The Tarnished Chalice (18 page)

Bartholomew scratched his head, too interested in the connections he was beginning to see to be offended by de Wetherset’s condescension. ‘We have been told that the Hugh Chalice was stolen en route from London to Lincoln twenty years ago. Shirlok was definitely operating then.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘And Father Simon told us how it was pilfered from the two friar-couriers when they rested their weary bones at Cambridge. Shirlok must have found them asleep and taken advantage of the situation. At the trial, it was claimed that Shirlok passed the chalice to Lora Boyner, but she denied knowing it was stolen.’

‘You have missed a bit out, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirlok must have sold it to Geddynge before giving it to Lora, because it was Geddynge’s priest who claimed he was the owner.’

De Wetherset smiled. ‘Exactly! The Geddynge priest bought the cup from a “relic-seller” for twenty shillings. At that price, obviously neither he nor Shirlok had any idea of its holiness. It was removed from Geddynge church within a few days of its purchase, because Shirlok knew that what could be sold once could be stolen and hawked again.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But then what? You have established that it was stolen from the friars, stolen from Geddynge, and recovered from Lora Boyner to appear at Shirlok’s trial. But how did it get here? After Shirlok had been convicted, it would have been returned to its rightful owner.’

‘And who is that?’ demanded de Wetherset imperiously. ‘Not the Geddynge priest, because he had the misfortune to buy purloined property. And not Lora Boyner, either. So, is the “rightful owner” the cathedral in Lincoln? The Old Temple in London?’

‘The two friars?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not recall them being at the trial.’

‘Once the cup was lost to them, they returned to London with their tails between their legs,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I heard a rumour that they never arrived – God struck them down for their carelessness.’

‘Or they were killed by whoever stole the chalice,’ suggested Michael. ‘Shirlok.’

‘So what did happen to Shirlok’s chalice?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Was it returned to Geddynge, because it was Geddynge’s priest who reported it missing? I am sure it was recorded as his property at the trial, regardless of who has real legal title to the thing now.’

Michael snapped his fingers. ‘I remember! Everything Shirlok was alleged to have stolen disappeared into thin air when it was in the process of being returned to its proper
owners. Shirlok’s treasure vanished, and no one ever found out what happened to it.’

De Wetherset was smug. ‘Precisely, Brother! So, now do you see now why I have not wasted my time examining Simon’s cup? With that sort of history, how can it be a genuine relic?’

‘Will you come to the cathedral with me, Matt?’ asked Michael, as the ex-Chancellor swaggered away up the hill. ‘De Wetherset is not the only man due to try on his silken cope today, and I do not trust anyone else to give an honest opinion about my appearance. Strangers might have me processing up the nave in a garment that makes me look fat.’

‘Another time,’ said Bartholomew, knowing from experience that fittings tended to take a long time with Michael. The monk was particular about such matters, and Bartholomew wanted to spend the day browsing the minster’s library. He glanced wistfully at Spayne’s house as they approached it. Because the mayor and his sister were away, the window shutters had been left closed, although smoke still billowed from the chimney. The servants were assiduously following Ursula’s instructions to keep a fire burning, to melt the snow on the damaged roof.

‘There is the Swan tavern,’ said Michael, pointing to a large building that stood slightly downhill from Spayne’s abode. Above its door was a sign on which a black bird had been painted. It was not an attractive specimen, and the artist had furnished it with a set of teeth that made it look deformed. ‘Where Flaxfleete bought his tainted wine, and where Nicholas drank ale before he died. Shall we go inside?’

‘We shall not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to be poisoned.’

‘No one will harm us,’ said Michael, with far more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘My throat is parched, and a cup of ale would solve that problem and put me in a sober frame of mind for trying on priestly garments.’

Bartholomew followed him with serious misgivings. Inside, the inn was warm and surprisingly respectable. The floor was clean, the main room was fragrant with freshly brewed ale, and the benches and tables were of decent quality. There were even a few women present, indicating it was not some rough city tavern, but an establishment that was rather more genteel. Nevertheless, Bartholomew was still startled to see Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor there, drinking watered wine from delicately wrought goblets and eating honey-bread from a silver platter. He moved quickly to block them from Michael’s line of vision, sure someone would notice if the monk leered at Christiana in such a public place.

The taverner bustled up to them, eyes disappearing into the fat of his face as he smiled a welcome. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said, ushering them to seats near the fire. ‘You are Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew, friends of Master Suttone of Michaelhouse. We are honoured to have another Suttone in our fine city. My name is Robert Quarrel, landlord, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. What will you have?’

‘Ale and bread,’ said Michael. ‘No cheese, though – we slender men tend to avoid cheese.’

Quarrel beamed uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. In the end, he settled for clapping his hands and repeating the order to a pot-boy.

Michael raised a hand to prevent the lad from leaving. ‘I saw you on Wednesday night.’

The boy smiled uneasily. ‘I saw you, too, sir. I carried a
keg of claret to Master Kelby’s house, and you were talking to him at his door. Later, someone started a rumour that Flaxfleete was poisoned and that our wine was the culprit.’

‘Do not say such things!’ cried Quarrel, anxiety stamped across his chubby features. ‘I am a respectable man – I have served as Lincoln’s mayor and its bailiff. I supply wine to many wealthy patrons and have never had any trouble before. The poison must have come from somewhere else.’

‘It was definitely in the keg before it arrived at Kelby’s house,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Drips on his floor attested to the fact that someone had tampered with the seal and it was leaking. Where do you store your barrels?’

‘In the cellar,’ said Quarrel. ‘And no one goes down there except me. I fetched the cask myself, and put it by the door, ready. However, I was enjoying dinner with de Wetherset, and left it for Joseph to deliver instead of seeing to it myself, as I should have done. Perhaps someone did something to it then.’

‘You left it unattended?’ asked Michael. ‘Were you not afraid someone might make off with it?’

‘It was not unattended, exactly,’ objected Quarrel. ‘It was by the door, and Joseph would have noticed someone stealing it.’

Joseph looked sheepish. ‘I did not watch it constantly, though. Ned went to take Dame Eleanor back to the Gilbertine Priory and left me in charge. I am afraid I was distracted by patrons wanting to talk.’

‘Why did Ned escort Dame Eleanor home?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where she sat. ‘Is it usual for pot-boys to abandon their duties to help old ladies?’

Joseph looked defensive. ‘It was cold that night, and we were afraid she might slip on ice, so Ned offered to go with her. She is a saint, you see, and it is always wise to curry favour from such folk. She is old and will die soon, and you
never know when you might need to petition the saints for a miracle in this world.’

‘We watch her because she is dear to us,’ corrected Quarrel, slightly shiftily. Bartholomew wondered whether it had been the landlord’s own convictions that the boy had so guilelessly repeated. ‘And I always encourage my lads to do their Christian duty by helping others.’

‘How much wine did Kelby buy from you?’ asked Michael, smothering a smile.

‘Three kegs,’ replied Quarrel. ‘I had delivered two earlier in the day, and he told me he would send for the last one if it was required – he did not want to pay for three if he only used two. But they were celebrating Flaxfleete’s acquittal, so more was imbibed than was anticipated. The keg was not waiting by the porch for long, Brother – an hour at the most.’

‘What can you tell me about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael, changing the subject.

Quarrel seemed surprised. ‘He was a bitter man, but he became oddly gleeful in the month before he died. He usually drank in the Angel, which suited us – we would rather not have belligerent patrons if we can help it – but he chose to come here the night he died. He was sullen and angry over something. He drank too much, and was found the next morning in the Braytheford Pool. The priests said it was self-murder, although his wife does not believe them.’

‘He was also poisoned,’ said Bartholomew baldly, seeing no reason to keep it quiet.

‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Quarrel was clearly appalled, and glanced around furtively before lowering his voice. ‘I hope you will not make this public, because it could ruin me. You can see for yourself that this is a respectable place. We do not murder our customers!’

‘It does seem pleasant,’ agreed Michael, looking around appreciatively. He suddenly became aware that Christiana was there. ‘Very pleasant.’

Bartholomew watched with a sinking heart as Christiana sensed she was being admired, and turned around. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Michael, and whispered something in her companion’s ear. Then she stood and came towards them, Dame Eleanor in her wake. She glided, rather than walked, and Bartholomew was left with the feeling that she knew the eyes of every man present were on her, and that she expected nothing less. Pointedly, he fixed his own attention on her friend. Dame Eleanor had a kind, brown face and eyes that twinkled. He stood, to offer her his seat.

‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Christiana with a smile that made her appear vaguely wanton. She plumped herself down in the place Bartholomew had vacated for the old lady. ‘I thought you had eaten breakfast with the Gilbertines.’

‘I came for ale to slake my thirst,’ replied Michael with the air of a martyr. ‘I shall touch no food; I am not a greedy man.’

‘I am sure of it,’ Christiana replied. Her tone was grave, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Do you like this tavern? I inherited the building from my mother, and Master Quarrel has rented it from my family for the past thirty years. It is said to be one of the finest inns in the county.’

‘In England,’ said Eleanor, perching on the end of the bench, where there was not really room for her. To avoid being crushed, Christiana shifted closer to Michael than was decent.

‘We have excellent taverns in Cambridge, too,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move away. ‘You must come and sample a few.’

Old Dame Eleanor frowned her puzzlement. ‘How do you know, Brother? I thought our universities forbade alehouses to its scholars – to keep hot-blooded youths away from sober townsfolk.’

‘I am no hot-blooded youth,’ said Michael, aware that Christiana was looking at him with amused eyes. ‘Well, no youth, at least, and—’

‘He is obliged to visit them, to make sure students do not break the rules,’ Bartholomew explained hastily, before the monk could confide something he might later regret. ‘He is our Senior Proctor.’

‘I sensed, the first time I met you, that you were more than a mere monk,’ said Christiana with an expression that was distinctly flirtatious. ‘You are also a man of power, which explains why Bishop Gynewell is so eager to honour you with a prebendal stall.’

‘I do own a certain influence in the University,’ admitted Michael in a modest understatement. ‘Although I am a humble man.’

‘Then we shall leave you to your humble duties,’ said Dame Eleanor, hoisting Christiana to her feet with surprising strength for an elderly woman. ‘Whatever they might be. But St Hugh will wonder what has happened to me if I do not tend his shrine soon. I have prayed there every day for the past sixty years, except when I was stricken with the plague and he cured me.’

‘Were you healed by Bishop Hugh or Little Hugh?’ asked Michael in a transparent attempt to delay their departure. ‘Only I have heard there are more miracles at the tomb of one than the other.’

‘It is not for me to compare them, Brother,’ said Eleanor gently. She turned to her friend. ‘It looks like snow, so you should not tarry here long, Christiana. Go to the market while the weather holds, and then return to the Gilbertines
without delay. My old bones sense we are in for a blizzard, and I will worry if I think you are out.’

Christiana smiled fondly as Eleanor hobbled out. ‘She is a very dear lady, although I suspect I am better equipped to deal with a little snow than she is. I am younger and fitter, after all.’

‘Yes, but she is a saint, My Lady,’ said Quarrel seriously. ‘And blizzards mean nothing to them. I imagine she could quell one with a mere wave of her hand, if she were so inclined. Would you like Joseph to accompany you? With Miller’s Market so close, there are far too many rough types descending on our city.’

‘I will escort you,’ offered Michael chivalrously, standing and proffering a sturdy arm. ‘Matt needs a bit of ribbon for his spare tunic, and I always like exploring new markets.’

Christiana smiled and stretched out an elegant finger to touch his arm. ‘No, Brother. You must repair to the cathedral and be fitted with your canonical vestments. Who knows, perhaps St Hugh will touch your heart and order you to remain in Lincoln, as he did with Dame Eleanor all those years ago. Then we might have many outings together.’

She left, with Joseph carrying her basket. Only when her graceful figure could no longer be seen did Michael turn his attention back to the landlord. ‘So, you have no idea how Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete came to be poisoned?’

‘None at all,’ said Quarrel firmly. ‘And I assure you it was nothing to do with my beverages. I am heartily sorry for both deaths, but my wine and ale are innocent of harming any man.’

Michael and Bartholomew left the Swan and walked up the hill towards the cathedral. Bartholomew gazed at it, admiring the way it loomed above the city, dominating its steep, narrow streets. Then he skidded on some rotten vegetable parings, and focussed his attention on the road instead, noting that there seemed to be more unemployed men in the upper reaches of the city than there were lower down. They clamoured at the scholars as they passed, offering labour in exchange for food.

As they ascended, Michael began to pant like a man twice his age, and even Bartholomew was forced to admit that the climb was a stiff one. They passed a group of pilgrims attempting to make the journey on their knees, and Michael remarked tartly that reaching the summit on foot was penance enough. Several took him at his word and stood in relief.

‘I think Quarrel was telling the truth,’ said Bartholomew, waiting while the monk caught his breath. ‘You could see his was a respectable tavern, and he would not risk what must be a good living to dispatch someone like Nicholas. If Nicholas had been stabbed in an alley, I might say Quarrel had rid himself of an unwanted customer, but he would never do it by poisoning a man’s ale. And I do not think he tampered with Kelby’s wine for the same reason.’

‘I am inclined to agree. So, someone else must have taken advantage of the unattended barrel. Kelby was drunk, and probably did not order the third keg discreetly, so the killer
would have known exactly where it was going. I can only assume that one of the Commonalty did it, intending to strike a fatal blow at the Guild. Or should we assess Ursula de Spayne’s possible role a little more carefully?’

‘Did she have time? She was answering the door to us when the barrel would have been poisoned.’

‘Actually, she was not. First, Quarrel said the wine sat by the door for an hour before Joseph delivered it, so she may have already done her worst by the time she spoke to us. Secondly, she took ages to reply to your knock, so perhaps she was still out – in the process of slipping through her back door – when you were trying to summon her to the front.’

‘So, she saw the keg, guessed it was destined for Kelby, and slipped the poison – which she just happened to have with her – inside? Then she re-stoppered the barrel so no one would notice it had been broached, and dashed home to talk to us about noisy neighbours?’

‘Well, someone must have had poison to hand.’

‘She was not breathless,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And she would have been, had she been racing up and down these hills. I do not think it was her.’

‘Then perhaps it was her brother,’ said Michael. ‘I met a fellow Benedictine yesterday, and he maintains very strongly that Spayne was at his priory from about two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. But when I pushed him, he admitted that they were busy with sacred offices all day. In essence, Spayne could have slipped out, doctored the barrel and returned with no one the wiser. Thus Spayne has no real alibi, and he and his sister are the obvious suspects for Flaxfleete’s murder.’

‘How could Spayne have known that Kelby would want more wine, and that the keg would be left in a place where tampering was possible?’

‘He lives here, Matt. He probably knew exactly what Kelby had ordered – Kelby may even have told him, just to gloat. And Quarrel strikes me as a man of habit, so it would not take a fortune-teller to know that he would haul his keg from his cellar and leave it for his lad to deliver.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I do not see Matilde making friends with a murderer.’

‘Perhaps that is why she declined to marry him,’ suggested Michael. ‘She found out what he was really like, and fled Lincoln while she could.’

Bartholomew turned to another matter that had puzzled him. ‘You told de Wetherset that the property recovered from Shirlok – and presented at his trial as evidence of his guilt – went missing immediately afterwards. How did you know that?’

‘How do you not? It was a huge scandal, and the whole county talked about it for weeks after.’

‘I was probably back in Oxford by then. What happened?’

‘The goods disappeared on the day of the trial, although they were not actually missed until the various owners contacted the sheriff some weeks later, demanding to know why they had not been returned. The sheriff had dispatched them on a wagon, but none reached their intended destination. Searches were made, but nothing was ever recovered.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘When I was looking at Shirlok’s body in the castle bailey, I recall seeing a cart being loaded with the items he had stolen. There was property relating to the other cases that had been heard that day, too. The sheriff wanted it all off his hands as quickly as possible. He ordered the jurors to help with the heavy work, but they objected strenuously, and the only one he actually snagged in the end was de Wetherset – who was furious about it.’

‘So, you saw Shirlok’s ill-gotten gains leave the castle?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It was all very chaotic, because a few of the acquitted felons had been kept in gaol until the trial – obviously, the sheriff had not trusted them to appear on their own recognisance. They were being released at the same time, and there was a lot of fuss and noise. It was only when they had all gone that Shirlok made his own bid for freedom.’

‘So, any of these villains could have made off with the property at that point? It was being piled into a wagon under their very noses?’

‘The sheriff drew a line in the mud with his boot, separating the cart from the milling crowd in the bailey, and said he would shoot anyone who crossed it.’

‘Was he serious?’

‘Oh, yes. The jurors’ refusal to help with the loading had put him in a foul mood, and he was a surly man at the best of times. He was itching to vent his temper on someone. Had Miller or anyone else put so much as a toe over his line, he would gladly have loosed an arrow.’

‘So, Miller and his friends could not have taken the hoard, then?’

‘I sincerely doubt it. The sheriff was watching them like a hawk.’

‘Well, someone did – and whoever it was found himself in possession of the Hugh Chalice, as well as a chest of stolen property.’

‘Assuming this cup is the Hugh Chalice, Brother. De Wetherset does not seem to think so.’

‘Perhaps he will change his mind once he sets his “special skills” to work – especially if the bishop is convinced of its sanctity. He will not want to annoy his new prelate.’

Eventually, Bartholomew and Michael reached the top of the hill, where they passed through the gate that led to the
Bail – the plateau that housed the minster and the castle. The Church had ensured its property was better defended than its secular counterpart, and its precincts were surrounded by a high, crenellated wall that was relatively new and in good repair. The resulting enclosed area, known as the Cathedral Close, was massive, and contained not only the minster itself, but two churches and a chantry; the chapter house; cloisters; offices for the dean, precentor, treasurer and sacrist; and living accommodation for the canons, Vicars Choral, choristers, and the clerks and scribes who undertook the onerous task of overseeing the largest diocese in the country.

Dominating all was the cathedral. From a distance, its nave and chancel had appeared low, dwarfed by the tower with its soaring spire, but Bartholomew saw this was an illusion, and the main body of the building was actually impressively lofty. He began to walk around the outside, gazing up at the mighty buttresses, the intricately carved pinnacles, and finally the ancient frieze on the splendid west front. Michael went with him, for once voicing no objection to the extra walking.

When they had finished admiring the exterior, they entered the building through a gate near the south transept, and were immediately assailed by the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, along with the musty smell of damp: somewhere, a roof was leaking. Bartholomew gazed at the ceiling high above, a celebration of colour and carvings. The vaulted nave drew the eye to the chancel screen, which was a joyful jumble of gold, red and blue, and everywhere the stone eyes of saints and angels watched the people who came to pray, do business, chat to the priests or shelter from the cold weather. Michael led the way towards the central crossing, his footsteps echoing in the great vastness of empty space.

‘I always feel so tiny in places like this,’ he whisper ed. He was not easily awed, but Lincoln’s grandeur had impressed him. ‘They tell me I can enjoy as many Lombard slices as I like, because however large I grow, I will always be insignificant.’

‘Go and stand next to a beehive then,’ suggested Bartholomew practically. ‘That should curb any abnormal desires to eat enough to fill a cathedral.’

‘You have no sense of the magnificent,’ said Michael irritably. ‘This is a building fit for God, and I am honoured to be one of its canons.’

‘It is splendid,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Especially those two rose windows.’

‘Bishop Gynewell told me they are meant to represent eyes. The Bishop’s Eye faces south, inviting in the Holy Spirit, while the Dean’s Eye looks north and shuts out the Devil.’

‘You had better not mention that to Cynric, or he will turn it all around and have the bishop ushering in Satan. He has taken a dislike to Gynewell.’

‘Cynric is a superstitious fool, and so are we for letting him talk us out of a sojourn at the Bishop’s Palace. It would be far safer – no one has been stabbed in Gynewell’s guest-hall. God’s blessings, madam. I hope the saints were not too distressed over your late arrival this morning?’

Bartholomew turned to see Dame Eleanor standing nearby, and noted the way her eyes twinkled with amusement at the monk’s mild irreverence. ‘They seem to have survived the inconvenience, thank you. I have just finished my devotions at the Head Shrine and am about to tend Little Hugh.’

‘I am ashamed to confess that I have been too busy to inspect these famous sites so far,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps you might show us now? Can we accompany you to Little Hugh?’

Obligingly, Eleanor took them to the South Choir Aisle. Several pilgrims knelt next to a large stone sarcophagus, and the floor around it was carpeted with leaves and dried flowers. It comprised two sections: a sealed tomb-base, containing Little Hugh’s bones, and an ornately carved canopy above. The canopy was topped by a wooden statue of a child bearing the marks of crucifixion; the relevant parts were picked out in red paint, and were graphic enough to make Bartholomew wince. Pilgrims had left gifts of jewels, coins and prayers scribbled on scraps of parchment; they had been shoved through the canopy’s carved tracery, and could be seen piled untidily within.

‘I sweep up every day,’ whispered Dame Eleanor, gesturing to the vegetation-strewn floor. ‘But I have not had time to do it this morning, hence the mess. Meanwhile, the priests are supposed to collect the written prayers from inside the shrine, because they are the only ones allowed to touch them. They read them aloud, then burn them on the altar, to send them heavenward. All the other oblations go straight to the treasurer, who is trying to raise enough money to repair the roof in the north transept.’

‘What is that?’ asked Michael, pointing to a pottery flask that stood just behind the statue. ‘Do pilgrims leave offerings of wine for the boy, then?’

Eleanor passed it to him. ‘Holy water, Brother. The bishop gives me a jug of it each week. Some I sprinkle on the shrines I have undertaken to serve, some I dab on particularly needy pilgrims, and some I sip when I feel the need for God’s strength inside me. I am nearing seventy years of age, and attribute my good health to the saints and holy water. Will you make a petition to Little Hugh?’

Bartholomew backed away. There was something about the tomb that he did not like, and he was uncomfortable with the notion that the child’s ‘crucifixion’ had been used
to justify a massacre of innocent Jews. ‘I would rather see the other shrine,’ he said evasively, trying not to hurt her feelings. ‘Bishop Hugh’s.’

St Hugh of Lincoln had not died a grisly death, like so many others who had been canonised, but he had been a good man, whose honour and integrity had been a bright blaze in a dark world. His massive tomb stood near the High Altar, but his cranium had been separately interred in the Angel Choir – a peaceful area east of the sanctuary, which Hugh had built himself. The Head Shrine was a grand affair surrounded by rough wooden railings, to keep eager pilgrims at bay. It comprised a large, solid plinth topped by a richly decorated chest that held the skull itself. The chest was fitted with handles, so the relic could be removed from its base, and carried about in religious processions. Pilgrims clustered around it. Some knelt quietly, others issued demands for cures, and others still thrust hands and arms through its stone pillars in an attempt to get as close to the saint’s mortal remains as possible. Many had lit candles, and the Angel Choir was full of their wavering light, which turned honey-coloured stone to gold. Several clerics were present, both at the Head Shrine and the nearby Visceral Shrine of Queen Eleanor. Among them was Archdeacon Ravenser, the bishop’s debauched scribe. He was in the process of removing a thick white candle from his sleeve, which he then passed to a Vicar Choral in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilled of pickpockets. After a moment, he produced a second one, and then a third, all of which were lit and set in pride of place on the altar dedicated to St Hugh. Michael frowned before disappearing for a few moments. When he returned, his expression was stern.

‘The High Altar seems to be missing three of its best candles,’ he said sharply, having slipped up behind
Ravenser without being heard. The archdeacon jumped in shock at the voice so close to his left ear. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Ravenser, quickly regaining his composure. ‘John Suttone is in charge of the High Altar this week. I expect he forgot to collect them from the sacristy. Right, Claypole?’

His friend, a toothy fellow who wore a sword openly with his religious vestments, nodded. ‘We are only the poor souls detailed to look after St Hugh’s head – in a corner of the cathedral so draughty that the Host blows all around the altar.’