The Tarnished Chalice (20 page)

‘Did anyone else object to him?’

‘The Guild, obviously. They also thought it was the Commonalty’s way of clawing into their territory. Kelby and Dalderby complained to the bishop, but Gynewell told them the decision belonged to the relevant canon. It is fortunate for your friend that he is a Suttone. Everyone likes the Suttones, and will forgive them a good deal.’

‘I understand you have voiced an opinion about the Hugh Chalice,’ said Michael, turning to another matter. ‘You are wary of its sanctity, unlike your bishop.’

The dean nodded unhappily. ‘Gynewell said he could feel the holiness emanating from it, but I could not. I still had the urge to … well, suffice to say that I think it is just a goblet.’

‘The urge to what?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It does not matter. When – if – the real Hugh Chalice does come to Lincoln, I shall know it.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

Bresley grabbed the monk’s arm suddenly. ‘Hell’s teeth! Look who is heading our way! I must bid you good morning, gentlemen, because I have no wish to talk to him this morning.’

Dean Bresley was gone before Michael could open his mouth to say he had not finished asking questions, and his place was taken by a grinning priest with freckles and an arrogant swagger. His clothes were of the finest quality, and he wore spurs on his boots, which sat oddly with his monastic attire. So did the sword that was concealed – but only barely – under his fur-lined cloak.

‘Brother Michael, I presume?’ he said, bowing. ‘I am John Tetford. You were kind enough to appoint me as your Vicar Choral. Did you like our singing? I was the solo tenor.’

‘Very nice,’ said Michael. ‘Why are you carrying that weapon in a church?’

‘Because I might meet Ravenser,’ replied Tetford, unabashed by the censure in Michael’s voice. ‘He is in here somewhere, and you will not want me run through before I can take up my duties.’

‘Why does Ravenser mean you harm?’ Michael’s expression was cold and angry, and Bartholomew saw that his first real foray into his new cathedral had left him far from impressed.

‘There was a misunderstanding over a lady,’ replied
Tetford with a careless grin. ‘It will not happen again, not now I know what kind of man she allows in her bed. I have standards, you know.’

Michael eyed him balefully. ‘You confess to enjoying women now, as well as to harbouring violent feelings towards your fellow clerics?’

‘Self-protection, Brother. And I will not attack Ravenser unless he attacks me first. However, I shall cut back on the encounters with the fair sex, if it makes you happy.’

‘Yes, you will,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I have standards, too, and if I find you breaking any of the cathedral’s rules, I shall dismiss you and appoint another deputy.’

‘You can try,’ said Tetford insolently, ‘but I doubt my uncle will allow it.’

‘Your uncle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The Bishop of Ely,’ explained Tetford. ‘Well, he refers to me as his nephew – along with my several cousins – but the reality is that he has no siblings of his own, so I am sure you can guess the real nature of our relationship. He will not cast stones.’

‘De Lisle will not favour you for long if you bray about his youthful indiscretions,’ said Michael icily. ‘He is ambitious, and will not let a “nephew” stand in his way. So, behave yourself – unless you want to be branded a bastard, and prevented from holding any sort of office in the Church.’

Tetford turned sullen. ‘You are a tedious man. Uncle said you were fun, but I do not think I shall invite you to my alehouse of an evening. You can go somewhere boring and respectable instead, like the Swan.’

Michael tried not to gape. ‘You run a hostelry?’

‘The Tavern in the Close. It is a lively place, only ever frequented by clerics – and the occasional lady, of course. Gynewell and the dean keep trying to close it down, but they will never succeed. People enjoy it too much, even
the dean, on occasion. Everyone needs fun from time to time.’

‘You have until next Sunday to mend your ways,’ said Michael, struggling to regain his composure. ‘You will shut the Tavern in the Close, resist female company, and decline strong drink. If you do not, I shall appoint another Vicar Choral. De Lisle will not object when he finds out why.’

‘He already knows my foibles, Brother,’ said Tetford smugly. ‘You and I can have a contest of wills if you like, but be warned that you will not win. You would do better concentrating on finding out who killed Aylmer. I assume Gynewell asked you to oblige him with an investigation? He told me at breakfast yesterday that he intended to do so.’

‘He told you?’ asked Michael in patent disbelief. ‘Why would he do that? He seems a decent man, and I do not see him wasting time in idle chatter with lowly Vicars Choral.’

Tetford did not seem offended by the insult, but his grin faded and his voice dropped to a murmur. ‘Do not tell my colleagues this, but I liked Aylmer – he was fun. So, I asked Gynewell what he planned to do about the murder. At the same time, I happened to mention what Uncle has told me about your investigative skills. You had better find Aylmer’s killer, Brother, or I will not be the only one disappointed.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael unmoved. ‘And who else will have me quaking in fear, pray? Gynewell certainly did not issue threats when he gave me this commission, and Bishop de Lisle is too far away to care whether I succeed or fail.’

‘I refer to Adam Miller. He and his Commonalty hold a lot of power in this town. You will not want to begin your new appointment by annoying them, and Aylmer was one of their number.’

‘Then how do you know they did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘A falling-out among thieves?’

‘They are not thieves,’ said Tetford, glancing quickly behind him, to see whether anyone had heard. ‘They call themselves merchants, so watch the name-calling, please. Langar sued the last man who referred to Miller as a felon, and the courts forced Kelby to pay an entire year’s profits to make reparation for the insult.’

‘Langar,’ mused Michael. ‘He is—’

‘I suppose you might have come across him, if you were in Cambridge two decades ago,’ interrupted Tetford before Michael could say what he knew. ‘He was a law-clerk at the castle there.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘If I recall correctly, a clerk called Langar advised the Justice over the Shirlok case, and—’

Tetford flung out a hand to silence him, looking around in alarm. ‘Do not even whisper that name in Lincoln! Everyone knows that a man called Shirlok made untruthful allegations against Miller and some of his friends in Cambridge, and was hanged for it, but Miller is sensitive about the incident, even today. Not even his deadliest enemies dare mention it these days, and if you want to see your University again, I recommend you follow their example.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It was not the trial we were discussing, though: it was Langar. How did he come to leave his post with a Justice to work for a “merchant”?’

Tetford remained uneasy. ‘I was told the Justice died shortly after Miller’s acquittal, and Langar decided to enter private practice instead. He came to Lincoln, and is Miller’s legal adviser. Can we talk about something else?’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘This is becoming very
complicated. There are connections everywhere, and I cannot decide which are significant and which are irrelevant.’

Bartholomew was troubled. ‘This might be important, though. If Langar was involved in the Shirlok trial, then he knew Aylmer twenty years ago.’

Tetford was clearly unsettled by the discussion. ‘If you must ignore my advice, then at least keep your voices down. It is Friday, and the members of the Commonalty always come to light candles at about this time. Miller might hear you, and while I shall be more than happy to inherit your prebendal stall when he kills you, my uncle will be sorry to learn you dead and I do not want him upset.’

Michael glared. ‘I doubt someone like you will ever be installed as a canon. But time is wasting, and I have a lot to do today. I was told to come here for a fitting. Where are the vestments?’

Tetford gestured to a nearby tomb, over which several garments had been slung. ‘It is my responsibility to find you something suitable and arrange for any necessary alterations. I was expecting someone smaller, however, and I am not sure we have anything big enough for you.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is your Chapter composed of insignificant men with no stature, then?’

‘It is not your height that is the problem,’ explained Tetford bluntly. ‘It is your width. Try on this alb, Brother. It is the largest we have.’

Glowering indignantly, Michael stepped forward and allowed Tetford to put the garment over his head. Albs were ankle-length robes with wide sleeves, but the one Tetford gave Michael barely reached his knees and was embarrassingly snug. Bartholomew looked away, not wanting to be seen laughing.

‘I cannot wear this,’ objected Michael, aghast. ‘It would not be big enough for Little Hugh!’

‘It is tight,’ agreed Tetford. He was thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. ‘I know a lady who is very skilled with a needle. She might be able to take a few strips from an old altar frontal, and make this longer and wider. She is rather good, and no one will notice her repairs, especially if we all drink to your health the evening before the installation. No one notices much after a night in my tavern.’

Michael glared at him. ‘If this is just an excuse to visit women with my blessing, I shall not be pleased. You may see her – although not at night, obviously – but I shall expect to be presented with an alb that fits. What about my almuce? Canons are supposed to wear fur-lined almuces.’

Tetford rubbed his chin as he considered the garment that covered a priest’s shoulders. ‘I had better discuss that with Rosanna, too.’ He held up a green item with gold trimmings. ‘However, you will like this. It is the special cope of Deuxevers cloth.’

Michael slipped into it, and was relieved when it fitted. ‘At last! I was beginning to think I might have to go through the ceremony stark naked.’

‘I found it in a chest belonging to a canon who died several years ago. It was in the attic of my alehouse, so do not be too damning about such places. If I had not been an innkeeper, I would not have found the box, and you might well have gone to the Stall of South Scarle in a state of nature.’

‘Who was this canon?’ asked Michael. ‘I shall say a mass for him tomorrow.’

‘I doubt even your prayers will save Hodelston from the fires of Hell,’ said Tetford cheerfully. ‘He was a dreadful fellow, well past redemption.’

Michael hauled the garment from his shoulders and
hurled it away. ‘Hodelston? He died during the Death! And you hand me his cope to wear? Matt!’

‘You cannot catch the plague from clothes after all these years,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true. ‘And I was under the impression that Hodelston did not die from the pestilence anyway.’

‘He was probably poisoned,’ agreed Tetford, picking up the cope and thrusting it into the monk’s reluctant hands. ‘And you are not in a position to be choosy, Brother, so just be grateful we have found something that fits. Well, we are finished just in time, because Miller is coming this way and he is making gestures that suggest he wants to talk to you.’

‘Perhaps he is, but I do not care to meet him,’ said Michael, beginning to move in the opposite direction.

Tetford grabbed his arm. ‘I am fond of my uncle, so I shall give his spy some good advice: do not run, because Miller will assume you are afraid of him. And he has a nasty habit of extorting money from timid people. Master Miller! Good morning.’

‘Maybe it is,’ replied the man who had approached them. He sounded cagey. ‘Or maybe it isn’t. It depends.’ He leaned to one side and spat on the cathedral’s fine stone floor.

Instinctively, Bartholomew went to stand next to Michael, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Adam Miller was squat and heavy, like a bull, and the three people at his heels carried enough weapons to equip the English army. Bartholomew recognised all four, although they were older than when he had last seen them. Miller had suffered most from the ravages of time. His skin had turned leathery and he had lost all his teeth except four yellow lower incisors; what little hair that remained was white.

Behind him stood the man Shirlok had named as Walter
Chapman, a skinny fellow in his red hose, who looked just as disreputable as he had in Cambridge two decades before. Bartholomew wondered what Simon had been thinking of, to buy a relic from someone like Chapman, since everything about him screamed that he lived on the wrong side of the law – just like Miller, in fact.

Next to Chapman was the man who had kept the record of the Cambridge trial so many years ago, the ginger-haired clerk called William Langar. He had clearly done well for himself, because he was by far the best dressed of the quartet, and his fingers were adorned with so many rings that Bartholomew could only suppose he hired a scribe to write for him now. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and Bartholomew had the sense that he was deceitful.

The last person was a burly matron with a square face and small eyes, who gripped a stave as though she was considering braining someone with it. Lora Boyner, thought Bartholomew, recalling the way she had yelled her innocence when Shirlok had made his accusations. In all, they were a disreputable crowd, and he sincerely hoped they would not remember him.

‘This is Brother Michael,’ said Tetford, bowing and grinning in a way that suggested he was terrified. Bartholomew wondered whether he knew about Miller’s exploitation of faint-hearted men from personal experience. ‘And his colleague Bartholomew. I would introduce you to their friend, Thomas Suttone, but he is not with them, and—’

‘Thank you, Tetford,’ said Langar softly. ‘You may leave us now.’

Miller spat again when Tetford had scuttled away. Bartholomew itched to reprimand him, but there was something about the easy way the man held his weapons that stopped him. Miller might be old, but the physician sensed
he was still a formidable fighter, and there was no point in starting a brawl he would not win by asking him to gob outside. He suspected the man’s cronies were equally adept with their weapons, with the possible exception of Chapman, who just looked like a petty thief.