived in Lincoln for the past twenty years, while Simon himself told us you were from Rome. Why is that?’

  ‘I have been to Rome,’ said Chapman sulkily. ‘And I do sell relics on occasion. I sell lots of things, mostly for Miller, who says I have a talent for it. Since I often carry goods of considerable value, it is sometimes prudent to disguise myself, and that is why the prior did not recognise me.’

  ‘Then does Simon know you as Walter Chapman or as someone else?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I have never told him my name. He did not ask for it.’

  Bartholomew regarded Chapman thoughtfully, not sure what to believe. Lincoln was a large city, so Simon was unlikely to know everyone who lived in it. However, Chapman was a member of the Commonalty, so enjoyed a modicum of local fame, and Prior Roger had noticed something familiar about him. Had Chapman really managed to deceive Simon, who had seen him at much closer quarters? Or had Simon lied?

  ‘Does Simon know you are a member of the Commonalty?’ Bartholomew asked.

  ‘I have no idea, and it is none of your business anyway. Stand aside, or I will tell Miller you manhandled me. And you do not want him to think badly of you, believe me.’

  ‘Tell me about this cup you sold Simon,’ said Michael, ignoring the threat. He put one hand on a nearby sapling and leaned on it, effecting a casually nonchalant pose. Bartholomew saw the whole thing begin to bend under his weight, and icicles and water began to shower downwards.

  Chapman flinched when a clot of snow landed on his head. ‘It is not a “cup”. It is the Hugh Chalice – a relic worthy of great veneration. It belonged to the saint himself.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. The tree leaned at a more acute angle, and the monk was obliged to shift his hand to avoid toppling over. ‘We have been told that the Hugh Chalice disappeared while being carried to Lincoln from London, so how can you be sure it is the same one? Or are you the thief who took it from the couriers twenty years ago?’

  Chapman was outraged. ‘I am no fool, going around stealing holy things! However, if you must know, I recognised it when it appeared for sale at a market in Huntingdon. I brought it here and sold it to Simon, because Lincoln is where it belongs.’

  ‘You recognised it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘How?’

  ‘Because it is distinctive,’ replied Chapman. ‘Old and tarnished, with a carving of a baby. Look for yourselves. It is in St Katherine’s Chapel, awaiting its translation to the cathedral.’

  ‘That does not answer my question,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How did you know it was the Hugh Chalice? Had you seen it before?’

  ‘In London,’ said Chapman, licking his lips nervously. ‘I travel a lot, and I saw it in the Old Temple there. That was before the saint made it known that he wanted it brought to Lincoln.’

  ‘But the saint allowed it to be lost en route,’ said Michael. ‘And I am under the impression that he has permitted a very large number of thieves to lay hands on it.’

  Bartholomew regarded the monk uneasily. He was coming dangerously close to mentioning what they knew of Shirlok’s trial, and it was not a good idea to discuss the case with a man who would almost certainly repeat the conversation to Miller.

  Chapman gazed earnestly at Michael. ‘St Hugh was angry when it failed to arrive at his shrine – rumour has it that he caused robbers to kill the two careless couriers on their homeward journey. He has rectified matters now, though, and I am the vessel he chose to help him. Brother, please! You will have that tree over in a moment.’

  Michael released the hapless sapling, surprised that he had managed to push it so far out of alignment. He tried to tug it upright, but it continued to list, and Bartholomew suspected it always woul
d. While Chapman picked shards of ice from his clothing, Bartholomew addressed the monk in an undertone.

  ‘Is he telling the truth? Could part of Shirlok’s hoard have appeared for sale in Huntingdon? Huntingdon is not far from Cambridge, where the goods went missing.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘It is too much of a coincidence – the goblet stolen after a trial in which Chapman was acquitted, and then appearing in the same villain’s hands two decades later. Besides, he does not look like a truthful man to me.’ He stepped forward to speak to Chapman again. ‘De Wetherset tells me that shortly after your Cambridge trial, a lot of property went missing. Among the items that disappeared was a cup that he says looks remarkably like the Hugh Chalice.’

  ‘Poor de Wetherset,’ murmured Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I hope you have not put him in danger.’

  ‘It was the Hugh Chalice,’ said Chapman softly. ‘And it was Shirlok who stole it from the couriers. But then St Hugh intervened. He caused Shirlok to be caught, and everything he had stolen to be seized by the Cambridge sheriff. Then he caused the chalice to appear in Huntingdon when I happened to be there, knowing I would bring it home.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. Did you have anything to do with its disappearance from Cambridge, before it so conveniently arrived in Huntingdon?’

  Chapman bristled with indignation. ‘I did not! As it happens, I was detained after Shirlok’s trial, because of a misunderstanding over some other goods, and the cup went missing when I was in still in gaol. I will swear on anything you like – even the Hugh Chalice – that I did not steal it.’

  ‘What about your co-accused?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or Langar? Could they have—’

  ‘No!’ snapped Chapman. ‘And they will be furious if I tell them the sort of questions you are asking. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to conduct.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The mist seemed thicker than ever as Bartholomew and Michael left the Gilbertine Priory and began to walk to the cathedral for High Mass. It encased them in a cocoon of grey-white, so they could not even make out the churches and houses to either side of the road, and fine droplets clung to their clothes and hair. Bartholomew could taste the fog in his mouth, touched with a hint of wood-smoke, although it was missing the malodorous taint of the marshes he had grown used to in Cambridge. Michael was reviewing what they had learned about the chalice and its travels, but the physician’s mind was fixed on the various diseases and ailments that might be carried in such a miasma. It was a long time since he had lost himself in a reflection of medical matters; mostly, he thought about Matilde in his free moments.

  They reached the Cathedral Close, where the bells were pealing, announcing that Bishop Gynewell had arrived and was ready to begin the sacred rite. Michael went to his place in the chancel, and Bartholomew stood in the nave to listen to the singing. That day, the music was sporadic in quality and volume, and he saw why when he noticed that a number of those supposed to be taking part in the ceremony were actually wandering about on business of their own. Tetford was with Master Quarrel of the Swan and money was changing hands – Michael’s Vicar Choral was laying in supplies for his tavern. Tetford saw the physician watching and turned away.

  Young Hugh, cherubic in his gown and golden curls, was racing up and down the aisles with several friends, chased by a flustered-looking man who was evidently the choirmaster. The boys considered it fine sport until Dame Eleanor, abandoning her customary spot at the Head Shrine, beckoned them towards her. She spoke a few quiet words that had them hanging their heads in shame before traipsing obediently towards their exasperated teacher. Hugh lingered uncertainly, so she added something that made him grin, then sent him after his cronies. Bartholomew saw Claypole observing the episode with a malicious smile, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Nicholas Bautre was made choirmaster two years ago,’ he said when the physician approached. ‘He is worthless, and I should never have been dismissed in his favour.’

  ‘You were dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

  Claypole looked sullen. ‘I lost my clothes and all my vestments at the gaming table. It was my own fault – I should have chosen the white stones over the black. Dean Bresley decided to make an example of me, and had Bautre appointed in my place. It has been disastrous for the cathedral, because Bautre cannot even get the boys to stay put during the mass, let alone teach them music.’

  ‘They have a poor example in the adults,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not many clergy are in their places, either. They are either in the nave doing secular business, or they have not bothered to come at all.’

  Claypole shrugged. ‘It is the dean’s responsibility to maintain discipline, so you can blame him. He is a sanctimonious fool! What is wrong with the odd game of chance of an evening?’

  ‘Presumably, he has a problem with you arriving for your duties with nothing to wear.’

  Claypole pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is in no position to preach, given what hedoes in his spare time. Perhaps he appointed Bautre because he knew the choir would run amok, and it means his own voice can be heard. He is singing now.’

  Bartholomew winced as a response was issued several tones too high, creating a discordant clash that had the other choristers faltering uncertainly. ‘Lord help us!’

  Claypole grinned. ‘I had better get back to St Hugh’s head before Dame Eleanor admonishes me again. The dean can ride me all he likes for insolence and irregularity, but I do not like it when she does it. She has a knack for making me feel ashamed – and she might tell Lady Christiana.’

  He moved away, but was intercepted by Ravenser, who was weaving up the nave in a manner that suggested he was drunk. He leaned heavily on Claypole, and laughed raucously at some joke of his own making. A woman joined them, and Ravenser whispered something that made her slap him.

  It was some time before Michael emerged from the chancel. His face was bleak. ‘The dean has just given me a complete catalogue of offences committed by Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks. It seems I am about to be installed in a den of vice. And speaking of vice, here is my deputy.’

  ‘Your alb, Brother,’ said Tetford cheerfully, flinging a garment at Michael in such a way that it landed on his head. ‘Rosanna could not believe the dimensions I gave her, and is keen to meet you for herself. I intend to introduce you.’

  ‘No, you will not,’ said Michael, hauling the vestment from his face. ‘I am not some prize bull, to be produced on demand for the entertainment of women of easy virtue. And you agreed to give them up, if you recall. Or had you forgotten my threat to dismiss any assistant whose character is tainted?’

  Tetford snorted his disdain. ‘Which saint will you hire, then, Brother? Dame Eleanor? She is the only one around here who reaches your lofty standards. What do you think of the alb?’

  Michael glared at him, but declined to waste his breath with further recriminations. Bartholomew stepped forward and helped him hoist the garment over his shoulders. The length was good, and the seam was barely visible thanks to some talented sewing, but it was nowhere near large enough around.

  Tetford took it back with an unkind snigger. ‘Rosanna will think I am playing a game with her when I say it needs to be made bigger still. Or would you rather I abstained from her company, and you can be installed as it is? It makes you look fat, so I would not recommend it.’

  ‘It will take more than a morning away from women to save your sinful soul,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am not fat, I have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

  ‘Massive ones,’ agreed Bartholomew obligingly. ‘Will the alb be ready in time for the ceremony? There is only a week to go.’

  ‘It will be tight – and I do not mean the alb,’ said Tetford. ‘Christ in Heaven!’

  Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode away with the robe over his arm. Bartholomew turned quickly, and saw Ravenser and John Suttone coming towards them. Although he was obviously inebriated, Ravenser had still remembered to
arm himself, and he fingered his dagger as he nodded a cool greeting to the scholars.

  ‘My Vicar Choral seems nervous of you, Ravenser,’ remarked Michael. ‘I told him to disarm, but I can see from here that he is wearing a sword under his habit.’

  ‘He should be nervous,’ said Ravenser, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Tetford hurrying away. He began to follow, drawing his sword as he did so and calling over his shoulder, ‘There are rules in the Cathedral Close, and he broke them.’

  ‘What rules?’ asked Michael of John, watching Tetford break into a run. Ravenser lumbered after him, but it was not long before he gave up the chase, putting his hand to his head as if the exercise had been too much for the delicate state of his health. ‘Would they be the monastic ones of chastity, obedience, humility and poverty?’

  ‘Tetford has certainly broken those,’ replied John, watching his colleagues’ antics in distaste. ‘And you can add theft, fornication and insolence, too. But in this instance I think Ravenser refers to who has rights to a certain lady. It is anathema to me, of course. I do not indulge in licentious behaviour.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Would you like me to tell our friend Suttone about his cousin’s virtuous character? He is looking for a new Vicar Choral, now his original choice is murdered.’

  John regarded him icily. ‘I am naturally virtuous. It is not something I enact simply because there is a post of Vicar Choral on offer. Good morning, Brother.’

  ‘Poor Dean Bresley,’ said Bartholomew, while John stalked away, head in the air. ‘If all his clergy are like the ones we have met, his life must be like a foretaste of Hell.’

  ‘Speaking of Hell, here comes the bishop. Or is it the stone imp from the Angel Choir?’

  ‘Brother Michael,’ said Gynewell, skipping towards them. His curly hair gleamed in the dull morning light, and so did his eyes. ‘Have you found Aylmer’s killer yet? The dean said you questioned some of the Vicars Choral after High Mass.’

  ‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘However, my task has not been made easier by the fact that you were not entirely open with me. It would have been helpful to know that Aylmer was a member of the Commonalty and that he was friends with unsavoury men like Adam Miller.’