Gynewell was rueful. ‘I see you have questions, but this is not the place to talk. Come to my house, and we shall discuss it there.’
The Bishop’s Palace was a sumptuous set of buildings that stood in the shadow of the cathedral. It boasted a stately hall with a great vaulted undercroft, which was the prelate’s private residence, while a range to the west held rooms for the clerks and officials who managed his diocese. The complex stood on a series of terraces that afforded fine views of the city, while the cathedral loomed protectively behind. The palace was made from honey-coloured stone, and its thick walls and sturdy gates suggested its builders had an eye to security, as well as to beauty and comfort. It formed a stark contrast to the shabby poverty of the town that huddled outside its well-tended grounds.
‘A tavern would have been more convenient, My Lord,’ said Michael irritably, as he followed Gynewell down a narrow path with steep stairs that provided a shortcut between palace and minster. The dampness of the fog made it slippery, and it was not an easy descent. ‘I understand the Close is rather well supplied with them.’
‘I am a bishop,’ said Gynewell archly. ‘I do not frequent alehouses – and especially not the Tavern in the Close, which is more brothel than hostelry.’
Once they reached the bottom, he led the way to a fine hall. At the far end was a massive hearth, in which a fire blazed so fiercely that it was difficult to approach. The window shutters were closed against the winter cold, and flames sent shadows dancing around the room, giving the impression that some of the figures in the wall-tapestries were alive and moving. None of the hangings depicted religious scenes, and some were openly pagan. Bartholomew glanced at the diminutive bishop uneasily, then realised he was allowing himself to be influenced by Cynric’s prejudices.
Gynewell headed straight for the fire, where he climbed into a throne that was placed directly in front of it, waving his guests to a bench on one side. Both bench and chair were well supplied with cushions, all of them red. The bishop leaned down and took a bell in both hands, giving it a vigorous shake that made Bartholomew afraid he might burst into song, like the Gilbertines. After a moment, the door opened, and young Hugh marched in.
‘Yes, My Lord?’ the lad piped, doffing his hat.
‘It is your turn for bishop-duty, is it?’ asked Gynewell amiably, raising one of his short legs to cross over the other as he basked in the heat. Bartholomew wondered how he could stand it. ‘Or have you been assigned an additional spell of servitude for some act of mischief?’
‘Dean Bresley was cross because I accidentally dropped Master Bautre’s music in the stoup,’ said Hugh. ‘And the ink ran, so he cannot read it, which means we cannot practise the Te Deum today.’
‘I understand there is an archery practice this afternoon at the butts,’ said Gynewell with a grave expression. ‘You will have to go there, instead of singing Bautre’s latest composition.’
‘What a pity,’ said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. ‘What would you like me to fetch you, sir?’
‘Some wine – hot, of course. And a few of those red cakes the baker delivered yesterday. Oh, and bring my pitchfork, will you?’
Hugh left obediently, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop with renewed unease. ‘Pitchfork?’
Gynewell leaned forward to prod the fire into even greater fury, then sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Red cakes are best served toasted. Bishop de Lisle knows my liking for them, and he once gave me a miniature pitchfork, just for that purpose.’
When Hugh returned, heavily laden with a tray of wine and nasty-looking pastries, Gynewell showed off his ‘pitchfork’. It was the length of a man’s arm, and beautifully crafted to mimic the double-tined tools used for moving hay. Its handle was bound in crimson leather, to prevent the user from burning himself, and Bartholomew suspected de Lisle had considered the gift an excellent joke.
They had done no more than be served a cup of scalding wine, so liberally laced with spices that it turned Bartholomew’s mouth numb, when there was a tap on the door. It was the dean. He sidled in as though he was about to burgle the place, eyes darting everywhere. He jumped guiltily when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.
‘Come in, Bresley,’ said Gynewell genially, waving the dean to the bench and presenting him with a cup of wine. Bartholomew saw it was a wooden vessel, rather than one of the set of silver goblets with which he and Michael had been provided. ‘You know you are always welcome.’
‘I am not sure I want to be welcome in this company,’ muttered the dean unhappily. ‘Tetford has just informed me that Brother Michael plans to hold a wild celebration in his tavern the night before his installation. He said Christiana de Hauville has been invited, because the good Brother has developed an improper liking for her. However, Lady Christiana is a woman, so should not be in the Close after dark. It is not right.’
Michael regarded him in open-mouthed shock, while Gynewell speared a pastry with his fork and began to cook it.
‘I have tried on several occasions to shut that den of iniquity,’ said the bishop, ‘but each time I issue an order of suppression, Tetford finds a way to circumvent it. Still, I shall prevail in the end. I have better resources and infinite patience. Try one of my cakes, Brother.’
He passed a smoking morsel that the monk accepted without thinking, more concerned with the slur on his character than with food. ‘My Lord, I harbour no impure thoughts about Christiana de Hauville. I hope you do not believe these wicked aspersions.’
‘She is an alluring woman,’ replied Gynewell, ‘and lesser men than you have been smitten with her charms. But I shall trust you, if you say you are made of sterner stuff. Do you like the cake?’
Michael took a bite mechanically. ‘You will find me as pure as the driven—’ His protestations of innocence stopped abruptly, and his face turned dark. He reached for his wine, took a gulp, then started to choke. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, but Michael flapped him away.
‘The red cakes are full of pepper,’ explained Bresley dolefully, watching the monk’s sufferings with unhappy eyes. ‘And the bishop is the only man in Lincoln who can stand them. I should have warned you, but my mind was on other matters. I am sorry.’
‘I suppose they are an acquired taste,’ admitted Gynewell, regarding the puce monk anxiously. ‘Are you all right, Brother? Shall I summon Hugh to bring you something else to drink? Water?’
Michael shook his head, tears streaming down his face, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Your water is probably full of brimstone. Do you consume nothing normal men deem edible?’
Gynewell regarded him in a way that suggested he thought the question was an odd one. ‘I dislike bland flavours. If you are going to eat something, you may as well taste it, I always say. You should try my devil’s eggs. Now those are highly spiced.’
‘You refer to him as your Devil?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Gynewell stoked up the fire. ‘Shall we talk about Aylmer’s death? I am a busy man, and do not usually spend my valuable time chattering about victuals.’
Michael recovered once Hugh had brought a jug of ale from the kitchens. When it arrived, it was so cold there was ice in it, and Gynewell shuddered in distaste as the monk sipped. He dismissed Hugh for the day, waving away the lad’s gratitude, while Bresley regaled the company with a gloomy litany of the various vices enjoyed by the residents of the Cathedral Close. When his lips had regained some feeling, Michael brought the discussion back to his enquiry.
‘My Lord,’ he said huskily. ‘You were about to explain why you had neglected to mention Aylmer’s association with criminals when you asked me to investigate his murder.’
‘Aylmer was a member of the Commonality,’ acknowledged Gynewell, while Bartholomew held his breath, expecting the bishop to take umbrage at the admonitory tone. ‘Then Suttone wrote to offer him the post of Vicar Choral. He was moved to tears. He came to me and said he intended to renounce his evil ways, and was determined to live the life of an hone
st man.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Actually, I did,’ replied Gynewell, choosing to ignore the dean’s derisive snort. ‘He immediately left Miller and took a berth in the Gilbertine Priory – the convent farthest from Miller’s domain.’
Michael was exasperated. ‘But this is relevant! It means Miller may have killed Aylmer, because he was angry at being rejected by a man he had known for years.’
‘That assumes Miller knew about Aylmer’s change of heart,’ said Gynewell. ‘And Aylmer confided in no one here but Bresley and me.’
‘He told Sabina Herl,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘So, what is to say he did not mention it to other members of the Commonalty, too?’
‘Sabina is different,’ argued Gynewell. ‘She has also moved away from Miller, and is trying to forge an honest life. Aylmer probably asked her how to go about it.’
‘I seriously doubt Aylmer shared his plans with the Commonalty,’ said Bresley. ‘They were delighted when they heard one of their own was to become a cathedral official, and would not have been pleased had he then told them he planned to end their association. I imagine he intended to live quietly in the Close until they forgot about him.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Miller is keen to know the identity of Aylmer’s killer, so perhaps you are right – he did not know he was in the process of being abandoned. If he had, he would not care about vengeance.’
‘Bresley did not believe Aylmer was sincere,’ said Gynewell, glancing to where the dean was inspecting the wooden cup with more than a casual interest. ‘And he argued against the appointment.’
‘Were there similar objections to me choosing Tetford?’ asked Michael uneasily.
Bresley nodded. ‘Plenty. And now you have met him, you will understand why.’
‘Tetford was Bishop de Lisle’s choice,’ said Michael. ‘Not mine.’
‘I suspected as much,’ said Gynewell. ‘They are clearly kin, and de Lisle is famous for his nepotism. I doubt Tetford will stay with us long, though; he will leave the moment something more lucrative is offered. That is the advantage of Vicars Choral – they can be promoted if they are a nuisance, preferably to another diocese. Do not worry, Brother. We shall send him to Ely in a few weeks and so be rid of him.’
Michael scrubbed at his eyes. ‘You are very kind – to me and to Tetford.’
Gynewell shot him a mischievous grin. ‘I was young once, Brother, and all Tetford needs is a firm hand.’
‘You will not succeed in taming the fellow,’ warned Bresley. When Bartholomew looked at him, the wooden cup was nowhere to be seen. ‘He is beyond redemption.’
‘Have you heard anything about Flaxfleete’s demise?’ asked Michael. He saw the surprise in the bishop’s face at the change of subject, and hastened to explain. ‘I believe the deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer and Nicholas Herl might be connected.’
Gynewell raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, there are two tales circulating regarding Flaxfleete at present: the Guild maintains that Ursula de Spayne poisoned him, and the Commonalty just as firmly assert that he died from a recurrence of his Summer Madness.’
‘His affliction was unusually severe,’ added Bresley helpfully. ‘The other victims only harmed themselves, but Flaxfleete was compelled to commit arson in his delirium.’
‘What about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael.
Gynewell tugged thoughtfully on one of his horns. ‘Herl was probably a suicide, who drank too much, then threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. He never really recovered his health after his bout of Summer Madness, so no one was surprised when he was found dead. Langar and Sabina have been petitioning me to bury him in a churchyard. They say he was out of his wits, so not responsible for himself. I think I shall oblige. I dislike the Church’s inflexibility where self-murder is concerned.’
‘Three deaths within a few days of each other,’ said Michael. ‘And I understand there have been others, too.’
Gynewell thrust another cake on his pitchfork. ‘There have, but this is a large city and men are mortal. Not every demise is suspicious.’
‘Canon Hodelston,’ said Bresley. ‘Rapist, burglar, extortionist and liar. His was the first odd death, although no one mourned his passing. He was even more evil than my current batch of priests.’
‘That was seven years ago, Bresley,’ said Gynewell impatiently. ‘It cannot possibly have a bearing on Aylmer, and saying it does will lead Brother Michael astray.’
‘Herl, Flaxfleete and Aylmer had a mark on them,’ said Bartholomew, watching the bishop eat the smoking delicacy. ‘A cup, which looked as though it had been scratched into their skin years ago. Do you know anything about that?’
Gynewell exchanged a bemused glance with Bresley. ‘Do you mean the kind of sign that is inflicted voluntarily, or a brand that was not?’ asked the dean.
‘It was probably something they agreed to,’ replied Bartholomew, sounding more certain than he felt. ‘I suspect it symbolises membership of some secret fraternity.’
‘If these scars were confined to Herl and Aylmer, you might be right,’ said Gynewell. ‘They were certainly the kind of fellows to cut themselves in a demonstration of manly affection. The problem is Flaxfleete: he hated the Commonality, and would never have associated himself with them. If it was a cup they marked on themselves, do you think it was something to do with the Hugh Chalice?’
Bresley’s tone was wistful. ‘That went missing years ago, and has not been seen since.’
‘I told you the dean and I disagree about this,’ said Gynewell to Michael. ‘I believe the one Father Simon intends to give us is genuine. Bresley does not.’
‘I wish it was real,’ said Bresley morosely, ‘but I feel nothing when I hold it, except something that should not be there. So, it is still missing, as far as I am concerned. Simon says he bought it from a Roman relic-seller, so we have been unable to question the fellow ourselves.’
‘Actually, he had it from Walter Chapman,’ supplied Michael. ‘Miller’s red-legged friend.’
Gynewell’s jaw dropped. ‘Then the Hugh Chalice is the only genuine thing he has ever handled, because he usually deals in fakes. The Commonality would disagree, but I am afraid it is true.’
‘No wonder I have the sense that it is just a cup,’ said Bresley. ‘And not even a very nice one.’
‘This is all very perplexing,’ said Gynewell with a frown. ‘But if Simon’s chalice did come from Chapman, then I wonder if Chapman heard about it – and then somehow acquired it – because of the stink Flaxfleete made about its disappearance. That makes sense.’
‘Not to me,’ said Michael. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Gynewell tossed the remains of the cake into the fire, where it disappeared in a flurry of sparks. ‘A month ago, Flaxfleete accused Aylmer of breaking into his house and stealing a silver cup. However, Aylmer’s dishonest history does not mean he was responsible for every theft in the town, so I went to speak to Flaxfleete, and he agreed to drop the charges.’
‘But it might have been true,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer could have stolen the goblet from Flaxfleete, then given it to his friend Chapman to sell to Simon.’
Gynewell shook his head. ‘Aylmer did not steal the cup, because I found it in the cathedral crypt. I took it back to Flaxfleete – not realising it was the Hugh Chalice, of course – which is why he was willing to withdraw his complaint against Aylmer.’
‘But Chapman’s attention might have been drawn to the goblet because of the fuss Flaxfleete made about its loss,’ surmised Bresley. ‘He recognised it as something that could be hawked to a gullible fool who would believe it was a relic. So, he stole it from Flaxfleete after you returned it.’
‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘I am confused. Are you saying Flaxfleete had the Hugh Chalice first? It was stolen from him – possibly by Aylmer – and was found in your crypt? You returned it to Flaxfleete, on the understanding that all charges
against Aylmer would be forgotten, and it next appeared when Chapman sold it to Father Simon a month ago?’
‘Yes,’ said Gynewell. ‘That is an accurate summary of its travels, as far as I understand them. However, I suspect Flaxfleete did not know it was the Hugh Chalice, either, or he would have made a far greater commotion when it went adrift.’
‘Thank God he did not,’ murmured Bresley fervently.
‘I never liked to ask Flaxfleete how the cup had gone from him to Simon,’ said Gynewell. ‘I was afraid that if I did, it might give him an excuse to harass Aylmer again, and I did not want trouble.’
‘He never made a second complaint of theft,’ said Bresley. ‘So we must assume that either he did not notice Chapman had taken it from him, or he died before he could tell anyone about it.’
‘Or he was poisoned to make sure he remained silent permanently,’ said Gynewell soberly.
‘Perhaps we can go back a little,’ said Michael, breaking into their discussion. ‘You say you found the chalice in the crypt? What was it doing there?’
‘Perhaps it wanted to be in the sacred confines of our cathedral,’ said Gynewell, in a way that made Bartholomew certain he was not telling the truth. ‘These relics have a habit of making their own way to the places where they want to be. Have you seen it yet? Did you feel the sanctity it oozes?’
‘I did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘I think Simon has been cheated.’
‘Hear, hear,’ murmured Bresley.
‘The Hugh Chalice is genuine,’ said Gynewell in a voice that suggested further debate was futile. ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’
Michael spent much of the day in the Close, questioning clerics about Aylmer. Bartholomew kicked his heels restlessly, not sure what to do. He was eager to ask questions about Matilde, but did not know who to approach. Then he recalled that the cathedral would keep records of the masses it was paid to conduct for the souls of the dead, and wondered whether Matilde had commissioned any. It was a feeble hope that she might have bought prayers for some hitherto unknown friend or relation, but he was desperate and willing to try anything. He obtained Gynewell’s permission to trawl through the minster’s accounts, and was conducted to the library, where details of the cathedral’s business arrangements were stored on great dusty scrolls.
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