Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew sat next to the relic-seller and carefully removed the bandage, which was tight enough to have turned his fingers purple. It concealed a wound that was jagged, raw and already reddening from infection. When he looked closer, he saw specks of rust, and was able to conclude that it had not been the clean blade of his own sword that had caused the injury. Ergo, it had not been Chapman who had fought him in the orchard. The relic-seller chattered frantically as he worked, evidently to quell his nervousness at the treatment he was about to receive, and Bartholomew learned that the tavern brawl had occurred shortly before he and Michael had been attacked in the Gilbertine Priory.

  ‘I was busy at the time,’ said Miller cagily, just when Bartholomew had decided the Commonalty was innocent. ‘And I came back to find him like this. Surgeon Bunoun has done his best, but he says there is no hope. It does not look very serious to me, and we have had worse in the past, but Bunoun knows his business. If he says a wound will fester, it nearly always does.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Bunoun had seen more than his share of sepsis, if he was given to stitching up dirty wounds. ‘Is Bunoun the only medic to tend him?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Miller, ‘although a crone came and presented us with a healing balm. Chapman is well liked, you see, and she wanted to help. Bunoun said it would make no difference one way or the other, but we slapped some on anyway. She was trying to be kind.’

  ‘You could not be more wrong,’ said Bartholomew, fetching water from the pot over the fire and beginning to bathe the wound. ‘I can smell henbane in this salve, and that is poisonous.’

  ‘Poisonous?’ echoed Miller in shock, while Chapman lay back and groaned.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Will you send for more hot water and a clean cloth? This cut needs to be irrigated thoroughly and its edges resewn.’

  ‘You will stitch me again?’ asked Chapman, appalled. ‘But it was agony the first time.’

  Bartholomew was not surprised: Bunoun’s handiwork was crude to say the least. ‘What did the “crone” look like?’ he asked, when Miller had finished issuing orders to a maid.

  ‘Old,’ replied Miller, after a moment of serious thought. ‘She was crouch-backed and her face was covered by her cloak. She was just a crone.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, sure a man in the devious-sounding ‘export–import business’ would know about disguises. ‘Tell me what happened in the Swan,’ he said to Chapman, when Miller did not seem able to provide a better description. ‘Who attacked you?’

  ‘A man,’ replied Chapman indignantly. ‘I went outside to relieve myself, and he was waiting for me. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was something about him that made me think it was Dalderby.’

  ‘How can that be possible?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was injured by an arrow, and is in no state to fight anyone.’

  ‘He has recovered,’ said Miller, in a voice that made it clear he wished he had not. ‘Langar should not have encouraged Bunoun to save him.’

  ‘Langar is losing his touch,’ agreed Chapman. ‘He is full of bad advice these days. We were right to keep from him the business of … but we should not discuss this in front of strangers.’

  ‘I was attacked last night, too,’ said Bartholomew, speaking to fill an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Then you are lucky you did not end up like poor Chapman,’ said Miller. His expression was impossible to read. ‘Lincoln can be a dangerous city.’

  Bartholomew turned his full attention to his patient, and asked Miller to see what had happened to the hot water. When Miller opened the door to bellow down to the kitchen, Bartholomew glimpsed a shadow in the corridor, and knew it was Cynric. His uneasiness intensified: they were playing a reckless game. He could hear de Wetherset and Langar arguing furiously, and hoped the row would not erupt into violence. Uncomfortable and unhappy, he pushed up Chapman’s sleeve to inspect the wound more closely and gaped when he saw a blue mark on the man’s shoulder. It was a chalice.

  ‘What is that?’ he blurted, before it occurred to him that he should have pretended not to notice.

  ‘Something personal,’ replied Chapman suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ hedged Bartholomew, trying to smile and failing miserably.

  Miller stepped forward, and Bartholomew tensed, expecting to feel powerful hands lock around his throat or hear the sound of a dagger being drawn. His hand dropped to his own knife.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Miller, when he saw what they were talking about. ‘I have often wondered how you came by that. Aylmer and Nicholas Herl had similar marks. I always thought they looked like cups.’

  ‘Yes, symbols of good living,’ said Chapman with a weak grin. ‘Claret, you know.’

  ‘Flaxfleete had one, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the bull by the horns. ‘Is it a sign of alliance?’

  Miller made a guttural hissing sound that Bartholomew assumed was a laugh. ‘Flaxfleete hated the Commonalty – Chapman, Aylmer and Herl included. He would never have made an alliance with them, nor they with him. Eh, Chapman?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Chapman shiftily. ‘As I said, it is just something to express my fondness for wine. But I do not want to think about wine now, not when I feel so ill. Please stay with me, Miller.’

  ‘If you insist,’ said Miller reluctantly. He plumped himself down on the bed, and took the relic-seller’s fluttering hand. ‘Although I do not like surgeons and the grisly things they do to living flesh.’

  ‘I am not a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’

  ‘University trained,’ explained Chapman, when Miller seemed unaware of the difference. ‘Surgeons just cut things off. Bunoun wanted to remove my arm last night, remember? You objected.’

  ‘I was afraid he would make a mess on the rugs – the new ones, from Greece. But get on with whatever you plan to do, physician, or my resolve will fail.’ Miller hawked and spat, making Bartholomew itch to point out that phlegm on his prize carpets was just as unappealing as gore.

  Bartholomew unpicked the crude stitches, cleaned the wound, and sewed it shut in a way that left the lower part open for natural suppuration, following the accepted procedure adopted by all good medics. Each stage was accompanied by agonised shrieks from his patient, but it was Miller who grew steadily more pale, so much so that Bartholomew was afraid he might faint.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chapman when all was finished, remarkably pert after the racket he had made. ‘You did not hurt me nearly as much Bunoun did. We should reward him handsomely for that, Miller.’

  ‘It sounded as though he was killing you,’ said Miller, putting a hand over his mouth as though he might be sick. Bartholomew passed him a bowl. ‘What do you want me to give him?’

  ‘A relic,’ replied Chapman. ‘A bone, perhaps.’

  ‘That is not necessary,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Given Chapman’s reputation, the gift would almost certainly be a fake, but Bartholomew did not want the responsibility regardless.

  ‘A man not desperate for a fee,’ mused Miller suspiciously. ‘You are an odd sort.’

  ‘Give him one … no two of those white pearls,’ said Chapman, determined Bartholomew should not leave empty-handed. ‘The ones that belonged to the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘The Virgin wore pearls?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously.

  ‘Just on Sundays,’ said Chapman. He settled down in his bed. ‘If I live, I will give you two more.’

  ‘And if he dies, I will bury them with you,’ growled Miller, eyeing Bartholomew malevolently.

  In Miller’s solar downstairs, a vicious argument was in full swing. Suttone thought a reliquary containing Joseph’s teeth was a suitable gift, while de Wetherset believed the cathedral would prefer a paten. Langar had taken Suttone’s side, and de Wetherset archly demanded what a lawyer could know about the needs of a holy minster. When Bartholomew looked at the dean, to see where he stood on the debate, he could not help but notice that there were no longer four go
ld goblets on the tray with the jug: there were three.

  ‘That consultation sounded painful,’ said de Wetherset, interrupting Suttone to address the physician. Having his own say then changing the subject before anyone could take issue was an annoying habit that Bartholomew remembered from Cambridge. ‘Have you killed the poor fellow?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Master Miller will be vexed if so.’

  ‘I will be more than vexed,’ grunted Miller. ‘I will ki—’

  ‘He will pray to Little Hugh,’ interrupted Langar. ‘And if Chapman dies, and the physician follows him to his grave, do not come here looking for explanations. It will be what the saint has ordained.’

  ‘If Chapman does die, it will not be Bartholomew’s fault,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘He is a talented physician, but there is only so much he can do once a patient’s humours are in disarray.’

  Bartholomew was pleasantly surprised by the vote of confidence, especially since de Wetherset had never been one of his patients. He turned to Miller and Langar. ‘Do not give Chapman anything brought by well-wishers. I will return tomorrow and change the dressing. Keep him warm and quiet, and let him drink as much as he wants – ale, though, not wine. Wine would not be good for him.’

  Langar nodded. ‘We can do that. What are his chances of life?’

  ‘Fairly good, if you follow my instructions,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. He saw a flicker of movement in the passage outside the hall, and supposed it was Cynric again. He wished the book-bearer would hurry up and leave, and found his stomach churning in nervous apprehension.

  ‘Here are your white pearls,’ said Miller, going to a box on the table and picking out the two smallest. Bartholomew recalled that Sheriff Lungspee had received white pearls from Miller, too, as a bribe to see some member of the Commonalty acquitted of a crime he had almost certainly committed.

  ‘Has Brother Michael found Aylmer’s killer yet?’ asked Langar.

  Bartholomew dropped one of the pearls on the floor, to give Cynric more time to escape while he recovered it. ‘I am afraid you will have to ask him. How about you? Have you discovered what happened to Herl?’

  Langar smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression, and reminded Bartholomew of the lizards he had seen in southern France. ‘You helped, when you inspected his body for that woman—’

  ‘Sabina,’ supplied Miller helpfully, bending to retrieve the gem from a gap in the floorboards and hand it back. ‘His wife.’

  Langar glowered at the hated name. ‘—and ascertained that he had been poisoned. It is odd that Flaxfleete died of the same thing. That woman said it is all to do with Summer Madness.’

  ‘Perhaps it is set to return,’ said Suttone, rubbing his hands rather gleefully. ‘Like the plague.’

  ‘Flaxfleete did not have Summer Madness when he set Spayne’s property alight,’ said Miller. ‘So, Ursula was right to poison him in revenge. Do you think she killed Dalderby, too?’

  ‘Ursula has not killed anyone,’ said Langar warningly.

  ‘So you say,’ retorted Miller. ‘Remember, though, that Dalderby was going around telling folk it was Thoresby who shot him, when he promised on his deathbed at the butts to forget their quarrel. She did not like that.’

  ‘Dalderby is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The arrow wound in his arm was not fatal.’

  ‘He died this morning,’ explained Langar. ‘Although I heard it was not his wound that killed him.’

  ‘Perhaps Ursula knows it was Dalderby who stabbed Chapman last night,’ said Miller flatly. ‘And and the outrage was too much for her. It is certainly too much for me.’

  Bartholomew could see Cynric lounging safely against the house across the street, and was desperate to be away from Miller. His thoughts churned in confusion. Who and what had killed Dalderby? Should he inspect the body, and try to find out? It might be pertinent if he had died from ingesting the same poison that had killed Flaxfleete and Herl, and that had been offered to Michael.

  ‘I am needed back at the cathedral,’ said Simon importantly. ‘And we should let Master Miller be about his business. What will it be, Suttone? Teeth or paten?’

  ‘Teeth,’ said Suttone, ignoring de Wetherset’s sigh that his opinion had been disregarded.

  They took their leave of Miller. The dean disappeared on an errand of his own, and Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon followed the physician back towards the city.

  ‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ said Bartholomew to de Wetherset as they went.

  De Wetherset clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are welcome. I am sure you will remember my loyalty when I resume my duties as Chancellor at Cambridge.’

  ‘When might that be?’ asked Suttone in alarm. ‘I intend to hold that post myself.’

  ‘I have not decided,’ said de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So, the field is yours until I do. I may even vote for you – on the understanding that you vote for me when I make my bid for power, of course.’

  They began to discuss strategies, all of which acknowledged the possibility that Michael might stand himself. Bartholomew suspected neither would succeed if the clever monk was a contender.

  ‘Lord!’ he muttered, when Cynric came to walk next to him. ‘That was unpleasant. I was afraid for you, worried what these garrulous scholars might be saying to Langar, and nervous of harming Chapman. You should have heard him scream.’

  ‘I did,’ said Cynric dryly. ‘And so did every other soul in Lincoln, I imagine.’

  ‘Did you discover anything useful?’ asked Bartholomew. Now the ordeal was over, his legs felt rubbery, and he hoped it had not all been in vain.

  Cynric grimaced. ‘There was a cellar, but it had a lock I could not pick. It is an odd room to secure, because most folk keep their valuables under the floorboards in their bedchambers. Burglaries tend to occur at night, see, and folk like to have their goods with them when they are asleep.’

  Bartholomew recalled Miller’s unconvincing claim that his basement was empty, and supposed he really did keep ‘goods of dubious origin’ in them. ‘It is probably just as well you did not search it. You would almost certainly have found it stuffed to the gills with illegal imports, and perhaps even stolen property. We do not want to carry that sort of knowledge around with us.’

  Cynric shrugged. ‘Perhaps. It was galling to meet a door and not be able to get past it, though.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely comfortable with this particular skill of Cynric’s. ‘Was there anything else?’

  Cynric shrugged. ‘Just this.’

  He pulled something from under his cloak, and held it so only Bartholomew could see. It was a silver chalice, battered and dented, and identical to the one in the Gilbertines’ chapel.

  When Bartholomew, Cynric and the others reached the Pultria, the city felt unusually subdued for a weekday. The snow had stopped, but the sky was a dirty yellow-grey, suggesting there was more to come. Dusk would settle early, and Bartholomew was determined to be back inside the Gilbertine Priory before more would-be assassins could use the cover of darkness to strike at him.

  ‘Miller denied being kin to Simon when I asked,’ he said to his book-bearer. ‘I am inclined to believe him, because there is no reason for either of them to lie.’

  ‘There is,’ argued Cynric. ‘If you were a priest, would you admit that your brother is the biggest scoundrel in the city? And Simon has been a humble vicar for two decades, yet he can afford to buy relics and give them away. The reason he can do this is because his brother gives him money.’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘Possibly, but—’

  ‘There is a funeral procession,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘That explains why the Pultria is so quiet.’

  ‘Flaxfleete’s,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Kelby carry the candle at the head of the cortege. Behind him, two guildsmen tolled hand-bells, and there were several cathedral dignitaries among the mourners. On top of the coffin was a large jewel-studd
ed box.

  ‘Do you see Kelby’s candle?’ whispered Cynric, pinching Bartholomew’s arm. ‘It is not lit!’

  ‘It has blown out,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is windy this afternoon.’

  ‘No, it is because he had a hand in his friend’s murder and God extinguished it,’ averred Cynric. ‘God does not like hypocrisy at funerals. I heard Langar tell Miller what happened to Flaxfleete yesterday: Kelby is so scared that Miller might kill him to even the score for Herl and Aylmer that he killed Flaxfleete himself, to make amends. A sacrifice.’

  ‘Langar must have been listening to Ursula,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is what she thinks.’

  ‘See that nice box on the coffin?’ asked Cynric. ‘That is the new reliquary for the Hugh Chalice. Flaxfleete was going to present it at the installation on Sunday. Quarrel at the Swan told me. It is being displayed now, so folk will know who donated it when Simon makes his presentation of the cup. It is the Guild’s way of making sure they get credit, see.’

  A number of people had gathered to watch the sombre ceremony. Among them were Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana, who were in the unlikely company of Sheriff Lungspee. Bartholomew went to stand with them, Cynric at his heels, looking around for Michael as he did so. The monk was nowhere to be seen and, uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether he was sleeping off his exertions.

  ‘A sorry business,’ said Dame Eleanor quietly. ‘Flaxfleete was too young to be taken to God.’

  ‘We worked on your list today,’ said Christiana, more interested in talking to the physician than watching the dismal spectacle of a casket borne through the wintry streets. ‘Michael asked us to.’

  Dame Eleanor smiled fondly, while Bartholomew pondered the familiar use of the monk’s name. ‘When you find her, you can tell her she will always be welcome to live in Lincoln.’

  ‘And us helping you will show Spayne that not everyone is mean,’ said Christiana. She tossed her head in a way that showed her long neck to its best advantage. Lungspee leered his admiration, and so did several men in the funeral procession. Christiana noticed, and a smile of satisfaction flitted across her lovely face.