The Tarnished Chalice (10 page)

‘At least I came in person to collect it, which is more than can be said for most of my colleagues. When you were asleep last night, de Wetherset told me that of the forty canons currently in office, only ten have ever set foot in the cathedral. Some live so far away that they might even be dead, for all the contact the dean has with them. They all hire Vicars Choral to do their work.’

‘That is what you plan to do,’ said Bartholomew, not really seeing the difference.

‘But I have made arrangements to hire a local man, a fellow named John Tetford, which should please the dean. The foreign canons appoint their own deputies, and they are not always suitable.’

‘The dean must find it difficult to maintain order. He will need the support of his Chapter, but if most of his canons are abroad, then he will not have it.’

‘I expect that depends on the Vicars Choral. If they are good deputies, his job will be easy enough. My bishop tells me that Tetford will do all he is asked and more, and that he will make an excellent substitute. The dean will probably fare better with him than with me.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Bartholomew, earning himself an offended glare. ‘It is true, Brother. You would be plotting
against the dean before the week is out, given your love of intrigue, and he would find himself with a rebellion on his hands, not to mention a rival for his position. He does not know how lucky he is that you are obliged to be in Cambridge. However, none of this tells me why you are so determined to leave Lincoln early.’

‘Aylmer’s murder,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘I do not like the timing of it, and I do not like the fact that he was Suttone’s Vicar Choral. Suttone is opinionated and annoying, but he is a colleague, and I do not want him stabbed while he gloats over his belongings. And nor do I want you in Lincoln when it is full of felons wanting absolution – not with your current penchant for wearing a sword. It looks as though you want a fight. Everything about our situation feels dangerous.’

‘There are the priory’s noblewomen,’ said Suttone, coming to join them before Bartholomew could comment. He pointed to the back of the nave, where the tall woman in the white habit stood with her head bowed as she listened to the Gilbertines’ singing. Her friend, the elderly nun, knelt next to her, holding a candle. Immediately, Michael’s eyes lit with interest, murder and unease forgotten.

‘I wonder if they would appreciate a philosophical exegesis of this particular psalm,’ he mused. ‘As a theologian, it is my duty to educate all who might benefit from my expertise.’

‘I would not think they need your intellectual skills, Brother,’ replied Suttone, apparently unaware of the predatory gleam in his colleague’s eye. ‘Hamo tells me that Dame Eleanor is quite a scholar herself, while Lady Christiana – the younger one – is a highly valued member of the convent.’

‘Because she pays well for the honour of being here?’ asked Bartholomew, who knew how such matters worked.

Wealthy ladies often spent time in religious foundations when their menfolk were not in a position to look after them, and it could be a lucrative arrangement for a priory.

‘I expect that is the main reason,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They say she is also upright, kind and popular with children. And Dame Eleanor, whom everyone reveres because she has devoted her entire life to Lincoln’s saints, thinks the world of her. Eleanor says Christiana is gracious in adversity.’

‘What adversity?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘First she lost her husband in the French wars, then her mother died. Incidentally, her mother was supposed to remarry, too. She was betrothed to that merchant you met yesterday – Kelby – but passed away before he could escort her to the altar.’

‘I would like to meet her daughter,’ said Michael, rather dreamily.

‘You do not have time,’ said Bartholomew, watching him uneasily. ‘First, you have a murder to solve, and secondly, you need to be fitted for your ceremonial robes. And then, as soon as you are properly installed at the cathedral, we are leaving. Remember?’

‘Are we?’ asked Suttone, relieved. ‘Good. I do not want to join the ranks of the dead: Aylmer, Flaxfleete and that wicked man who died during the plague – Canon Hodelston.’

‘I doubt those deaths are connected—’ began Bartholomew.

‘You can think what you like, but I know how I feel,’ said Suttone curtly. ‘And I feel like I want to leave. I shall introduce you to those ladies later, Brother. I see by the way your eyes are fixed on them that you are impressed by their piety.’

‘Oh, I am,’ agreed Michael. ‘Piety is a virtue very dear to my heart.’

* * *

By the time the service had been hollered, dawn was beginning to break. It was clear and blue, and the sun was just rising over the flat fields that lay to the east. Every roof was dusted with snow, and the long road that led arrow-straight towards the city was like a gleaming silver ribbon in the gathering light. As the temperature began to rise, a mist formed, and the cathedral sat above it, as though it was hovering. Bartholomew stood by the Gilbertines’ main gate and watched spellbound as the first sunbeams touched the yellow stone and set it afire.

‘It is like Ely,’ said Michael, coming to join him. ‘That floats above the morning fog, too.’

‘Yes, it does. Did you know that the central spire makes Lincoln’s cathedral the tallest building in the world? Yet it is so delicate, it looks as though it is made from lace. Stone lace.’

‘I hope you find Matilde soon, Matt,’ said Michael, beginning to walk to the refectory to break his fast. ‘I do not think I can stand many more of these coarse allusions, in which you compare lovely buildings to women’s under-clothes. Still, it is better than you prancing about with a sword, I suppose.’

He moved away, leaving the physician staring after him in astonishment.

The refectory was a large hall, with separate sections for each rank of inhabitant: Gilbertine brothers, Gilbertine sisters, hospital inmates, layfolk and guests. It was a hive of activity, and almost as noisy as the chapel. Voices were raised in conversation, pots clattered and there was frequent ringing laughter. Servants scurried here and there, carrying buckets of oatmeal and baskets of bread; although it was plain fare, it was plentiful and wholesome.

‘Did you enjoy prime?’ asked Simon, coming to sit next
to them. His voice was low and difficult to catch. ‘When I was vicar at Holy Cross, I always came here for the dawn devotions, because I find the ceremony so uplifting. It is good to start the day by praising God with all one’s heart.’

‘You should consider praising Him a little more quietly tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You are so hoarse that you can barely speak.’

Simon regarded him askance. ‘God gave me speech to extol His name, so that is what I shall do with it. It will recover after a cup of breakfast ale – it always does. You might want to try it yourself.’

‘The breakfast ale?’

‘Some heartfelt worship. I saw you skulking in the shadows, muttering the psalm as though you were afraid of speaking the words aloud. Brother Michael was no better.’

‘He is right,’ said Hamo, coming to ensure his guests had enough to eat. ‘The Bible should be shouted to the skies, not whispered at the floor. I suggest you return to the chapel after breakfast and practise a few alleluias. I will come with you, and offer some advice.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew when he left. ‘The entire town is insane.’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘I do not hold with undisciplined piety, either, but it does not mean I condone that sort of language in a convent.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From now on, I shall swear only on unhallowed ground.’

Michael glared at him, not sure whether he was being mocked. ‘Well, just make sure you do.’

Once the food was on the tables, a tremendous rattling ensued when Whatton waved the wooden clappers in the air, and the hubbub of voices died away. The prior, a tall man with a large head, stood and began to intone grace in a voice loud enough to be heard by even the deafest
diner. Then he sat, took a spoon in one hand and gestured with the other that his brethren could commence eating.

‘He likes to maintain silence during meals,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘They do not mind guests talking, though, as long as they are not too noisy.’

‘It is better just to eat,’ said Simon, grabbing a pan and helping himself to more of its contents than was considerate. ‘They do not take long over meals, and he who chatters goes hungry.’

Michael needed no further warning, and bent his head to the task in hand, managing to put away a monstrous amount before the prior said the final grace. He seized a piece of smoked pork as the platters were being cleared away, and slapped it in the physician’s hand.

‘It is cold outside, and we have a lot to do today,’ he said. ‘You cannot wander about on an empty stomach, because if you faint, I have no time to help you revive.’

Bartholomew smiled. It was a ritual they went through most days, ever since Michael had declared him under-nourished after his return from France. He was touched by the concern, but was also aware that the monk’s idea of thin was rather different from his own. He tore the meat in half, and they shared it as they left the refectory. They had not gone far before Suttone called them back.

‘I just went to pay my respects to Prior Roger de Bankesfeld, and he said he would like to see us in his solar,’ he said, rather breathlessly. ‘Now.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We can thank him for his hospitality, and inform him that we intend to stay with our own brethren for the rest of our sojourn in Lincoln. The Benedictines will find a corner for us somewhere. I certainly do not want to join the murdered Aylmer in the charnel house by lingering here.’

Bartholomew and Michael followed Suttone across the yard and entered the house that comprised the prior’s lodgings. In the half-dark of the previous afternoon, when they had arrived, Bartholomew had imagined it to be a handsome building, but daylight showed that it, like the rest of the convent, was in sore need of repair. Its roof was all but invisible under a cushion of snow, but the shape indicated it was sagging, and its walls were stained with lichen. Stones were missing from the chimney, and the thick white smoke that billowed out suggested a fire had only just been lit – an early-morning blaze was a luxury the prior did not permit himself. Hamo was waiting to escort them up the stairs to a solar that was pleasant despite its cracked plaster and uneven floorboards.

‘Here are the Cambridge men, Father,’ said Hamo, prodding Bartholomew when he was slow to follow the others inside – the physician was trying to finish the pork, not being as adept as Michael at devouring lumps of meat at speed. ‘Michael de Causton, Thomas Suttone and Matthew—’

‘Suttone,’ pounced the prior. ‘Kin to the great Lincoln Suttones. Hamo says you and he may share common ancestors, and he is distantly related to Bishop Oliver Suttone.’

‘Oliver was my grandfather,’ replied Suttone proudly. ‘I have a cousin who has invited me—’

‘Do not think of staying elsewhere,’ said the prior firmly. ‘You are welcome here. The Suttones are a respected family, and it is a privilege to have one under my roof for a few
weeks. And I intend to make Hamo our Brother Hospitaller today, too, so the Suttones will know I favour them and their kin. He will be a vast improvement on Fat William, God rest his soul, because he does not eat as much.’

Hamo’s moist lips split in a startled grin, while Bartholomew thought Michael would have to curb his appetite if he did not want to be tarred with the same brush. ‘Thank you, Father,’ stammered Hamo. ‘You will not regret it, I promise, and—’

‘I am sure you will be assiduous,’ said Roger. He sighed. ‘Well, pour us some almond milk, then, man! You are already slacking in your duties.’

Bartholomew studied Roger de Bankesfeld properly for the first time, as the man had been too far away in the chapel and at breakfast. Bartholomew was tall, but the prior was taller – although a good deal thinner – so the overall effect was spindly. He had huge hands with bony knuckles, and big yellow teeth that gave his head a skull-like appearance. He reminded Bartholomew of the grotesque tombs he had seen in southern France, where the sculptors had been overly obsessed with death.

‘We plan to stay only a few days, and—’ began Suttone.

‘It is an honour to receive you,’ said Prior Roger with a grin that did nothing to dispel the skeletal image. ‘Fortunately, there was something of an exodus after Aylmer’s murder yesterday, so we were not obliged to order people to evacuate the best room for you.’

‘That is very kind,’ said Suttone, swallowing uneasily. ‘But there would have been no need for—’

‘I said it is an honour to receive you,’ interrupted Roger with some annoyance. ‘And I meant it. Just because we are on the outskirts of the city, and we are a bit short of funds, does not mean we are less hospitable than the other Orders. Well, I accept that the Dominicans
are conveniently close to the Bishop’s Palace, and the Franciscans have that lovely new guest-hall, but that is all irrelevant. We are very pleased you chose us, when you could have gone elsewhere.’

‘The honour is ours,’ said Michael graciously. ‘However, I am a Benedictine and my brethren will expect me to—’

‘You will not want to reside with them,’ declared Roger. ‘They are deeply in debt, and their guests nearly always go hungry. You do not look like a man who likes to go hungry, Brother.’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Michael. ‘But—’

‘And the Carmelite Friary has its drawbacks, too,’ Roger went on, addressing Suttone. ‘It is too near the river and stinks to high heaven. We are upstream, so do not suffer such miseries.’

From the artful way he spoke, Bartholomew wondered whether the stench that afflicted the White Friars was because of something the Gilbertines did.

‘I do not mind a little—’ began Suttone.

‘And they have a rat problem,’ added Roger.

‘That is not as unnerving as a murder problem,’ Michael managed to interject.

Roger waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is the first time we have ever lost a visitor to a killer’s blade, although the other convents have had deaths galore. You are better off here, gentlemen. As I said, we are always pleased to have canons-elect sharing our humble abode.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the glint in his eye that he would go elsewhere if he wanted. ‘Not everyone has been so eager to accommodate us during our long and arduous voyage from Cambridge.’

‘Not everyone knows how much canons are paid,’ Bartholomew was sure he heard Roger mutter. The prior
cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. ‘I promise you shall have the best of everything.’

‘You will,’ agreed Hamo. ‘And if another convent offers you something we do not have, tell me what it is and I will get it for you. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He glanced at his prior, to see if he was being sufficiently obsequious.

‘It is our duty to God,’ said Roger. He crossed himself. ‘Praise His holy name. Alleluia!’

‘Alleluia!’ shouted Hamo in reply, raising his hands in the air and gazing at the ceiling.

Suttone nudged Bartholomew with his elbow when he became aware that the physician was more amused than religiously inspired by the demonstration, and then did the same to Michael. ‘Behave yourselves!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘They will think us godless heathens if you stand there chortling at their heartfelt expressions of reverence, and they may tell Bishop Gynewell. We do not want to be ejected from our stalls before we have claimed the money that goes with them.’

‘You are the godless heathen, if you are only interested in the post for its stipend,’ Bartholomew shot back.

‘There she is again!’ breathed Michael, gazing out of the window when he spotted a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He moved to one side for a better view.

‘Lady Christiana and—’

‘And Dame Eleanor,’ said Roger, coming to stand next to him. ‘We are fortunate to have them in our convent. Dame Eleanor is little short of a saint, and her devotion to St Hugh is legendary. She also prays for Queen Eleanor, whose funeral cross stands outside our gate. God rest her soul.’

‘Amen,’ chorused Hamo.

‘We saw that,’ said Suttone. ‘It is a—’

‘The King is grateful to Dame Eleanor for her care of
his grandmother’s soul,’ said Roger. ‘And it is always good to have a king pleased with one of your residents. You should engage Eleanor in a discussion about theology, Brother. You will find her sharp-minded and erudite.’

‘And Lady Christiana?’ asked Michael. ‘Will she benefit from a theological debate, too?’

Roger glanced sharply at him, but answered anyway. ‘She lost her husband in the French wars, and the King asked us to look after her until she recovers from the shock. The maintenance he pays for her keep is invaluable, and Dame Eleanor has grown fond of her. They are often together.’

‘There is a lot of traffic on the road outside,’ observed Suttone, not particularly interested in the convent’s females. ‘I have counted six carts in the last—’

‘They are gathering for Miller’s Market,’ said Roger, his face darkening with disapproval. ‘Wagons have been pouring into the city all week, and the event is not due to start for another ten days. Lincoln is bursting at the seams, but still they come.’

‘Very few fairs take place in winter,’ said Suttone. ‘It must be—’

‘I doubt God approves,’ Roger went on. ‘Some will claim Miller is a good man for his generosity, but he did not start his fair out of the kindness of his heart. He did it out of spite.’

‘The poor probably do not mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will prefer a festival to a—’

‘So, we shall have to make sure our singing seduces them away from their pagan diversions,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘A few alleluias will bring them back to their senses.’

‘I warned you,’ Suttone whispered fiercely to his colleagues, when the prior raised his hands towards the rafters and began to sing in a booming voice; Hamo joined in. ‘If you
cannot refrain from sniggering, you should leave before he hears you. Say you are unwell.’

Bartholomew was halfway to the door when there was a thundering knock that startled the prior into a blessed silence.

‘Who is that?’ asked Roger, as if the Michaelhouse men should know. ‘I said we were to be left in peace as long as important visitors were with me – and a pair of canon s-elect, one of whom is kin to the Suttones, qualify as the most important guests we have had in years.’

The door flew open before Hamo could reach it, and a tiny man bounced inside. He barely reached Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his head was covered in a thick mop of wiry curls, some of which twisted into points at the side of his head and gave the uncanny appearance of horns. His ears were large and round, and when he smiled he revealed several missing teeth. He wore the simple robes of a Dominican, although the purple ring on his finger showed he was one who held an elevated position in the Church.

‘Good morning, Roger,’ he piped cheerfully. ‘It is only me.’

‘My Lord Bishop,’ said Roger with a courtly bow.

Bishop Gynewell skipped across the chamber and presented his episcopal ring for Roger to kiss. He barely reached the Gilbertine’s chest, and the tall prior was obliged to bend absurdly low to reach the proffered bauble. The prelate had not come alone, and was accompanied by a handsome young priest who was weighed down with parchment, scrolls and writing materials. When Bartholomew went to help him, the reek of wine was overpowering. The physician concluded, from the clerk’s liverish appearance, that he consumed a lot of it on a regular basis. There was something familiar about him,
and Bartholomew tried to recall where he had seen him before. Then the memory snapped into place: he had been one of the men slumped unconscious across Kelby’s table the previous night. As the physician dived to save a pot of ink from falling to the floor, something hard bumped against his hand. He stepped away smartly, wondering why a man in holy orders should want to conceal a sword under his robes.

‘This is a dangerous city,’ explained the clerk, guessing what had happened. He glanced at the bishop, to ensure he could not be heard. ‘I seldom go anywhere without a blade.’

‘Why would anyone attack you?’ asked Bartholomew. He thought about the conflict that was tearing the city in half. ‘Because you are a Guild member?’

The clerk waved a hand to indicate that was unimportant, and several scrolls pattered on the floor. ‘I am not worried about Miller and his cronies – they do not have the wits to best a clever fellow like me. I am more concerned about my fellow priests; they are where the real danger lies.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Have you not heard what happened to Aylmer in this very convent? He was a Vicar Choral and he was stabbed to death, so do not tell me canons’ deputies are a peaceful band of men. The only way to defend myself is with a sharp sword, and if you visit the cathedral, I recommend you wear one, too.’

He moved away to stand near the door when Prior Roger finished paying homage to his bishop, coincidentally ending up near a tray on which stood several goblets of wine.

‘How are you, Roger?’ chirped Bishop Gynewell merrily, wholly unaware that his secretary was slyly raiding the Gilbertines’ claret. ‘Any more murders today?’

‘No, My Lord,’ replied Roger shortly. ‘It was an isolated incident, as I told you yesterday. And we should not be discussing that now anyway.’ He flicked his head at his three visitors in an indiscreet way that made Bartholomew want to laugh again.

‘Brother Michael, I presume,’ said the bishop, turning to beam at the fat monk. ‘And you must be Master Suttone. I shall soon count you two among my canons, although I was disappointed to hear you have appointed Vicars Choral and plan to return to your University. Well, that is to say, Michael has appointed a deputy. Suttone will have to find another.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Suttone, bowing over the prelate’s hand. ‘This is our colleague Matthew Bartholomew. He is a physician.’

‘I guessed as much from his bag,’ said Gynewell, resting his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder when he stepped forward to make his obeisance. ‘I know the scent of valerian and woundwart when I come across it.’

‘He used those to treat an injured pedlar we encountered yesterday morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop in amazement. ‘You are an observant man, My Lord.’

‘Thank you, Brother; I shall consider that a compliment.’ Gynewell trotted to a chair next to the fire and climbed on to it, folding his legs in a way that made him look more like a pixie than one of the most powerful churchmen in the country. ‘I am surprised you have elected to stay with Prior Roger, rather than with me at my palace. I extended an invitation to you, through Bishop de Lisle.’

‘Did you?’ asked Michael, peeved. ‘He neglected to pass it on. However, I—’

‘The good brother is settled with us now,’ said Roger smoothly. ‘He enjoyed our energetic prime this morning, and will want to repeat the experience tomorrow.’

‘Will he?’ asked Gynewell in surprise.

‘It was energetic,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I—’

‘All our guests find our style of worship uplifting,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘They say it makes a change from the sober muttering of the other Orders.’

‘There was certainly no muttering involved,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, this is the first time I have ever set foot in a Gilbertine House, other than the one in Cambridge and that is a very staid foundation. Are they usually so … expressive?’

‘This is the only convent I know that praises God at such high volume,’ said Gynewell. ‘I cannot imagine it is anything but unique.’

‘We like to make an impact,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Why murmur when you can yell, I always say.’