‘Do you think Bishop de Lisle knows what Tetford was like?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I sincerely doubt it. If the establishment was discreet, he might have turned a blind eye, but this is brazen, to say the least. I hate to say it, but Tetford’s death has spared me a good deal of trouble.’
‘Here comes Ravenser,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is no longer wearing his sword.’
‘Good evening,’ said Ravenser jovially. ‘I am pleased you could come. I was afraid you might not, and tonight promises to be an excellent evening. Just wait until the amusements really begin.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘This is more than enough for me already.’
‘Is it like this every night?’ asked de Wetherset, wonderingly.
‘I hope so,’ whispered Suttone, red-faced from ale and enjoying himself thoroughly.
Ravenser smiled. ‘The Guild sent us a donation of wine when they learned I was to take over. Kelby wanted us to drink to Flaxfleete’s memory.’
‘I had forgotten the Guild provides the minster with money for its vices,’ said Michael.
‘The Guild is good to us,’ said Ravenser, ignoring the censure in his tone. ‘I hope the deaths of Flaxfleete and Dalderby do not upset the balance, and make it weaker than the Commonalty. I wonder if that was why someone tried to kill Chapman – to maintain the equilibrium.’
‘Someone was determined he should die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was attacked with a sword, then provided with a poisonous salve. He is lucky to be alive.’
Ravenser excused himself when a roar of approval indicated that Claypole had won the round, and the scholars were left alone again. A woman called Jane of Newport insinuated herself next to de Wetherset, and her sister Agnes squeezed between Bartholomew and Michael. Suttone was dismayed, until Belle sat on his knee, claiming there was no room on the bench.
‘Ladies, please,’ objected de Wetherset plaintively. ‘We are trying to discuss theology.’
‘Is that so, Father?’ said Jane, her voice low and husky. ‘Then do not mind us.’
‘Claypole is in good spirits,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching the priest challenge another Poor Clerk to out-drink him. ‘I wondered earlier whether he might be pleased by Tetford’s death.’
‘I saw him escort Christiana to the Swan for a cup of wine,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She was not overly enthusiastic, but he was delighted. I imagine his success in spending an hour alone with her is the cause of his ebullience tonight. It is a pity she cannot see him now – depraved and reeling.’
‘Is that Hugh?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to where someone was struggling to broach a barrel of ale. ‘He seems to be everywhere – acting as a lantern-bearer, running errands for Gynewell.’
‘It is because he is always in trouble,’ said Agnes. ‘He cannot resist playing pranks on his elders, and is always being ordered to pay fines. He needs every penny he can earn.’
It was not long before Hugh came to seek them out. His eyes were heavy and his hair tousled, as if he had been dozing somewhere when he should have been serving the tavern’s thirsty patrons. He grinned cheekily at Michael. ‘Can I conduct you to any merchants’ houses, Brother?’
‘You should be asleep,’ admonished Michael. ‘You have to rise early to sing tomorrow.’
‘Ravenser said he will let me off prime the mornings after I work here,’ said Hugh. ‘I suppose he will make a decent inn-master, but I really wanted John to get the post.’
‘I doubt John would have enjoyed playing the role of taverner,’ said Suttone.
Hugh wrinkled his nose. ‘Probably not, but I would have liked him to do it, because then he would have given me the best jobs. He says it is a duty to look after one’s family.’
Suttone raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but Hugh did not seem to realise that the remark had been a barb directed at his cousin. ‘Then when he is a canon, he can be as nepotistic as he pleases.’
The scholars’ conversation had become desultory once the women had draped themselves around their table. Suttone tried to begin a debate about the causes of the plague, but Jane said the disease had left her with vile memories, and asked him to desist. Then de Wetherset said he would like to propound the notion of creatio ex nihilo, which he claimed was always a good topic to break the ice, and he and Michael managed a spirited argument until Agnes said she was bored and left. When Belle and Jane attempted to do the same, it was Suttone who persuaded them to stay.
‘Here is Bresley,’ said Michael, as the door opened and the dean walked in. Several men’s hands dropped to their purses, and Ravenser went to a pot, where coins had been left for the women, and locked it in a cupboard. ‘He will have something to say about all this racket.’
Instead of bringing the carousing to an end, Bresley strolled to a bench and sat, snapping his fingers at Hugh to bring him some wine. Agnes went to stand behind him, but he made no effort to move away when she flopped an arm across his shoulder. He rummaged under his robes and his hand emerged with something gold. His actions were odd enough to encourage Bartholomew to watch him.
Michael tried to peer around Jane, who was intent on crawling into his lap; the monk seemed powerless to resist her relentless advance. ‘Can you see what he is doing?’ ‘He has just put something under Agnes’s skirts,’ replied Bartholomew. He laughed when Michael blushed modestly. ‘Something metal.’ ‘We should leave,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘Simon was right: we should not be here. And I am surprised the dean dares show his face, given that he wants the place closed down. He is—’
‘Madam!’ shrieked de Wetherset suddenly, leaping to his feet. His face had flushed scarlet, and he was shaking. ‘Madam!’
‘What?’ demanded Belle irritably.
‘Your hand! It wandered a second time! The first I understand was an error, but to do it twice … !’
Belle frowned, puzzled. ‘Rosanna told me to make sure you were happy.’
‘I was happy,’ yelled de Wetherset, ‘until you … I shall not stay here to be molested. I am leaving!’
‘What about my payment?’ demanded Belle. Other women began to mutter ominously.
‘Payment for what?’ asked de Wetherset, amazed. ‘Ravenser said the food and ale was from him.’
‘We should all be going home,’ said Michael hastily, pressing a coin into Belle’s hand.
Bartholomew led the still-spluttering de Wetherset outside to where Cynric was waiting, his face a cool mask of disapproval.
‘You lingered a long time,’ he said, accusingly. ‘I expected you to follow my example sooner.’
‘She … she touched me,’ stammered de Wetherset, outraged. ‘And I am absolutely certain it was deliberate. She must have been trying to seduce me!’
‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to lovely women, then?’ asked Suttone sullenly. He had not been touched and seduced enough.
‘Of course I am!’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘Powerful men are irresistible to people of either sex, but that is no excuse for her to make herself familiar with my person. We are in the sacred confines of a Cathedral Close! I certainly shall not visit that den of iniquity again.’
Agnes had followed them outside. ‘Ravenser said you forgot this,’ she said, passing the cloak de Wetherset had abandoned in his agitation. ‘It is cold, and you will not want to walk home without it.’
Ungraciously, de Wetherset snatched it from her hand and strode away, Suttone hurrying after him when he saw him head in entirely the wrong direction in his agitation. While the monk watched Suttone herd the ex-Chancellor towards the right gate, Bartholomew made a grab for the folds of Agnes’s unfashionably voluminous skirts. She started to screech, but stopped abruptly when he located a linen bag hidden among the pleats. It was suspended by a ribbon, and clanked in a way that suggested several items were contained within.
‘That is mine,’ snapped Agnes, trying to wriggle away from him. ‘The men here sometimes do not have coins, so they pay with other items instead.�
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Bartholomew tugged the bag, breaking the ribbon. Agnes hastened to snatch it back, but he fended her off with one hand and emptied its contents on to the ground with the other.
‘This,’ he said, grabbing a gold cup to wave at her, ‘belongs to Adam Miller. It is one of a set of four, although the dean has ensured that Miller is now the perplexed owner of a set of three.’
‘I will give it to the bishop tomorrow,’ she said sulkily. ‘There is a special box for anything from the dean, and Gynewell always makes sure it gets to its rightful owner. It is part of the arrangement of working here: anything from Bresley goes to the bishop, and the rest we can keep.’
‘How odd,’ said Michael, bemused.
‘Bresley is ill,’ explained Agnes. ‘He does not know what he is doing. The bishop says he is a good dean, and does not want to find a replacement, although it means he is obliged to spend an hour of each morning returning borrowed property. That cup will be back with Miller by noon tomorrow.’
‘And what is this?’ asked Cynric, picking up another item. ‘Did the dean give you this, too?’
Michael gazed at it in shock. ‘That is the Hugh Chalice!’
‘So is this,’ said Cynric, producing the one he had taken from Miller’s house.
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, placing them side by side and inspecting them in the dim light of the lamp that burned above the tavern’s door. ‘They are identical. Which is the real one?’
‘The one in the Gilbertine Priory presumably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless all three are fakes.’
‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Michael of Agnes. ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘Tetford,’ said Agnes reluctantly. ‘After he had decided to close his tavern. He gave one to each of his favourite girls, and said we could sell them to keep us from poverty. He said they were the cups St Hugh used for his wild – but generally respectable – parties.’
‘And how did Tetford come by them?’ asked Michael, his face creased in confusion.
‘He did not say. Why? Was he wrong about their value? The others will not be pleased, because they have already made arrangements with some of the city’s convents. Lincoln’s religious foundations are always eager to buy St Hugh’s relics.’
‘How many of these cups are there?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘He gave one each to me, Belle, Jane and Rosanna,’ said Agnes. Her expression was hard and angry. ‘He said there are no others like them anywhere in the world, but now I see he was lying as usual. God rot his filthy soul!’
* * *
It was past eight o’clock by the time Bartholomew, Michael, Suttone, de Wetherset and Cynric started to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory. Michael carried Agnes’s bag, and in it were the four chalices Tetford had given to his ladies, along with the one Cynric had found in Miller’s home.
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice because it was late and people in the houses they passed were asleep. Hard little pellets of snow swirled in all directions. They bounced across the frozen ground, where the wind blew them into dry, shifting heaps. ‘These cups look similar – if not identical – to the one Shirlok was accused of stealing in Cambridge. What is happening?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Someone has obviously been making copies of the real one in an attempt to make his fortune.’
‘If there is a real one,’ said de Wetherset. ‘But regardless, local convents will jump at an opportunity to buy a relic of St Hugh, especially if it is made of silver.’
‘I doubt these are silver,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a spotting on them that suggests they are forged from some base metal.’
‘Well, they look silver to me,’ said de Wetherset, ‘so they will look silver to potential buyers. I was right to be sceptical of Simon’s chalice – the poor man was as deceived as those impertinent women. I always knew he did not possess my abilities.’
‘What abilities?’ asked Suttone sulkily. He had been enjoying himself in Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, and held de Wetherset responsible for bringing a pleasant evening to a premature end.
‘My talent for distinguishing genuine relics from false ones. It is a gift from God.’
Bartholomew was relieved when they reached the Gilbertine Priory, and even more relieved when there was someone waiting to let them in. Prior Roger had not liked the notion that his guests – especially Suttone – might abandon him, and was ready to do all in his power to keep them. He was so determined they should not be obliged to go through his garden a second night, that he had waited in the porter’s lodge himself, to make sure the guard did not fall victim to another flask of drugged wine.
‘There you are,’ he said, leaping to his feet to usher them inside. ‘I was beginning to be worried.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a dangerous—’
‘Well, you are here now, thank the Lord!’ Roger beamed. ‘I hope you had a good evening. Is it snowing yet? I think we shall have a heavy fall before the night is out.’
‘It is just starting again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is Father Simon in the guest-hall?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Hamo saw him with you at Flaxfleete’s funeral. Did you separate afterwards? That was unwise, given the number of villains arriving for Miller’s Market.’
‘Hamo saw us?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had not spotted the wet-lipped Gilbertine, and he disliked the notion that someone had been watching him without his knowledge.
‘Simon has not returned?’ asked Michael, equally unsettled. ‘He left us hours ago, and said he was going to walk straight home. I hope he has not come to any harm.’
Eager to impress them with his level of concern for absent guests, Roger organised a hunt, sending his brethren out to make a thorough search of first the convent’s buildings, and then its grounds. There was no sign of the priest, so Bartholomew offered to walk back to the city, following the route Simon would have taken. Cynric, Michael and three burly lay-brothers accompanied him, but they met with no success.
‘His belongings are here,’ said de Wetherset, when they returned, cold and tired. ‘I have been through them, but there is nothing to suggest he intended to spend the night away. And Suttone and I have spoken to everyone here, and no one has any idea where else he might be.’
‘He is local,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he has gone to stay with friends.’
‘He does not have any friends,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Besides, he likes the Gilbertines’ daily offices, and he is a devout man. He will not miss a mass by sojourning with secular acquaintances.’
‘He should have remained with us,’ said Suttone, annoyed by the trouble the priest was causing.
‘Perhaps he has less cause to be worried about being ambushed than the rest of us,’ said Michael thoughtfully. He turned to de Wetherset. ‘I want to know about his alibi for Aylmer’s stabbing. Why did you lie about it? No, do not look shocked: this is important. You must tell me the truth.’
De Wetherset’s expression was furious. ‘I did tell you the truth. How dare you!’
‘One on occasion you told me – rather smugly – that you had not attended the Gilbertines’ prime since your first morning here. However, when we asked after Simon’s whereabouts when Aylmer was murdered, you said you heard him singing in the chapel. You cannot have it both ways.’
De Wetherset sighed angrily. ‘You always were a pedant, picking at details. As it happens, I was in the chapel that morning – I was speaking figuratively when I said I avoided every office after my first day. However, since you love irrelevancies, you should bear in mind my exact words when I answered that question: I said Simon had a loud voice. I did not say I had heard it, and the truth is that I cannot remember. Perhaps I heard him that day, perhaps I did not. I am afraid dawn offices tend to run together in my mind. However, he offered me a roof over my head at a very reasonable price when I first arrived in the city, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He is no killer
.’
‘I think he might be an arsonist, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He set his own home alight to hurry along the offer of a prebendal stall. It was not his house – it belonged to Holy Cross. Now the parish will have to pay for a new one.’
‘I suspected at the time that he had had a hand in the conflagration,’ admitted de Wetherset. ‘We could have doused it when he woke me, but he told me to save my belongings first. By the time we had done that, the blaze had taken too firm a hold. Having said that, he intends to pay for a new building himself, out of his prebend, and it will be bigger and better than he one he burned. His only real crime was impatience – he wanted the promised stall sooner rather than later.’
‘What shall we do?’ asked Prior Roger unhappily, when he came a few moments later to see if Simon had been found. ‘We cannot sit by the fire when the poor man is missing.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Michael. ‘There is nothing we can do until daylight, and we—’
‘We shall pray for his safety,’ announced Roger. ‘Ring the bells, Hamo. Rouse the brethren from their beds. We shall make sure all the saints hear our petitions.’
‘Amen to that!’ cried Hamo.
Not liking to sleep when everyone else was obliged to attend the impromptu service, Bartholomew trailed after Michael. Then, while Roger assembled his flock and the organ started to wheeze, he walked to the altar and looked for the Hugh Chalice. It was not there.
‘Where is it?’ he asked of Roger, breaking into the prior’s first alleluia.
Roger gazed at the empty spot in horror. ‘It was here this afternoon. I saw it myself.’
‘Do you think Simon found out he had been cheated?’ asked Michael. ‘And tackled the culprit?’
‘You mean Chapman?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is too ill for visitors, and I doubt Miller would have let Simon see him.’
‘He might,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Why should he refuse the request of his own brother?’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 35
