Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You doubtless stayed with your brother in Cambridge on your journey north,’ Michael continued, when the priest said nothing to indicate they were wrong. ‘You told him about the sacred task with which you were entrusted. The rest is obvious. Miller helped Aylmer sell the chalice to a gullible priest – Geddynge was chosen because it is a safe distance from Cambridge, making it more difficult for the crime to be linked to him – and Shirlok was charged to get it back again. But Shirlok was caught, and the whole miserable tribe was in trouble.’

  ‘Adam and I are half-brothers,’ whispered Simon. ‘Neither of us had anything to do with removing the chalice from Geddynge, though. I was terrified when we were ordered to appear at Cambridge castle. It was a dreadful day.’

  ‘I do not remember you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Miller said his brother died in prison.’

  ‘I do not remember you, either, but that is no surprise after all this time.’ Simon closed his eyes for a moment, rallying his strength, then began to speak again. ‘When we arrived here, Adam and I decided to conceal our relationship until we had found our feet: he was to say his brother was dead and no one ever asks about a priest’s family. Later, we maintained the pretence, because I do not want to be associated with criminal activities, and hefinds it embarrassing to have kin in holy orders.’

  Michael was puzzled. ‘Why did you elect to live in the same place, if you then denied knowing each other? What could be gained from that?’

  ‘I came here because St Hugh appeared to me in a dream, and said I could make amends by serving as parish priest to Holy Cross. When the chalice finally reappeared and I was nominated as a canon, I knew he had forgiven me at last.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘He liked the sound of the place when I described it to him, and he had nowhere else to go. So, I was the other courier, Brother, but Aylmer and I were robbed. We did not sell the Hugh Chalice. We have lived with the shame of losing it for twenty years. Aylmer’s sorrow led him to a libertine life, but he retook his priestly vows when the cup arrived in Lincoln recently.’

  ‘You credit him with too much decency,’ said Michael. ‘He was never anything but a felon.’

  Simon did not seem to hear him. ‘I founded the “fraternity”, as you call it, to look for the chalice, and we have been searching ever since. Chapman and Adam found it four weeks ago.’

  ‘Adam is not a member,’ said Bartholomew, not mentioning that Miller had probably known for the best part of two decades that his brother’s holy grail was not lost at all. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that would have put us too much in each other’s company, and I did not want him to reveal our relationship in a moment of carelessness. You may have noticed that his wits are not the sharpest in the town. Poor Aylmer. He died trying to protect the chalice … ’

  ‘You said he was trying to steal it,’ said Michael.

  ‘No, I did not. Others did, but I said we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I never believed he was acting dishonestly. I have no idea who killed him, though. Did Chapman shoot me? He must have done, because no one else knew I would be here. I paid young Hugh a silver penny to deliver him a letter, asking him to come.’

  ‘Can we be sure Hugh delivered it to the right house?’ asked Michael, troubled.

  By the time Bunoun declared himself ready to apply his salve, the priest was sinking towards death. Unwilling to see Simon subjected to painful treatment that would make no difference to the outcome, Bartholomew told the surgeon his chances of success were slim and suggested he abstain from spoiling his good record. Bunoun was experienced enough to know he spoke the truth, and packed up his equipment before going outside to declare that he had been summoned too late to effect one of his miraculous cures. Since there was no more to be done at Holy Cross, Bartholomew and Michael left Simon in the care of the parishioners he had served so long, and returned to the Gilbertine Priory.

  ‘I think he was telling the truth about the Hugh Chalice – at least, the truth as he knows it,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked. ‘It is obvious to us that Aylmer sold it to Geddynge, and Shirlok was asked to get it back again, but Simon harboured no such suspicions. He founded his fraternity to hunt it down and bring it to where he thinks it belongs.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I am sure you are right.’

  ‘Aylmer was too cautious to sell it as the Hugh Chalice, but was quite happy to collect twenty shillings for a silver cup. He may have had redeeming thoughts towards the end of his life, but he was a despicable man.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Simon confided a few other things while you were consulting with Bunoun. I asked why folk had joined his group, and it sounded as if he had applied a good deal of moral pressure. I suspect that is why they fell away so readily – their allegiance was not willingly given. Still, at least we know what the mark means. I assumed it was sinister, but it was not. He also denied impregnating Christiana’s mother, but admitted to setting his house alight – for the Hugh Chalice.’

  ‘How did he think that would help?’

  ‘As we suspected, Gynewell had intimated he might be in line for the Stall of Sanctae Crucis, so he burned down his home to draw attention to himself. It worked: he was offered the post in a matter of days. It meant full-time duties in the cathedral where the cup was to be displayed, and would have allowed him to guard it.’

  ‘Where is the chalice now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Simon’s, I mean, not the others.’

  Michael removed something from under his cloak, and Bartholomew saw the familiar, dented vessel with its worn carving. ‘He asked me to make sure it is presented to the cathedral on Sunday.’

  ‘It looks just like the others,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘And I thought he was uncertain about it.’

  ‘He claims it is the real one, because St Hugh would not let him die without seeing it after his years of devotion. So, I shall put it in St Katherine’s Chapel with the others, and de Wetherset can decide.’

  Prior Roger was full of questions when Michael presented a sixth cup for his growing collection, and it was some time before he allowed the monk to go. Wearily, Michael returned to the guest-hall, where he found Bartholomew already asleep. The monk had often envied his friend’s ability to doze through all manner of commotion, and in this case, the chamber in which he rested contained de Wetherset and Suttone, who had lit several candles and were making no effort to lower their voices. Cynric was honing his sword on a whetting stone, and Whatton and a few friends had just started to bellow psalms in the building next door.

  ‘He refused to tell us anything,’ said de Wetherset, indicating Bartholomew with an angry flick of his thumb. ‘He said he was tired, and that we would have to wait until tomorrow. Then Whatton came to tell us Simon is dead, and invited us to sing songs for his soul. Is it true?’

  Michael nodded. ‘And I do not want to talk tonight, either. However, here comes Hamo. As he was outside his prior’s door when I gave my account of what happened, you can ask him about it.’

  Suttone regarded Hamo in surprise. ‘I thought you would have abandoned eavesdropping, considering you had an accident the last time you did it. How is your arm, by the way?’

  ‘You hurt yourself listening to private conversations?’ asked Michael disapprovingly.

  ‘It happened the other night, when you and Matthew were assaulted,’ elaborated Suttone. He gave a rather malicious smile. ‘Hamo was so determined to hear what Prior Roger was saying to Whatton in the Lady Chapel that he tried to climb the ivy on the wall outside – I could see him through the window. And all the time, you were in the orchard, fighting for your life.’

  ‘Our Lady Chapel is a difficult challenge for eaves-droppers,’ said Hamo, making it sound as though the fault lay in the building, rather than the activity. ‘And the only way to monitor discussions is to go outside and scale the wall. I heard the clash of arms as you fought off your attackers, and I was so frightened that I fell and stunned myself. By the time I had recovered, Cynric
was saying that you had escaped and Tetford was dead.’

  ‘Why were you trying to listen to your prior?’ asked Michael curiously.

  ‘He wanted to know whether Whatton was going to be promoted to Brother Cellerer,’ supplied Suttone helpfully. He assumed a pious expression. ‘Nosy men will die when the plague comes again.’

  Michael smiled, noting that the timing of the incident eliminated Hamo, Roger and Whatton as candidates for the ambush. He wished Suttone had mentioned it sooner. ‘Would you mind extinguishing the lamps and going downstairs to talk? Matt will snore through the trumpets of Judgement Day, but I require silence and darkness for my slumber. Good night, gentlemen.’

  He lay on his bed and hauled a blanket over his face. He did not think he would sleep, because his mind teemed with questions, but he did not want to spend the night chatting to de Wetherset and Suttone, either. He needed time alone, to consider what he had learned and try to instil some order into it. Therefore, he was surprised when he opened his eyes to find the room full of daylight.

  ‘Roger ordered the bells silenced this morning,’ explained de Wetherset, watching him look around in confusion. ‘You seemed so exhausted last night, that I thought you might appreciate longer in bed.’

  ‘It was our suggestion,’ said Suttone shyly. ‘Roger was set to produce some really loud music today, as he now has six Hugh Chalices lined up on his altar, but we persuaded him that your repose was important to solving the mysteries that have beset his city. Grudgingly, he agreed.’

  Michael sat up and scrubbed his face. Bartholomew was shaving in some hot water Cynric had brought, and had changed his clothes. By comparison, Michael felt soiled and grubby. He swung his large legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘I have a lot to do today,’ he said ungraciously. ‘You should not have let me waste time.’

  ‘Your wits will be sharper with the additional rest,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I am trying to help you, Brother. If I am an instrument of the saints, then I should put my talents to good use.’

  Michael glanced sharply at him, but could see no trace of humour in the ex-Chancellor’s face. His ploy to prevent de Wetherset from harming Bartholomew at some point in the future had worked better than he had anticipated.

  ‘Roger invited Gynewell to come and hear your account of Simon’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘I heard him arrive a few moments ago.’

  ‘He heard cloven hoofs rattle across the cobbles,’ murmured Cynric. He was in a foul mood, furious that he had not been there when Michael and Bartholomew had been attacked a second time.

  Michael stood, stretched and performed his morning ablutions. Then he donned a fresh habit and asked Cynric to air the one he had been wearing, so it would be clean for the Sunday celebrations – if he lived that long. In an attempt to alleviate the guilt he felt for not protecting his scholars, Cynric went to the kitchens and forced the cook to prepare the best breakfast the convent could provide, fingering his dagger meaningfully as he recited a wholly unreasonable list of demands. The meal took three men to carry, and won Michael’s instant approval.

  ‘It is healthy to consume a decent breakfast,’ he declared, when Bartholomew warned that he might be sick if he ate more than a dozen eggs. ‘I am sure Surgeon Bunoun would agree.’

  ‘Bunoun is an excellent medicus,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Look what he did for Dalderby, although the reprieve was only temporary. I heard Miller killed him, by hitting him over the head with a stone.’

  ‘It is a bad time for men to slaughter each other,’ said Suttone worriedly. ‘In four days, we shall have our installation, the General Pardon and Miller’s Market, all at the same time. If there are tales that the Guild and the Commonalty have been killing each other, blood will flow for certain.’

  ‘The city felt very uneasy yesterday,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Men were gathering in groups, according to affiliation, and that is always a bad sign. I remember it from my Cambridge days.’

  When Michael had reduced Cynric’s fine spread to a few gnawed bones and a sizeable midden of eggshells, the four scholars walked across the snow-covered ground to Prior Roger’s solar, where Bishop Gynewell was prodding the fire into a furious glow that was too hot to be comfortable for anyone else. Prior Roger stood near a window he had eased open, and Hamo was pouring cups of wine and readying platters of pastries. Bartholomew saw they were expected to consume yet more of the Gilbertines’ hospitality, and hoped Michael would not make himself ill.

  ‘There you are,’ said Gynewell, bouncing across the floor to offer them his ring. ‘It is a cold—’

  ‘There was a lot of snow last night,’ said Roger. ‘Have you seen the thickness of it on the chapel roof? I do not think I have ever known such weather. Well, there was last year, I suppose. And Fat William died on an equally bitter night the year before that, God rest his soul.’

  ‘Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters,’ explained Hamo when Gynewell looked bemused. ‘He was feeding quite happily, when he started to gag. Then he shuddered, gasped and drummed his feet until he died. Poor Fat William!’

  He crossed himself, while Bartholomew wondered whether Fat William’s oysters might have been tainted with the same poison that had led to Flaxfleete’s demise. The symptoms sounded very similar.

  Gynewell manoeuvred a chair directly in front of the hearth, sprang into it, then listened carefully while Michael outlined what had happened in the Church of the Holy Cross.

  ‘That leaves just you three,’ he said to Michael, de Wetherset and Suttone when the monk had finished. ‘You must promise to be very careful over the next four days. I do not want to tell the hopeful crowds that the ceremony is cancelled because all the canons-elect are dead.’

  ‘You are expecting crowds?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘I assumed everyone would prefer Miller’s Market.’

  ‘Dean Bresley suggested we hold the service earlier,’ explained Gynewell. ‘Now people can attend the ceremony first, and go to the fair afterwards.’

  Michael was horrified. ‘The previous timing meant the two factions would remain separate, but now everyone will go to both, and fights will be inevitable. What was Bresley thinking?’

  ‘That he does not want anyone to know which side is the stronger,’ explained Gynewell. ‘He says the more powerful one will see it as a favourable omen for war. In this way, the two parties will never know the extent of each other’s army, and he thinks it is the best way to keep the peace.’

  Suttone swallowed nervously. ‘Who knows with this city? It is worse than Cambridge!’

  Michael turned his thoughts to his investigation. ‘Before he died, Simon gave us several clues, and I mulled them over at breakfast this morning. I now know enough to begin the process of unveiling Aylmer’s killer.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Do you? Last night you were ready to give up.’

  ‘Food, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘It does wonders for a man’s mind. I mean to start with young Hugh.’

  ‘My cousin, the choirboy?’ asked Suttone in astonishment. ‘I do not think he killed Simon!’

  ‘No, but he will know who did,’ replied Michael. ‘The message Simon asked him to deliver to Chapman was intercepted by someone – and that same someone then arrived with armed cronies at Holy Cross. I shall have this killer yet. He will not outwit Cambridge’s Senior Proctor.’

  Bishop Gynewell wanted to witness the impressive sight of six Hugh Chalices standing in a row in the Chapel of St Katherine, and his companions were more than willing to escape the stifling heat of Prior Roger’s solar and walk in the cold church. When they arrived they found Dame Eleanor on her knees before the altar and Christiana sitting at the back, waiting for her to finish. She had been slouching, and hastened to adopt a suitably elegant pose when she saw admirers might be watching her.

  ‘Dame Eleanor says it is not for a poor woman to say which is the real cup,’ she whispered, as they came towards her. ‘So she is praying to them all.’

  Michae
l rested an unnecessary hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sure she is right, and there are almost certainly more to be found. We happened on these by chance; logic dictates that there will be others.’

  Gynewell was unhappy. ‘I am afraid I cannot tell which is the original one now. I suppose we will have to send them all to Avignon, and let the Holy Father decide.’

  ‘There is no need for that, My Lord,’ announced de Wetherset. ‘I told you, I have a talent for detecting an air of sanctity in such things. If there is a real chalice, I shall be able to identify it for you. I know I could not do it yesterday, but I have recited several very eloquent prayers since then, and I am sure St Hugh will help me now.’

  He went to stand at the altar, where his shuffling presence disturbed Eleanor. With a sigh, she rose and joined the others in the nave, hobbling slightly after kneeling so long.

  ‘I have been praying for Simon. And the others who have died – Aylmer, Dalderby and Tetford.’

  ‘We all need to pray,’ said Hamo. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. ‘In fact, we should praise the Lord with—’

  ‘Alleluia,’ agreed Roger with enthusiasm. ‘Let us lift our voices to the Heavenly King.’

  ‘Dame Eleanor has been petitioning St Hugh on my behalf, too,’ said Christiana to Michael, as the Gilbertines began to rail. ‘She has asked him to send me a good husband. I am not sure I shall follow your advice of taking the veil and soothing my loneliness with lovers.’

  ‘I did not put it quite like that,’ said Michael, startled. ‘I said there are ways to—’

  ‘We have learned a good deal about the Hugh Chalice,’ interrupted Bartholomew. He did not think Michael should have that sort of discussion with a bishop standing within earshot. ‘We know Simon and Aylmer were the friars charged to bring it to Lincoln, but that Aylmer sold it because he could not resist the temptation of easy money.’