Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Langar thinks Shirlok will come to Lincoln because of the Hugh Chalice,’ said Cynric, dismissing the physician’s reasoning with a wave of his hand. ‘He thinks Sabina procured it to entice him here.’

  ‘I doubt it. If anyone made the chalice reappear, it is Chapman. However, I suppose we should not overlook the fact that Sabina’s lover Aylmer was holding it when he died.’

  ‘Or that Aylmer was accused of stealing it from Flaxfleete a month ago. I do not want to stay indoors all day. Shall we see if we can find out a bit more about this Hugh Chalice? It is obviously relevant to Aylmer’s murder, and anything we learn might help Brother Michael.’

  Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of a morning inside either, even though it was starting to snow, and supposed he might as well put his time to good use. He reached for his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. ‘Where do you suggest we start?’

  ‘With a visit to Miller’s house,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘He asked Brother Michael to keep him informed about the investigation. We shall go and tell him a few lies – and pry at the same time.’

  Bartholomew removed the cloak and sat down. ‘That would be wildly dangerous. Besides, Miller asked Michael to tell him about the enquiry, not us, and he is not interested in details, anyway. All he wants is the identity of the culprit, so he can kill him. He made no secret of his objective.’

  Cynric, however, was not easily dissuaded from a course of action, once he had decided on it. ‘You can distract Miller with witty conversation, while I have a look in some of his rooms.’

  ‘No!’ insisted Bartholomew, appalled by the notion of doing something so reckless. ‘What would happen if he caught you? And what if he is the one who tried to kill us last night? It would be like walking into the lion’s den.’

  ‘Brother Michael cannot leave Lincoln until he has solved this case, and I think Lady Christiana might distract him. She is lonely and sad, and he is a kind man who finds it hard to refuse a damsel in distress. If you do not help him, he may be here until summer.’

  ‘He will not leave at all, if we disappear and he feels obliged to locate our bodies. Or if he accuses Miller of murdering us and ends up choking on poisoned wine himself.’

  ‘Miller will not harm you if you visit his house with a few friends,’ said Cynric, thinking fast. ‘Ask Suttone and de Wetherset to go with you. He can hardly dispatch three scholars with no one noticing. And if he does, I can always tell Brother Michael where to start hunting for corpses.’

  ‘That is reassuring, Cynric. And what shall I tell Suttone and de Wetherset when they ask why we are all going to the home of the man who may have tried to kill me last night?’

  ‘You will think of something,’ said Cynric comfortably. ‘You physicians are very resourceful.’

  Bartholomew was not an easy liar, and could think of no reason at all why de Wetherset and Suttone should accompany him to Miller’s house. Eventually, it occurred to him that he could offer Miller a free horoscope, as an act of goodwill to a man who was generous to Lincoln’s poor, and claim he needed de Wetherset and Suttone to help him with the calculations. It was a ruse he imagined de Wetherset would see through in an instant, but as it happened, he was not obliged to use it: when he went to find them, he discovered they had gone out. Cynric was disgusted, and grumbled until Bartholomew suggested visiting the cathedral and talking to the Vicars Choral about Tetford instead. He also wanted to return the scroll he had borrowed from the library.

  They walked through Wigford and crossed the High Bridge, struggling against a fierce wind that swept into their faces. People clutched billowing clothes, and hats were blown away, forcing owners to scamper after them. One was Dame Eleanor, who was obliged to trot most of the way down the hill before she managed to retrieve her hood, then was faced with the prospect of climbing up it again.’

  ‘I thought you were with Christiana and Michael in the hospital,’ said Bartholomew uneasily.

  Surprise winked in her hazel eyes. ‘She told me you would be with them! Clever Christiana! I think she has taken a liking to Brother Michael.’

  ‘And he has one for her,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound concerned.

  ‘Do not worry,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘They know what they are doing, and it gives me pleasure to see colour in her cheeks at last. She smiles too seldom these days.’

  ‘She is unhappy? I thought she liked her life here.’

  ‘A convent is no place for a spirited woman. And she is worried that the King will foist an unlovable husband on her. There is only so long His Majesty will leave a valuable heiress unclaimed. Look at what happened to her mother.’ ‘She was betrothed to Kelby.’

  ‘He was more influential six years ago than he is now, and he inveigled himself an interview with the King. Then he said that if he could marry Christiana, he would give His Majesty half the dowry. Christiana did not love Kelby, and her daughter saw how miserable the situation made her.’

  ‘She carried his child,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Kelby had staked his claim early.

  Dame Eleanor’s expression was pained. ‘Actually, she let him take her, because she was already pregnant with the child of the man she really loved. She endured Kelby to protect the fellow.’

  ‘She had a lover?’ he blurted, startled.

  Her expression was bleak. ‘I am a nun, who has sworn vows of chastity, but I could not find it in my heart to condemn her for daring to claim a little happiness, and neither should you.’

  Bartholomew wondered who it was, but it was hardly a question he could ask, and he had no reason for wanting to know, other than curiosity. ‘Your Christiana says she will take the veil if the King forces her into a match she does not want,’ he said instead.

  ‘She might, but only as a last resort. There are other options yet.’

  Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘She is not thinking that Michael might... ?’

  ‘There is a difference between distilling pleasure from a man’s company and falling in love. I do not see your fat friend as her beau idéal, and I am sure his honour will remain intact.’

  ‘Let us hope hers does, too,’ muttered Bartholomew disloyally.

  Eleanor smiled as someone approached, pulling a cap from his fair curls. ‘Good morning, Hugh.’

  Hugh effected a courtly bow, then spoiled the effect with a cheeky grin. ‘I am going to collect devil’s cakes for Bishop Gynewell,’ he chirped.

  ‘Devil’s cakes?’ echoed Cynric, shooting Bartholomew a pointed look.

  ‘Monday is devil’s cake day at the palace,’ explained Hugh, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Can I fetch some for you, My Lady?’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘They are far too spicy for my old teeth. Put your cap on, Hugh. There is snow in the air, and you might take a chill.’

  Obediently, the lad jammed the hat on his head. ‘Father Simon gave me an apple this morning for delivering a prayer to St Hugh. He is so busy with preparations for his installation that he forgot to leave it, and he asked me to do it instead.’ There was a sly gleam in his eye that did not go unnoticed by the observant Eleanor.

  ‘You mean the written prayer he inserts into the Head Shrine at the beginning of every week?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And where did you leave it?’

  Hugh’s face was the picture of innocence. ‘He just said with St Hugh.’

  ‘You are a wicked boy,’ said Eleanor sternly, although there was no real sting in her voice. Hugh looked suitably chastened, though. ‘You know perfectly well which shrine he meant, and I can see from your face that you gave his prayer to Little Hugh instead. You must put it right immediately.’

  Hugh sighed, caught out. ‘All right. I will do it after I have collected the bishop’s pastries.’

  He skipped away, although not towards the bakery: the freedom of an errand was too good an opportunity to squander, and he was clearly intent on enjoying it to the full.

  ‘Christiana tells me you are conc
erned about Matilde,’ said Eleanor, when he had gone. ‘Apparently, she left Cambridge too suddenly, and you would like to ensure she is safe and happy.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘It seems she left Lincoln suddenly, too.’

  ‘Yes, just after Christiana’s mother died. She thought Ursula had prescribed the wrong potion deliberately, although she had no proof. My Christiana believes her mother swallowed the cuckoo-pint to avoid marrying Kelby. Then, the day after Christiana’s funeral, Spayne proposed to Matilde.’

  ‘That does not sound like good timing.’

  ‘Yes and no. He felt her slipping away from him, and wanted to arrest the process. She did not love him, though, for all his good looks and riches. Other women cannot imagine why she refused such a man, but Matilde is a lady for whom a handsome face and untold wealth mean very little.’

  ‘Why did she not love him?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the same might apply to him. He had assumed she was fond of him, but she had never told him so, just as he had never told her. And while he could not offer ‘untold wealth’, the gold he had been awarded for his actions at Poitiers meant he was no longer poor, and he had assumed a degree of financial security might make a difference to her decision. But perhaps it would not.

  ‘She did not know why. It was just one of those things.’

  ‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

  ‘Christiana is preparing a list and I shall give her my ideas. You can have it when it is complete.’

  ‘Why not tell me now?’

  She regarded him astutely. ‘Is there some urgency in this quest, then? There is more to your search than just ensuring she is well?’

  ‘No, My Lady,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could think of a good way to answer for himself. ‘It is just that the roads are getting bad for travel, and we want to be on our way as soon as we can.’

  ‘You will not leave before Michael’s installation, though, and we shall have our list to you before then,’ said Eleanor.

  Bartholomew was not sure whether Cynric had been fully believed, so he changed the subject before she could ask him anything else. ‘You were about to walk up the hill. Is there something I can do for you, to save you the journey?’

  ‘I need to see Ravenser or John Suttone, who are duty librarians this week. I must return the book they loaned me, because someone else wants to read it.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  She relinquished a slim volume, which she had kept protected under her cloak. ‘Do not give it to the dean, though. He may offer to see it back on its shelf, but you must hand it to Ravenser or John.’

  ‘Why not the dean?’

  She regarded him oddly. ‘Because he is forgetful,’ she replied after a moment.

  With the natural curiosity of the scholar for any book, he unfolded the cloth in which it was wrapped. ‘Hildegard of Bingen – her mystical visions. And there is an appended chapter by Trotula. I have always admired Trotula.’

  She was surprised. ‘There are not many physicians who regard her a worthy authority, and I am inclined to think they are right. That particular epistle contains her thoughts on childbirth, and I found it confusing and contradictory. It is obvious she was no scholar, not like Hildegard.’

  ‘Why are you interested in childbirth?’

  ‘I am not, but the scribe who copied the Hildegard found himself with a few empty pages at the end of the tome, so he added the Trotula to use them up. It is a common practice in scriptoria, as you know. So, when I finished the Hildegard, I discovered a short essay all about how some plants can be used to a mother’s advantage, but how misuse can kill. There is one particularly horrible herb called wake-robin, which Trotula said brings fits and death. It did not make for pleasant reading.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Wake-robin can also expel the afterbirth in cases where it sticks. Midwives use a little at a time, over a period of hours. However, I am seldom required to prescribe it.’

  And he was even less likely to be asked now Matilde had gone, he realised with a pang. She had often summoned him to help ailing prostitutes with labour problems, but they were unlikely to come of their own volition. Such matters were the domain of midwives, who were jealous of their territory.

  Eleanor shuddered. ‘What a dreadful responsibility these women bear. Some must kill by accident, despite their very best intentions.’

  ‘Not with wake-robin. Good midwives know how much to use and when to stop. Motherwort is another example. A little settles the womb, but too much brings on a lethargy that—’

  Eleanor stopped him hastily. ‘Enough, Doctor, please! I have no stomach for your trade, which is why I prefer to pray for the sick than to tend them physically. Are you sure you do not mind walking up the hill on my behalf?’

  ‘I have to return a scroll to the library anyway. And Cynric is always eager for an opportunity that might end in an encounter with Bishop Gynewell.’

  Cynric’s sense of humour did not stretch to irony, and he was bemused by Bartholomew’s comment. He spent most of the journey up the hill regaling the physician with reasons why it was wise to avoid Gynewell, a feeling that seemed to have intensified as he had learned more about him. Hugh’s mention of devil’s cakes had been carefully analysed, and Cynric had convinced himself that the baker had summoned culinary assistance from Hell, to create fare suitable for a demonic palate. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, recalling how Matilde had smiled at Cynric’s fixations and prejudices. She would certainly have derived plenty of amusement from his theories regarding the hapless prelate.

  They reached the cathedral, where they walked through its echoing expanse, looking for the duty librarians. However, Ravenser and John were nowhere to be found, and the Vicars Choral supervising the pilgrims at the Head Shrine and Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb said they had not seen them all day. Cynric crossed himself, as he gazed up at the carved imp.

  ‘Do you think it chose that spot, so it has a good view of these regal entrails?’ he asked. ‘Everyone knows demons are interested in guts, and that imp is perfectly positioned to devour Queen Eleanor’s when they rise up on Judgement Day. She will not be able to stop him, not while the rest of her is in London. By the time she gets here, it will be too late.’

  Bartholomew fought the urge to laugh, and led the way down the South Choir Aisle, past Little Hugh. Unusually, the child’s tomb was devoid of petitioners, so he stopped to look at it. Through the delicate tracery in its side, he could see the gifts that had been inserted – coins, prayers on pieces of parchment, jewellery, and flowers that had withered. Few were near the edges, and he supposed that either pilgrims made sure their offerings were shoved well into the middle, or people – hopefully cathedral officials – had removed the more readily accessible items for safekeeping.

  He saw a new piece of white parchment, and supposed it was the one Hugh had put there. Cynric noticed it, too, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he had drawn his dagger and speared it out.

  ‘I doubt that cheeky lad will bother. Make sure it is the right one, and I will put it in its proper place. Both saints will be pleased, and we need their good graces with that bishop on the loose.’

  ‘I cannot read a man’s private petitions,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Only a priest can do that.’

  Cynric sighed. ‘I shall do it, then, although it will take me a while. Despite your teaching, I am still slow at Latin.’ He jumped out of the way when Bartholomew made a grab for it. ‘Fortunately, Simon has big writing. It is just a list of names, though. Look.’

  ‘No!’ Bartholomew lunged a second time, but was no match for the agile Welshman.

  Cynric frowned in concentration. ‘Simon asks the saint to remember him at his canonisation. Then he asks for a blessing on someone called pater et mater mea, mortuum’

  ‘His parents,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dead parents. Stop it, Cynric. This is highly unethical.’

  ‘Then there is a bit I damaged with the tip of my dagger. It says ami
… Christi … possibly with another mortuum.

  Hah! It must say Christiana amantes, mortuum. That means his dead lover, Christiana. So, now we know the real father of the older Christiana’s child.’

  Bartholomew’s jaw dropped at the liberal translation. ‘Rubbish, Cynric! It could mean all manner of things, including amicus Christi – Christ is dear to me. And the declension of amator—’

  Cynric was not interested in grammatical niceties. ‘Next, his sorora – sisters! – again with a mortuum, and a frater called Adam Molendinarius, with no mortuum. That must be his brother …

  ’ He stopped backing away abruptly, allowing Bartholomew to snatch the parchment from his unresisting hand. The physician folded it quickly and posted it back inside the tomb, giving it a hard shove that saw it well beyond the reach of men with knives. He suspected Cynric was right, and young Hugh would not bother to rectify his mischief, but better the prayer lay in the wrong shrine than left in a place where it could be retrieved and pored over by nosy visitors.

  ‘His brother,’ said Cynric softly. ‘His brother, Adam Molendinarius.’

  ‘The miller,’ translated Bartholomew. ‘Adam the miller.’

  ‘Adam Miller,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Simon is Adam Miller’s brother.’

  ‘It is a common name, Cynric, and a common occupation. Although … ’

  ‘Although Miller had a brother who stood accused with him at the Cambridge court,’ finished Cynric. ‘He was acquitted with the others. Michael told me. I am sure his name was Simon.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They look nothing alike, and how can you believe a priest and a fellow like Miller are related? Besides, Miller told us himself that his brother is dead – died in prison.’

  ‘Probably a lie,’ said Cynric, happy to dismiss facts that did not fit his theory. ‘Simon told you he came to Lincoln two decades ago. That means he and Miller fled Cambridge together and came here to rebuild their lives. And Simon – oddly for a religious man – elects to side against the cathedral and with Miller, whom he says is misunderstood and the subject of unkind rumours. I am right here, boy.’