He soon learned the task was a hopeless one, but persisted anyway. While he scoured the rolls with a growing sense that he was wasting his time, he overheard a group of canons discuss the growing bitterness of the town’s poor. The weavers were beginning to mutter more loudly against the selfishness of the Guild, and the canons were terrified that Miller’s Market might end in a riot. If that happened, then the minster and its clerics might become targets, too, because of their friendly relations with the Guild.
Bartholomew left with the sense that Michael could not have chosen a worse time to be installed, and was uneasy enough that he went to the town butts to practise his shooting. He had the awful feeling that his fighting skills might be needed, although he was relieved the monk was elsewhere, and not in a position to comment on his new-found preoccupation with martial pursuits. He was not surprised to see Hugh and his fellow choristers there – or to note that their aim was considerably better than many of the adults – but he had not imagined archery was something to be enjoyed by cathedral officials. There were so many clergy jostling for a turn that the townsfolk found it hard to break through them, and there was a good deal of bad feeling. And when Miller and his cronies arrived, it was only a matter of time before someone was shot.
The victim was a guildsman, and Bartholomew recognised him as the fellow who had been sent to fetch the sheriff when Flaxfleete had died – there were not many men in the city who sported large orange beards. His name was Dalderby, and he howled pitifully, despite the fact that it was only a flesh wound. His friends formed a protective cordon around him, and Bartholomew saw they carried some very expensive and sophisticated weapons. So did their allies from the cathedral.
They were solidly outnumbered by the mass of poor folk, headed by members of the Commonalty, but the balance was redressed by the fact that few of them were armed. They had shared bows when they had practised their shooting, and there were not half a dozen weapons among the entire mob. Bartholomew supposed, from their hungry, sullen expressions, that they were the same unemployed weavers who gathered in the streets to ask for work each day. He eased to the back of the crowd when it looked as though a harmless Sunday pursuit was about to turn dangerous.
‘You must make your peace with God, Dalderby,’ announced a surgeon, after a cursory glance at the wound. He was a nondescript fellow with long, greasy hair, who had been standing with Miller when the ‘accident’ had occurred. Bartholomew assumed he was a member of the Commonalty.
‘Does he have time for such a lengthy process, Master Bunoun?’ asked Langar. An expression of deep concern was etched into his face, so no one could castigate him for being facetious. ‘His crimes are very great, and it would be terrible for him to meet his Maker only part shriven.’
‘I could prolong his life with an elixir,’ declared Bunoun importantly. ‘And, if he pays me in gold, I may be able to work a miracle. What do you say, Master Miller? Should I attempt to save him?’
Everyone waited in silence as Miller pondered the question, spitting from time to time. Bartholomew itched to inform Dalderby that the wound was not mortal – that it only needed to be bound with a healing poultice for a complete recovery – but he knew better than to interfere.
‘For the love of God, man!’ cried Kelby, when Miller’s inner deliberations extended longer than was kind. ‘Do you want another death on your conscience? Let Bunoun do his work.’
‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Miller, eyes glittering. He hawked again, aiming perilously near to Kelby’s feet. ‘But you dispatched Aylmer and Herl, so that puts me two murders behind you.’
‘I did not touch either of them!’ shouted Kelby. ‘I would not sully my hands.’
There was an ill-humoured murmur from the crowd, and fingers clenched into fists. Bartholomew was certain Dalderby’s would not be the only blood shed that day.
‘Please, Miller!’ begged the stricken merchant, ashen with fear and pain. ‘I promise never to mention that business with Thoresby again. He did threaten to behead me, and we all know it, but I will agree to forget about it, if you let Bunoun give me his cure.’
‘What do you say, Thoresby?’ asked Miller of a puny, rat-faced fellow who stood grinning his delight at the situation. Bartholomew had seen him shoot the offending arrow, although – fortunately for the chances of a peaceful conclusion – no guildsman had. ‘Shall we be merciful?’
‘No,’ said Thoresby. ‘Let him die. His accusations saw me in court, and I did not like it.’
Miller regarded the injured man dispassionately, then turned to Langar, listening as the lawyer murmured in his ear. There was absolute silence, as everyone strained, without success, to hear what was being said. Eventually, Langar spoke.
‘Cure him, Master Bunoun. The Commonalty is not a vengeful organisation, and we do not engage in spiteful retaliation. We leave that to the Guild of Corpus Christi.’
Bartholomew watched a massive amount of money change hands – more than he had charged even his wealthiest patients for the longest and most intricate of treatments – and then left the butts before more trouble erupted. He met Michael exchanging forced pleasantries with Spayne near the fish market, and was appalled when the monk started to question the mayor closely about the current state of his finances. The physician brought the discussion to an abrupt end, declining Spayne’s offer of refreshment with the excuse that he wanted to read a scroll he had borrowed from the library.
‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Michael, resenting the unceremonious manner in which he had been dragged away. ‘Spayne was given some of the money the King sent for draining the Fossedike, and I want to know what he has done with it. He has certainly not spent it on the canal; in some places, it is so shallow you can walk across without getting your feet wet. That sort of information would persuade him to part with what he knows of Matilde.’
‘I do not want you to resort to blackmail,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not right, and it could be dangerous. I have just seen a guildsman shot by one of the Commonalty. Tensions are running high, and it is stupid to risk being caught in the middle.’
‘It might be your only chance,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is not unethical – I am merely using the wits God gave me to extract information that a decent man would have parted with willingly. Time is short, Matt; we do not have the luxury of tiptoeing around the man.’
‘If you were not going to be installed next Sunday, I would recommend we leave Lincoln tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I have never felt so vulnerable or so alone, not even at Poitiers. At least I could recognise the enemy there.’
‘I recognise them here,’ said Michael grimly. ‘The problem is that there are so many of them.’
Being installed as a canon was not just a case of donning new robes and reciting oaths of obedience during a grand ceremony. There were administrative matters that needed to be resolved, too, and Michael found himself trapped at a desk in the scriptorium under a growing mound of parchment. Bartholomew helped him, afraid that if it was not completed, it would delay their departure the following Monday. They worked until the light began to fade, and left when Michael confided that he did not want to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory after dark.
They met Bishop Gynewell near the market called the Pultria. He was hopping up the hill like a mountain goat, Dean Bresley labouring at his side. He carried the equipment needed for Extreme Unction, and Bresley said they had been summoned to Robert Dalderby, who had suffered a grave wound at the butts. Surgeon Bunoun professed himself in fear for his patient’s life.
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘Does he lose many victims with minor wounds, then?’
‘No more than any other leech,’ replied Gynewell. ‘He often recommends last rites to his patients, and when they recover, he demands a higher fee for snatching them from the jaws of death.’
‘His tactics have made him extremely rich,’ said Bresley. His expression was wistful. ‘He owns some lovely gold spoons
. I have had them in my hands on several occasions. I often meet him when Miller invites me to dine, although he has an unpleasant habit of talking about diseases while we eat.’
‘I know someone else who does that,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a ploy to put us off our food, so there will be more for themselves.’
Gynewell frowned uneasily. ‘I hope you are not planning to walk to the Gilbertine Priory alone.’
‘It is only just four o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hardly late. And it is not even dark.’
‘It will be soon,’ said Gynewell, passing his sacred vessels to Bresley. ‘I shall escort you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, not wanting the bishop’s company once night had fallen. The visit to the palace had unsettled him, and although he knew he should not allow Cynric’s suspicions to interfere with his reason, he felt the prelate had too many odd habits to be ignored.
‘They do not need such cosseting, My Lord,’ said Bresley impatiently. ‘No one will harm them. They are friends of the Suttone clan.’
‘Why are the Suttones so revered?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘They do not live in Lincoln, and nor have they taken sides in the city’s quarrels.’
‘And there you have your answer,’ replied Gynewell. ‘If they did reside in the city, people would see their faults, and the veneration would fade. But they are far enough distant that they can do no wrong. Also, the fact that they stand aloof from the dispute is important: both sides hope they might be recruited, which would tip the balance permanently. However, the family know what will happen if they declare an allegiance, and they have no wish for bloodshed.’
‘They are good men,’ said Bresley. He shifted the bishop’s accoutrements in his arms, and a silver brooch dropped from somewhere inside his robes to clatter to the ground. Gynewell pounced on it, and Bartholomew was bemused when he slipped it in his own purse. Bresley did not seem to notice.
‘I think I will come with you, Brother,’ determined the bishop. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘People know he is a friend of the Suttones,’ insisted Bresley. ‘He will be quite safe. And what happens when you reach the convent. Will he walk back with you, so you are not alone?’
‘Cynric is waiting near the High Bridge,’ lied Michael. ‘We do not need any other guard.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew, when Gynewell and Bresley had gone. ‘There was a good deal of ill-feeling at the butts, and folk see you as an addition to the cathedral’s ranks.’
‘They would not have noticed me at all, if Gynewell had not ordered me to investigate a murder. I would have been with Suttone, being feted as the friend of a man who hails from such a well-loved family. He is not obliged to interview criminals who call themselves Vicars Choral, and nor is he obliged to sit with a demon and eat cakes that sear the inside of his mouth. It still hurts.’
‘Gynewell unnerves me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sounds sensible and decent, but his appearance and habits are hard to overlook.’
‘I would have taken issue with you this morning, but the cake incident has made me reconsider. I found I did not want him with us on that long, lonely road to the Gilbertine Priory.’ Michael chuckled ruefully. ‘We are worse than Cynric! What do we expect him to do? Rip out our innards with his claws? Spear us with his pitchfork?’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘We will be ashamed of ourselves in the morning, when we are not surrounded by shadows. Poor Gynewell!’
‘We should not discuss him now, or we will be nervous wrecks by the time we reach the convent. We shall talk about the Hugh Chalice instead. Are Gynewell and Chapman right, and it is making its own way to where it thinks it belongs?’
‘It will only be able to do that if it is genuinely holy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you said it is not.’
‘But I cannot be sure,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot be sure about anything in this case. I do not recall ever being so confused.’
Bartholomew considered what they knew. ‘Aylmer may have stolen the thing from Flaxfleete, although we can hardly ask either of them now, but we do know that he died with it in his hands. It was clearly important to him, which means it may hold the key to his murder.’
‘True. I will talk to Lady Christiana again, and ask whether she has heard any rumours about it. It is lodging with the Gilbertines, after all, and that is where she lives.’
‘No, I will ask her,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘You can talk to the gossiping Hamo instead.’
Michael gazed at him with round green eyes. ‘That is not fair.’
‘But it is wise. I have seen the way you look at her.’
Michael gave a sudden leer. ‘All right, I admit to admiring her. She is a splendid woman, and it does no harm to enjoy the beauty of God’s creations.’
‘Then enjoy them a little more discreetly. I am not the only one who has noticed you think God has done a rather good job with this particular part of His handiwork.’
Michael was dismissive of the advice. ‘She will be perfectly safe with me.’
‘But will you be safe with her?’ mused Bartholomew. He stopped walking and turned suddenly. They were by the High Bridge, and dark alleys full of hovels radiated off to the left and right. It was not a respectable part of the city. ‘What was that?’
‘Rats,’ said Michael, after a few moments. ‘This city is full of them, especially near the river.’
They crossed the bridge, and strode through Wigford, Michael for once making no complaint about the rapid pace the physician set. Lights gleamed inside houses, and in several churches evening prayers were in progress. They caught snatches of Latin as they walked. Bartholomew glanced behind him frequently, although it was now too dark to see whether anything was amiss.
‘There is the Gilbertine Priory at last,’ breathed Michael in relief, when he spotted the familiar gate looming in the blackness. ‘I wish you had chosen us lodgings nearer the city. If you had, I might not have been ordered to look into the murder of this one’s guests.’
‘Do not be so sure. When I was in the library, John Suttone told me the Gilbertines are not the only ones with problems on that front. There was a stabbing at the Dominican Friary last night, and two men brained each other with kitchen pots at the Carmelite convent.’
Michael regarded him with troubled eyes. ‘Yet more murders for me to investigate?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Sheriff Lungspee caught the Dominicans’ knifeman, while the two who fought with pans are in the Gilbertines’ hospital. They—’ He stopped a second time.
‘You are making me uneasy, Matt,’ complained Michael, walking faster. ‘Here is the door. Hammer with the pommel of your dagger, while I make sure no one creeps up behind us.’
Bartholomew did as he was told, but there was no reply. Then he thought he saw a shadow next to the Church of Holy Innocents opposite. He peered into the darkness, but nothing moved and he supposed he had imagined it. He turned to the gate and knocked again.
‘No one is going to answer,’ he said, when a third pounding met with no response. ‘They must be singing, so cannot hear us.’
‘What shall we do?’ asked Michael. ‘Shout?’
‘That will do no good. We must find another way in – quickly. It does not feel safe out here.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, heading for the alley that ran around the rear of the compound. ‘It does not.’
The lane was narrow and pitch black, and Michael swore foully when he fell and twisted his ankle. His language degenerated even further when he put his hands in a bed of nettles. Bartholomew urged him to lower his voice, afraid the racket might attract unwelcome company, but the monk was too agitated to be calmed. The clamour became even more furious when the physician started to pull him to his feet, but then dropped him abruptly when he heard something behind them. Bartholomew spun around and drew his sword in one smooth movement.
‘You never used to be able to do that,’ sa
id Michael, from his patch of weeds. ‘If you were ever obliged to use a weapon, you were all fingers and thumbs.’
‘Someone else is here,’ said Bartholomew. He darted forward to make a lunge in the darkness, returning moments later with someone wriggling ineffectually in his grasp.
‘You never used to be able to do that, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘You would have been like me, and waited to see what happened before launching wild attacks.’
‘Let me go,’ shrieked Tetford, trying to free himself. ‘I am a priest.’
Bartholomew released him so suddenly that he stumbled. ‘Then why were you following us?’
‘I came to tell Michael that I have closed the Tavern in the Close,’ said Tetford, brushing himself down, to indicate he did not appreciate being manhandled. ‘Completely. I sent the women away, and sold my remaining stocks of ale and wine to the bishop.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, holding out his hand so Bartholomew could help him up. ‘Does Gynewell intend to take up where you have left off, then?’
‘Of course not. He does not approve of the place, and was delighted when I told him my decision. He will give the ale to the poor, and use the wine to celebrate your installation.’
‘I saw you buying something from Quarrel only this morning,’ said Bartholomew sceptically.
‘That was then,’ said Tetford. ‘This is now. A lot can happen in a day.’
Michael picked leaves from his habit. ‘Matt is not the only one who is wary of your sudden capitulation, and my suspicions are not allayed by the fact that you feel compelled to tell me in a shadowy alley. Why not come in daylight, like a normal man?’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 27
