‘What if you are?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘A lot,’ declared Cynric. ‘Or they would not have gone to such pains to conceal it.’
Bartholomew and Cynric argued about Simon’s possible family ties and past lovers until they reached the room that housed the cathedral’s books, when Cynric fell sullenly silent. The library was open, but neither Ravenser nor John were in it. Bartholomew was tempted to leave scroll and book on one of the desks, but he was bound by his promise to deliver the Hildegard into their hands and no on else’s. Claypole occupied the large table in the centre of the room, in earnest conversation with several friends. He stopped talking when Bartholomew tapped on the door, annoyed by the interruption. The physician noticed he had exchanged his sword for a dagger, and supposed Tetford’s death must have reduced the need for a larger weapons.
‘Try their houses,’ he replied curtly, when Bartholomew asked politely for the duty-librarians’ whereabouts. He looked as though he had taken a leaf out of Ravenser’s book, because he was pale and heavy-eyed, as though he had had one too many cups of wine the previous night. ‘They live in Vicars’ Court.’
‘I am sorry Tetford is dead,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat provocatively. It had occurred to him that Claypole’s obviously delicate health might have been a result of him celebrating the event. Claypole made a moue of impatience when a burly canon called John de Stretle stood to speak. ‘Thank you,’ Stretle said. ‘We are sorry, too.’
‘Very,’ said Claypole insincerely. He lowered his head and pointedly started to whisper again. Bartholomew heard the name ‘Bautre’, and when ‘inept’ followed it, he supposed he was plotting against the man who had been promoted to the post that had been his.
‘We shall miss his running of the Tavern in the Close,’ added Stretle, ignoring Claypole and continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘Although he did inform us yesterday that he planned to shut it. His uncle, Bishop de Lisle, offered some sort of financial incentive for a year of seemly behaviour, but Tetford would eventually have found a way to have the reward and live his life as he pleased. He was a clever fellow, and liked his fun. It is a damned shame he is dead.’
Another fat canon grimaced. ‘I was shocked when he announced his resignation. I felt like shoving a knife in him myself! Life in the Close will not be the same without his genius for entertainment.’
Others nodded heartfelt agreement, and Bartholomew saw it was the loss of lively evenings they mourned, not the man who had provided them.
‘I doubt Ravenser will be a worthy successor,’ predicted Stretle gloomily. ‘John Suttone would have been better, and it is a pity he declined our offer. I thought I made a convincing case, too.’
‘You did,’ said the fat canon. ‘However, while he would have managed the books with consummate skill, he would have imposed too many restrictions for our liking, especially concerning women—’
His words were lost amid a sudden hammering. Claypole had an inkwell, and was banging it on a wall to regain their attention. ‘We came to talk about Bautre, not the damned alehouse. Now, where were we?’
Bartholomew left, trying to mask his distaste for the men and their plotting. He started to feel sorry for Michael, having connections to such a place, before he realised the monk would revel in the intrigues and double-dealing, and might even make them worse. He and Cynric walked around the outside of the cathedral, then followed a paved lane south until they reached the quiet yard known as Vicars’ Court. Ravenser and John were standing in the middle of it, yelling at each other. They stopped when Bartholomew approached. John was stiff and angry, but Ravenser shot the physician a grin that suggested he was glad of the interruption.
‘Dame Eleanor would like to return this,’ said Bartholomew, handing over the book.
‘Good,’ said John, taking it. ‘Father Simon has requested it from tomorrow, as material for his inaugural sermon on the Choirs of Angels.’
‘God’s blood!’ muttered Ravenser. He reeked of wine, despite the early hour. ‘That promises to be tedious. I have read some of Hildegard’s ramblings myself, and they are all but incomprehensible.’
‘It is not worth perusing, then?’ asked John, turning it over in his hands. ‘I thought I might look at it tonight, since the Aristotle is out with the dean, and Gynewell has Dante’s Inferno.’
‘You let the dean have a book?’ asked Ravenser, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’
‘He asked for it,’ said John defensively. ‘And I did tell Gynewell.’
‘Well, if Gynewell knows … ’ Ravenser turned to Bartholomew. ‘We were sorry about Tetford.’
‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you did not like him.’
‘True, but I did not want him dead.’
‘He had closed his tavern and sold his stock,’ said John. ‘I think he was serious about wanting to be a decent Vicar Choral, although the others were sceptical.’
‘Who will benefit from his death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You, John? It means Michael is now looking for a replacement deputy, as well as Suttone.’
John grimaced. ‘I would like to be promoted, but not at the cost of my life. And the deputies appointed by you Michaelhouse men seem to meet untimely ends.’
‘And I will not benefit, because I am an archdeacon, so senior to a Vicar Choral already,’ added Ravenser. ‘Obviously, neither of us killed Tetford.’
‘I hear you plan to take over his tavern, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that was an extremely good motive for murder. By all accounts, it was a lucrative and popular enterprise.
The archdeacon nodded, pleased. ‘The canons asked John to do it, but when he declined, I put myself forward. If Tetford were alive, he would want me to take up where he had left off.’
‘He would not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of you.’
‘We had a recent – and temporary – misunderstanding over a lady called Rosanna,’ said Ravenser stiffly. ‘But we were friends before she booked us both on the same night and he refused to bow to my seniority, and we would have been friends again, once our tempers had cooled.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘Anyway, I have laid in a stock of the Gilbertines’ famous rabbit pies and rehired our favourite serving wenches,’ Ravenser went on. ‘I shall open tonight.’
‘You should experience the Tavern in the Close for yourself,’ said John, although there was a gleam of spite in his eye as he spoke – he had not extended the invitation because he was being nice. ‘Bring your friend the monk. You will have an interesting evening, I promise.’
‘Do come,’ said Ravenser, graciously including Cynric in the invitation, too. ‘The ale arrived an hour ago. It is from Lora Boyner, who produces the sweetest brew in the city. And Kelby has donated three kegs of good claret for the occasion.’
‘The last time I saw someone drink wine provided by Kelby, it was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Poor Flaxfleete,’ said Ravenser insincerely. ‘Come at five o’clock tonight. You will have to knock, since the Close is locked at dusk, but John will wait for you, and let you in.’
‘I will take you up on your offer,’ said Cynric keenly. ‘I like good ale as much as the next man.’
Bartholomew did not reply, but he was tempted to go, just to see what happened when the prudish Welshman learned he had agreed to spend an evening in a brothel.
The market area called the Pultria was always busy on Mondays, and the steep street was a stark contrast to its silence of the previous day. It was full of people, despite the snow that was now falling in earnest, and traders used bells, rattles and voices to attract customers to buy their wares. Bakers’ boys with trays of pastries weaved among the crowds, although the fragrant scent of their goods was lost among the more powerful reek of chickens and geese. Women from the outlying villages sat in huddled heaps on the ground with winter-brown vegetables displayed in front of them, and carts vied for space with the animals th
at were being taken to the slaughterhouses.
Most of the people who thronged the stalls were poor. Some knew the traders, and addressed them by name, pleading for credit, but others were labourers from the farms and estates outside the city, or vagrants attracted by the prospect of Miller’s Market. Many of the locals had a pinched, dull look about them, and Bartholomew heard one trying to sell a blacksmith his oldest child.
Cynric liked markets, even ones that sold chiefly birds and eggs, and the physician trailed after him for want of anything better to do. He heard people talking enthusiastically about Miller’s fair, and rather less keenly about the installation. A few folk claimed they would absent themselves from the fair because it would take place on a Sabbath, and Bartholomew supposed they were guildsmen – or in the employ of them – taking a stand against the Commonalty. One person particularly vocal in denouncing Miller’s event was Kelby. He was with his friend Dalderby, who wore a massive bandage around his upper arm: Surgeon Bunoun was obviously of the belief that a patient liked something to show for his sufferings, and that the size of the dressing was directly proportional to the sophistication – and expense – of the treatment.
‘Sunday trading is a sin,’ announced Kelby. ‘And anyone who attends Miller’s Market will be damned in the eyes of God.’
Bartholomew watched uneasily as Ursula de Spayne overheard and stalked towards him. Around them, the clatter of voices stopped as people waited to see what would happen.
‘You can go to Hell for hypocrisy, too,’ she declared. ‘You were trading last Sunday yourself. I saw you. You sold Dalderby three ells of cloth at the butts.’
‘That was an arrangement between friends,’ said Dalderby. ‘It was not trading.’
‘You can go to Hell for lying, too,’ retorted Ursula. Her brother suddenly became aware that she was the centre of attention, and hurried to her side.
‘And you will burn for murder, madam,’ retorted Kelby, pointing a finger that shook with rage. ‘You had one death on your conscience with your careless use of cures, and now you have another. Poor Flaxfleete, murdered with poisoned wine.’
‘Please, Kelby,’ said Spayne quietly. ‘This is no place for such a debate. Come to a tavern with us. I will buy ale, and we can discuss this like civilised—’
‘So she can poison me, too?’ demanded Kelby. ‘No, thank you!’
‘I have poisoned no one,’ snarled Ursula. ‘However, I heard Flaxfleete’s death served a very useful purpose. It balanced out Aylmer and Nicholas Herl – both members of the Commonality.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Kelby furiously. ‘That I murdered Flaxfleete, to disguise the fact that I also killed Herl and Aylmer? You have taken too many of your own potions, woman, because you are mad if you think I would harm a much-loved friend.’
‘God will know,’ said Ursula smugly. ‘And He will punish accordingly.’
‘Come, sister,’ said Spayne. His face was taut with suppressed anger, although whether with Ursula or his rivals was impossible to say. He grabbed her arm and pulled; he was a strong man, and she could not resist him for long – at least, not without an undignified scuffle. She was livid as he hauled her away.
Meanwhile, Kelby spluttered with impotent fury. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he had guessed what Ursula’s barbed comments had meant very quickly. Bartholomew himself had not understood her oblique insinuation immediately, and he wondered whether there was a good reason why Kelby had. He glanced at Dalderby, and saw him regarding his colleague with a troubled expression, as though the physician was not the only one asking the question.
Bartholomew left the Pultria, and went to the nearby Church of St Cuthbert, where he spent an hour standing at the back of the nave, mulling over what he had learned. He realised he had nothing solid to tell Michael, only more supposition and theories. He shivered in the damp chill, and emerged to find snow falling thickly. It coated the streets in a fluffy white carpet, which was soon churned to slushy black ruts by carts, hoofs and feet. Cynric had finished exploring the market, and was waiting for him, so they walked down the hill together. Spayne emerged from his house as they passed. His expression was grim, and Bartholomew supposed he had ordered his argumentative sibling to stay indoors. If so, it was good advice: the air of menace that had seethed when her accusations were levelled was tangible, and he sensed a violent encounter between Guild and Commonalty was looming fast.
Bartholomew smiled as Spayne greeted him. For good measure, he reached out and gripped the man’s arm, to assess whether there was a bruise that might make him wince, but Spayne returned the gesture with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Bartholomew was not surprised: he had never shared Michael’s conviction that Spayne would have attacked him.
‘This snow,’ said Spayne unhappily, glancing up to where the flakes were large grey puffs against the brightness of the sky. ‘It is doing my roof no good at all. If I did not know better, I would say Kelby had asked the bishop to conjure up some foul weather.’
‘But you do know better,’ said Bartholomew. Spayne started to walk down the hill, and the physician fell into step with him, Cynric at his side. ‘Gynewell remains aloof from this feud.’
‘Actually, I meant that Gynewell would never petition the Devil for snow, because he hates the cold. If sweltering heat was afflicting us, I would have no doubt that he had been using his powers.’
‘What powers?’ asked Cynric immediately.
‘I had an unpleasant experience last night,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Spayne might be about to fuel the flames of Cynric’s superstition. ‘Felons attacked Michael and me in the Gilbertines’ orchard.’
‘The orchard?’ asked Spayne, startled. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Trying to reach the guest-hall,’ supplied Cynric, his tone verging on the accusatory. ‘The porter had been drugged, obviously to make sure they were obliged to go round the back, where someone was waiting to dispatch them.’
Bartholomew watched Spayne intently, but the man revealed nothing other than shock that such an incident should have occurred in the first place.
‘It is not the first time decent folk have suffered the depredations of villains recently,’ said Spayne worriedly. ‘Miller’s Market has encouraged some very rough men to visit our town. Last night, an alehouse quarrel ended in violence, and Chapman was badly injured.’
‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Injured where?’
Spayne regarded him oddly. ‘Outside the Angel.’ He pointed to a sign depicting a debauched-looking cherub, which seemed to be the only thing in the city not coated with snow.
‘I mean where on his body?’
Spayne gave a grin that smacked of relief. ‘Of course, you have a professional interest in these matters. He was stabbed in the arm.’
‘The arm,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully.
‘Surgeon Bunoun fears for his life,’ Spayne went on.
‘Then perhaps Miller might appreciate a second opinion,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding eager agreement at his side. ‘It sounds as though you were a witness to this attack.’
‘I was elsewhere when it happened, but I saw folk milling around as I came home – the Angel is between where I was conducting my business and my house. Miller wants revenge, but I think I have convinced him to reflect on the matter before doing anything rash.’
‘Revenge? Was it an attack on the Commonalty, then? You implied it was a tavern brawl.’
‘It was, but Miller still wants someone to pay. Unfortunately, that is the way of things in this city.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’
Spayne grimaced. ‘It is more than sorry – it is tragic. Lincoln is a lovely place, and I hate to see it torn apart by petty rivalries and jealousies. Look around you – indigent weavers who cannot feed their families; the Fossedike full of silt; beautiful buildings crumbling from neglect. If we were to put our energies into solving those problems, Lincoln would be great again.�
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‘It does look as though it has fallen on hard times,’ admitted Bartholomew.
‘I am sorry I cannot help you find Matilde,’ said Spayne suddenly. ‘I wish I could, but they are her secrets and it would be improper for me to betray her confidences. If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you herself. I know this is not what you want to hear.’
‘Very well ’
‘Do not be angry. I prayed to St Hugh last night, and asked for his guidance. No great insight came, but then I realised that was his answer: I should not intervene one way or the other.’
‘Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor are preparing me a list,’ said Bartholomew, rather defiantly.
Spayne smiled. ‘Good. I hope they tell you all I know and more. Then you will have what you want, and I shall have a clear conscience. It is the best of all solutions.’
They talked a while longer, and Bartholomew found Spayne hard to dislike. He wondered what it was about him that Michael had taken exception to, and was seriously considering his offer of a cup of wine when Cynric prodded him, to remind him of his duties to the monk and his investigation.
‘Visit me soon, and I shall show you a scroll I bought recently,’ said Spayne, disappointed by the refusal. ‘It is by the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meryonnes, and sheds a good deal of light on the mysteries of Blood Relics, which we discussed on Saturday. I would like your opinion.’
‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.
‘Do not wait too long,’ said Spayne. ‘The only member of the Commonality with the wits to debate such a subject is Langar, but now his lover, Nicholas Herl, is dead, he has lost his zest for life. But, if you will not debate Blood Relics with me now, I should be about my business.’
‘What business?’ asked Cynric nosily.
‘Mercantile affairs. It is dull stuff, and you would not be interested. Good morning, Doctor.’
‘What I find interesting is for me to decide,’ said Cynric, after Spayne had gone. ‘Not him. And I certainly would be intrigued to know why he was passing the Angel last night. You have to go by there if you are walking between the Gilbertine orchard and his house.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 31
