‘Look at this silver bracelet,’ said Lungspee, tearing his eyes away from her as he proffered the bauble for everyone to see. ‘Dalderby gave it to me last night, because he said he might need my help over accusations pertaining to the stabbing of Chapman. It probably means he did it. It is a good thing he passed it to me when he did, because he died this morning.’
Eleanor was shocked. ‘Are you saying you accepted a bribe? Or did I misunderstand?’
‘You misunderstood,’ said Lungspee glibly. ‘I never accept bribes. That would be illegal. This is not an inducement: it is a token of brotherly esteem.’
‘What happened to Dalderby?’ asked Bartholomew, before she could quiz him further. Squeamishly, he did not want to see what would happen when the saintly old lady learned of the sheriff’s fondness for having the wheels of justice oiled.
‘He suffered a hard blow to the head,’ replied Lungspee, raking dirty fingers through his long hair. ‘It occurred outside Spayne’s house. He managed to stagger to Kelby, but said nothing before he died. It is a pity, since his death and Flaxfleete’s mean a shift in the balance of power.’
‘This horrible feud!’ said Dame Eleanor with considerable feeling. ‘I am heartily sick of it!’
‘I shall do my best to avert a crisis,’ said Lungspee, although he did not sound very keen. ‘However, my sergeants have not been paid for two months, and they are becoming slow to follow orders.’
‘I assume you intend to investigate Dalderby’s murder, Sheriff,’ said Dame Eleanor coolly. ‘Or do you intend to pretend it did not happen?’
Lungspee grimaced. ‘He almost certainly stabbed Chapman, so the culprit will be a member of the Commonalty or their supporters. I will ask a few questions, but I doubt I will ever learn the truth.’
‘Were there any other wounds on him?’ asked Bartholomew. If the fellow had been sufficiently recovered from his shooting to bribe sheriffs and ambush relic-sellers, then he was fit enough to stand in a dark garden and loose arrows at monks and physicians.
‘I did not look,’ said Lungspee. ‘There was no need, not having seen the crack in his skull. Why?’
‘He is a physician,’ explained Eleanor. ‘They are trained to ask odd questions. But it is nearing dusk, and I should return to my shrines for vespers. Will you escort me, Christiana?’
Before she left, Christiana showed Bartholomew and Cynric a small wooden carving of a soldier. ‘I bought this for young Hugh today, and I cannot wait to give it to him. He will adore it, and it always gives me pleasure to see gifts so happily accepted.’
‘Father Simon wrote some loving words to your mother today, lady,’ said Cynric before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘In a prayer.’
Christiana was surprised and touched. ‘How kind. He always was fond of her.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Cynric blandly. ‘Very fond, I should think.’
It was dark by the time Bartholomew left the Pultria. He could have forced his way through the crowds that had gathered to watch Flaxfleete’s cortege, but the news of Dalderby’s murder had unsettled him, and he did not want to draw attention to himself. He decided it was safer to maintain a low profile.
‘Quite right,’ said de Wetherset, when he voiced his concern. ‘The city is often uneasy, but I detect something especially nasty in the air today. The deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer, Herl and now Dalderby have caused ripples that force men to take sides, even those who would prefer to remain neutral.’
Suttone agreed. ‘And it would not do for us to make a bid for escape in the middle of a funeral, anyway. It will look as though we do not care about the soul of the deceased.’
‘The crowds will be gone in an hour, and we can walk back to the convent together,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I doubt anyone will attack five of us, especially if one is a Suttone.’
‘You are making the situation sound worse than it is,’ objected Simon. ‘It is uneasy, not perilous.’
‘Matthew and Cynric would not agree,’ said Suttone. ‘Look what happened to them.’
So, it was well past four o’clock before de Wetherset declared the throng thin enough to allow them to leave. A spiteful wind brought heavy clouds from the north; they blocked out the moon and any light there might have been from the stars. There was a metallic scent in the air, and Bartholomew knew it would snow again that night. It was bitterly cold, and his thick winter cloak was doing little to keep him warm. He felt sorry for the beggars, who were gathering in doorways and the shelter of walls, certain some would freeze to death before dawn.
‘There is Michael,’ said Suttone, pointing down the hill. The monk had hired a boy to light his way with a lantern, although the lad was moving rather too quickly, and had to be called back every few moments. Bartholomew saw it was Hugh, making money after dark with what appeared to be one of the minster’s ceremonial lamps.
‘Gynewell came to see me this afternoon,’ said Michael breathlessly, when their paths converged. ‘I have been ordered to look into Tetford’s death now, as well as Aylmer’s.
He could have saved himself the journey: I feel honour-bound to look into it, anyway, as Tetford was my deputy. Furthermore, Bishop de Lisle is sure to want to know who killed his nephew, especially since Tetford came to me last night and claimed he was about to turn over a new leaf.’
Simon laughed derisively. ‘And you believed him? Really, Brother!’
‘I did believe him,’ said Michael. ‘I questioned his colleagues today, and he did close his tavern and sell his wine. His good intentions may not have lasted, but he was in earnest yesterday.’
‘Did you ever visit his alehouse?’ asked Simon. ‘If so, you will know it was a lucrative business. He would have had to be very serious about reforming to give that up. I doubt he had it in him.’
‘I shall not argue,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, I will make sure Bishop de Lisle knows that his nephew’s last moments were full of noble sentiments.’
‘However, these noble sentiments were expressed while he was giving you a poison-filled wineskin,’ said Bartholomew, so only the monk could hear.
‘And it is equally possible that the contents were intended for him,’ Michael muttered back. ‘Whatever the truth, I intend to find it, no matter where it leads.’
‘Archdeacon Ravenser has the tavern now,’ said Cynric. ‘He invited us to visit it tonight, Brother. Perhaps we should go, so you can see it for yourself. We should be safe enough. After all, what harm can befall us in the Cathedral Close?’
‘I shall accompany you,’ said de Wetherset, while Bartholomew regarded the book-bearer askance: some of their best suspects for the previous night’s attack were officers in the minster. ‘I have never been in the Tavern in the Close, and I do not want my future colleagues to consider me aloof.’
‘You have lived in Lincoln for years,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘Surely you have been to this alehouse before? It is very … well known.’
‘I have not,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘Such places nearly always smell of wet dog, an odour I find inordinately distasteful. However, I shall put up with the unpleasantness this evening, just so I can say I have been, should anyone ever ask.’
‘Then I will come, too,’ announced Suttone. ‘What is good enough for an ex-Chancellor is good enough for one of his successors.’
‘They have no idea what they are letting themselves in for,’ said Simon, watching Suttone and de Wetherset began to retrace their steps. ‘Shall we tell them?’
‘Wild, is it?’ asked Cynric keenly. ‘I like a tavern where a man can tell whatever tales he pleases.’
‘You could say it was wild,’ said Simon, regarding him wryly. ‘I do not want to be caught there by Gynewell, though. He does not approve of it. I am going home.’
‘You will walk to the Gilbertine convent alone?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In the dark?’
‘Yes, and the sooner the better. I can feel snow in the air already.’
‘Be careful, then,’ warned Mi
chael. ‘Do not forget what happened to us last night. We still have no idea who was responsible.’
‘My chief suspect is Spayne,’ murmured Cynric softly to Bartholomew.
Simon had sharper ears than the book-bearer had expected, and he heard the comment. ‘I sincerely doubt it. He has never done that sort of thing before, and he has had plenty of provocation.’
‘From whom?’ asked Michael.
‘Langar is not always a reasonable or pleasant ally, and their rival Kelby can be nasty. I would be astonished if Spayne would attack you two after a few days, but has put up with them for years.’
‘I do not think Spayne is responsible, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I grabbed his arm today, and there is no evidence of a bruise.’
‘However, he admitted he was abroad last night, and refused to say where,’ said Cynric, giving Michael a meaningful look. He and the monk were united as far as Spayne was concerned.
‘He did say: he was at business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was returning home when he saw the chaos surrounding Chapman’s stabbing.’
‘Outside the Angel, he said,’ elaborated Cynric, still looking at Michael. ‘However, Chapman was wounded outside the Swan. Spayne lied.’
Simon was dismissive. ‘There will be a rational explanation. Spayne said the Angel, but meant the Swan. The Angel is where the Commonalty usually drink, so it is an understandable slip.’
‘Perhaps Spayne was not the swordsman you wounded, Matt,’ said Michael, not sure what to believe, ‘but he might have been one of the three others.’
‘He would have been a far more formidable opponent than any of them.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Simon, ‘although that is not to say I think he is guilty. Spayne is not like you – the sons of wealthy landowners. He was an oblate at an abbey from the age of five. While you two were playing with wooden swords and learning how to ride, he was singing psalms. He later declined to take holy orders, and opted for a career in wool instead.’
‘That explains his interest in Blood Relics,’ said Bartholomew.
‘The point I am making is that Spayne is unfamiliar with any kind of weapon,’ said Simon. ‘Lord, it is cold out here! The sooner I am home by the fire, the better. Do not stay out too late, not with a blizzard coming.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘So, Spayne is in the clear. It was not he who attacked us, as I have been saying all along. He does not know how.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael. ‘Simon’s testimony suggests to me that Spayne might well have staged a feeble attack, then fled in terror when he realised he was out of his depth. But we will not agree, so we shall waste no more time debating. Let us go to this tavern, and see what the minster priests can tell us about Aylmer and Tetford.’
John was waiting to let the scholars in through the Close gate, stamping his feet to stay warm. Ravenser’s tavern was larger than Bartholomew had expected, even bigger than the Swan. Lights burned within, visible under badly fitting window shutters, and there was loud, thumping music that included a flute and drum. Shouts and cheers accompanied the instruments, and it was a lot more rowdy than anything he had seen in the city. John excused himself before they entered.
‘You will not join us for a drink, cousin?’ asked Suttone. ‘It will give us a chance to talk.’
John’s tone was cool. ‘A canonelect can have nothing to say to a Poor Clerk with no prospects.’
‘Talk to me instead, then,’ suggested Michael. ‘You can tell me about Aylmer and Tetford.’
John’s expression was prim. ‘Willingly, Brother, but not in there. I take no strong drink, and I am scrupulously celibate. Good night – and if you want me, I shall be praying at the High Altar.’
‘Sanctimonious prig,’ muttered Suttone, watching him strut towards the cathedral. ‘He always was that way, which has never endeared him to me. I prefer his younger brother, Hugh.’
‘What do you think of Father Simon?’ Bartholomew asked of de Wetherset, as they scraped mud, ice and ordure from their feet outside the alehouse door.
De Wetherset shrugged. ‘He never misses an office, so will make a good canon. Can we discuss this inside? It is freezing out here. Ah, here is a charming young maid to take our cloaks. How kind. A warm welcome makes such a difference. And I cannot smell wet dog, either. Thank you, child.’
‘That is all right, Father,’ said the woman with a sultry smile. ‘Welcome to Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, which is the new name for the Tavern in the Close. I am Belle. What can I do for you?’
‘I would like some ale, Belle,’ said de Wetherset, rubbing his hands as he looked around him. ‘Spiced, if you please, although not to the extent that you might flavour it for Bishop Gynewell.’
‘The bishop will never come here,’ said Belle ruefully. ‘However, Ravenser said we must do anything he asks, if he ever does put in an appearance, even if it involves his pitchfork. Gynewell wants this alehouse closed, you see, and us ladies thrown on the streets with nowhere to go.’
‘Do not worry,’ said de Wetherset kindly. ‘There is always a demand for the labour of virtuous maidens.’
She shot him a bemused glance, then led them to a table near one of the room’s two fires. The wood was well worn, and full of the kind of dents that said a good deal of jug-bashing had taken place on it. They sat and Belle fetched ale. She tripped as she approached, slopping some on Cynric’s sleeve, and when she placed the other goblets on the table, she did so clumsily enough to spill more.
‘Perhaps she would be unemployed if Gynewell suppresses this place,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘I do not like to be rude, but she is not very good at serving drinks.’
‘I suspect her talents lie in other areas,’ said Michael. He ordered food, and when the rabbit pie arrived, she slapped it down in a way that splattered Suttone’s habit with gravy. He tutted in annoyance, but did not make the kind of fuss he would have done had an ugly boy been the culprit. When she wiped his lap with a cloth, taking rather longer than necessary, he forgave her completely.
‘She is very obliging,’ said de Wetherset to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is why she is so popular. Lots of Vicars Choral are calling to her, trying to attract her attention.’
‘Good evening, sirs,’ said another woman. The front of her dress was indecently low, and it became more so as she leaned across the table to refill their cups. Bartholomew saw de Wetherset’s jaw drop. She ran her eyes across the gathering like a butcher looking for prime cuts, and her insolent gaze fell on Michael. ‘Oh, my! You are a large man. Tetford was right.’
‘Rosanna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The seamstress who adjusted Michael’s ceremonial alb?’
‘The very same,’ she crooned, her eyes fixed on the monk. ‘Now I see why Tetford insisted it should be so massive. Yours is an impressive figure, Brother.’
Michael preened himself. ‘Some of my colleagues say I am fat.’
‘Then they do not know what they are talking about. However, I imagine you have some very big bones.’
Bartholomew laughed, although Michael did not see anything amusing in the comment. ‘Tetford fought Ravenser over a misunderstanding involving you,’ said the monk.
She grinned mischievously. ‘A mistake was made in booking arrangements. Tetford was nasty about it, and I am pleased we now work for Ravenser. He will be a far nicer master.’ ‘You did not like Tetford, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He was miserly and spiteful. Ravenser may seem wild, but he has a good heart. I think the tavern will do very well under him. For a few ghastly hours, we thought it might go to John Suttone.’
‘John?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘He is not the kind of man who would run a … ’ He waved his hand, not sure what to call it.
‘He is good at administration, and the canons asked if he would consider taking on the responsibility. He would have bowed to the bishop’s demands for moderation, though, and that would have been tedious. Now, whose company would you like? There is Belle from
Wigford, and Jane and Agnes from Newport. And, since there are four of you, I shall make sure I am to hand, too.’
‘To hand for what?’ asked de Wetherset, bewildered. ‘We have come for a drink.’
‘Of course you have, Father. Now, you sit quietly and I will send Belle over. I think you have already taken a liking to her, and she certainly has to you. Look! She is waving.’
‘I do not want the company of women,’ objected de Wetherset, puzzled. ‘I encountered a new argument pertaining to Blood Relics today, and I intend to practise it on my colleagues here. A lady would be bored with such an erudite discourse, and her restless shuffling might distract them.’
‘Belle will sit still, if that is what you would like,’ said Rosanna patiently, her eyes as old as the hills. ‘Have no fear, Father. She will be very gentle with you.’
‘Later, perhaps,’ said Michael, smothering a smile. ‘We would like to enjoy our ale first.’
‘Very well,’ said Rosanna. ‘Call us when you are ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ asked de Wetherset when she had gone. ‘This is a curious institution. I do not think I will be coming here very often, once I am a canon.’
‘I might,’ said Suttone perkily. ‘It is a charming place.’
The evening wore on, and de Wetherset remained bemused by Ravenser’s House of Pleasure. Most patrons were priests, although there was a smattering of secular clerks and servants. The atmosphere was raucous and dissipated, and even Cynric declared it too noisy. It was hot, too, which de Wetherset said explained why so many serving wenches were half naked. Cynric watched in shock, until one tried to sit on his lap, at which point he excused himself and scuttled outside, muttering something about his wife. Meanwhile, some of the men divested themselves of cloaks, tunics and even shifts.
‘I would never have agreed to Tetford’s nomination had I known he managed a place like this,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, over the din of a drinking game taking place between Claypole and one of the Poor Clerks. ‘There are limits, and this is well past them. Part of my reason for coming here tonight was so I could see if anyone caught my eye as a potential replacement for Tetford, but I do not think I want to hire a Vicar Choral who enjoys this sort of entertainment.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 34
