The Tarnished Chalice (23 page)

‘Do not gulp your posset,’ called Michael after Sabina, as he moved towards his quarry, ‘or it will do you no good. And I am in no hurry to leave.’

In the still silence of the chapel, Bartholomew watched Michael stalk towards Christiana, and kneel next to her, placing his hands together in an attitude of prayer. Christiana glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and Bartholomew saw her start to smile. Michael was not the most handsome of men, and was too fat to be truly attractive, but he possessed a certain allure that appealed to women. Bartholomew lingered uncertainly, not sure whether to leave them to their own devices – they were both adults, after all – or whether he would be a better friend to Michael by staying.

‘Good evening, Brother,’ simpered Christiana. She turned in surprise when she heard the rustle of Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Doctor! I thought you had gone with Sabina.’

‘So did I,’ said Michael meaningfully. ‘He invited me to pray with him,’ lied Bartholomew, suddenly determined not to go anywhere.

‘I am sure I did not,’ said Michael, eyeing him coolly. ‘And Prior Roger wants you to visit his hospital. There is a perplexing case of tertiary fever.’

‘He said nothing to me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it must be very perplexing indeed, since nobody has tertiary fevers at this time of year.’ He expected Christiana to be irritated by his stubborn refusal to leave, and was surprised to see a flash of amusement in her eyes.

‘Do not stand so far away,’ she said, ignoring Michael’s frustrated grimace. ‘Join us. We can talk about something
Hamo told me – that we all have a mutual acquaintance in a lady called Matilde.’

Bartholomew nodded as he approached. ‘Hamo remembers her living in Lincoln six years ago.’

‘I arrived here about a month before Mayor Spayne asked Matilde to be his wife,’ said Christiana. Her expression became distant, as though she was lost in memories. ‘I was preoccupied with my own troubles at the time, but I recall that quite clearly – a woman made an offer of marriage by a man she did not love. It was at that point when I realised the same thing might happen to me, once the King decides I have had long enough to recover from my grief.’

‘Matilde did not love Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How do you know?’

She regarded him in amusement. ‘We women can tell such things, Doctor. Besides, she would have accepted his offer had she loved him, given that he is handsome, rich, kind and gentle. Her standards must be very high. As are mine.’ She included Michael in her next enigmatic smile.

‘You have avoided being trapped so far,’ said Michael. ‘

’Yes, but my period of grace is coming to an end. His Majesty is beginning to be exasperated.’ Christiana sighed. ‘I adored my first husband, and would like to feel at least a modicum of affection for the second. My mother was on the verge of marrying a man she despised, and I saw how miserable it made her.’

‘Kelby,’ said Michael, remembering what Suttone had told him. ‘Unfortunately, she died before the ceremony could take place.’

‘She did not “die”, Brother,’ said Christiana softly. ‘She took medicine to ease a cough, and it killed her. She was with child, you see, but did not tell anyone. She swallowed
the electuary she was given, but it contained cuckoo-pint, which is dangerous for ladies in such a condition—’

‘That was your mother?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘We heard Ursula de Spayne had prescribed an inappropriate remedy to a pregnant woman, but no one told us her name.’

Christiana nodded. ‘It was her. Matilde and my mother were friends, and Matilde was furious when she learned what Ursula had done. But, perhaps Ursula was as much a victim as anyone. My mother was deeply unhappy about the match with Kelby, and told me she would rather die than marry him. She would never have taken her own life, so she did the next best thing: she asked Ursula for a tonic, and she neglected to mention her pregnancy.’

‘How could she have known Ursula’s remedy would have such a deadly effect?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘And I do not mean to distress you, but bringing about the premature expelling of a child is not an easy end.’

Tears sparkled in Christiana’s eyes, and she rubbed them away impatiently. ‘She was a devout woman, and saw her suffering as penance for what was so dangerously close to self-murder. She had been caring for the hospital inmates here, so had some knowledge about the medicinal properties of plants. I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she asked for that particular electuary.’

‘If your mother did not love Kelby, then who was the father of her child?’ asked Michael.

Christiana managed the ghost of a smile. ‘That is an ungentlemanly question, Brother! However, not all couplings take place with both parties willing, and my mother was given an unpleasant glimpse of her life to come.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Matilde know about … ?’

‘My mother’s rape? I doubt it. It is not the kind of thing
one chatters about, and Matilde would have been very angry. She would have said or done something to make matters worse. If you know her, then you will be aware that this is true.’

‘She would not have ignored it,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Did your mother tell you all this?’

Christiana nodded. ‘To warn me against taking a man I do not like. Our lives had been parallel until then – both married at fifteen, and widows ten years later. She urged me to take the veil rather than accept a man who is unworthy, and she told me why. I have shared this with very few people, and I am uncertain why I am confiding in you now. Perhaps it is because you have a kind face, Brother.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Your confidences are safe with us.’

‘It is not really a secret, although you will appreciate the subject is a painful one for me. So, based on her advice, I informed His Majesty that I would rather become a nun than accept a man I do not like, and since the Crown will not benefit financially if I join a convent, he is prepared to grant me a degree of leeway.’

‘There is nothing wrong with life in the cloister,’ said Michael.

‘Maybe not for men, who can enrol at universities and ride across the country to accept lucrative honours. But women are locked away until they grow old enough to be abbesses, at which point they prefer to stay at home by the fire. It is no life for a lady with an enquiring mind.’

‘There are ways around those difficulties,’ began Michael. ‘I am—’

‘Did Matilde tell your mother where she might go, if she ever left Lincoln?’ blurted Bartholomew, certain the monk was about to regale her with a list of ways to enjoy
amorous liaisons without being caught, and equally certain he would be no friend if he let him do so.

Christiana dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, and took a deep breath, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘Matilde once expressed a desire to see Cambridge, and she said she had kin in Poitiers.’

‘She is not at either of those places now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

Christiana regarded him with a puzzled frown. ‘You told Hamo that you just hoped to renew an acquaintance with Matilde, but it seems to me that you want to do rather more than that.’

‘Everyone at Michaelhouse loved Matilde,’ said Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, trying to think of a way to reply without revealing too much about his intentions. ‘And we were concerned when she left Cambridge so abruptly. All we want is to be sure she is safe and happy.’

‘She once told us a story,’ said Christiana. Her eyes became distant again, as if she had transported herself to another time. ‘It was about a woman about to be pressed into an unwelcome marriage, but she conspired to disappear so completely that no one ever knew what happened to her. Matilde’s purpose was to show my mother that there was an alternative to life with Kelby, but it also proved to me that she knew how to make herself vanish, too. I was under the impression she had done it before – perhaps even that it was her own story she was telling.’

Bartholomew nodded. It was not the first time he had been warned that Matilde had known what she was doing when she had left Cambridge. And she had once confided to him that she had escaped a betrothal by running away.

‘Disappearing can be useful in a convent,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘A wise monk or nun always knows how to find a quiet spot, away from enquiring eyes.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Christiana, wide-eyed. ‘And how might that be achieved, when one’s every move is watched? Hamo and his brethren are very solicitous of me.’

‘Do you know anything about Aylmer’s death?’ asked Bartholomew, determined to prevent the monk from teaching her sly tricks. Michael shot him an unreadable glance.

Christiana folded her hands in her sleeves. ‘I heard the uproar when Father Simon found the body. My first instinct was to assume Simon had killed him – he is a rough sort of fellow for a priest – but he says he was in the chapel when Aylmer was killed, so I suppose he must be innocent.’

‘Who else do you think might have been responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I could list dozens of men who wanted Aylmer dead, but those with the strongest motive are at the cathedral. They did not want him as a Vicar Choral, and there were fierce arguments in Chapter meetings about it. Here is Sabina, back already. I must leave you, gentlemen.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

She touched his wrist with her fingertips. ‘I have religious duties to attend. I may not have taken holy orders yet, but I still set myself daily chores. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’

When she had gone, Michael gazed at the hand she had brushed, then raised it to his cheek.

When the Gilbertines’ bells clanged to life at five o’clock the following morning, Bartholomew pulled the blanket over his head in a futile attempt to muffle the racket. During a brief interlude, when the ringers took a break, the chamber was filled with Michael’s nagging voice, ordering Cynric to kindle a lamp so he could read his psalter. From his bed,
Suttone declared that rowdy bells would bring the next wave of plague, while de Wetherset and Simon seemed to be embroiled in a private battle to see who could issue the most fervent prayers. Going back to sleep was clearly going to be impossible, so Bartholomew forced himself up, exchanging a weary grin with Cynric at his colleagues’ antics.

When the crashing clappers were finally stilled, the Michaelhouse men, with de Wetherset and Simon at their heels, left the guest-hall and crossed the yard, Simon heading for the chapel and the others for the gate. Michael had been serious when he had declared a preference for prime at the minster, while Bartholomew wanted to visit Mayor Spayne as soon as it was light, hoping to catch him before he went out to work.

‘Where are you going?’ cried Hamo, breaking into a run to intercept them. Whatton was behind him. ‘You cannot leave! It is Saturday, and we always have extended singing on Saturdays.’

‘In that case I am definitely going to the cathedral,’ muttered Michael. He cocked his head. ‘Lord! I can hear the racket from here, and all the chapel doors and windows are closed.’

‘And only half the brothers and nuns have arrived so far,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The others are still walking from their dormitories, and have yet to add their voices to the cacophony.’

‘What is that cracking sound?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. Cynric drew his dagger.

‘It is the clapping psalm,’ explained Simon, beginning to slap his own hands together. Hamo and Whatton joined in, and Bartholomew edged away uneasily when Simon began to warble at the top of his voice: ‘O clap your hands together, all ye people; O sing unto God with the voice of melody!’

‘That is the spirit,’ cried Prior Roger, as he emerged from his house. He carried his rattle, and gave it a few experimental shakes. ‘We shall praise the Lord with music and a great multitude of sound! Where are you going, Brother? The chapel is in this direction.’

‘We shall walk in silence,’ declared de Wetherset, after he, Bartholomew and Michael, with Cynric trailing behind, had managed to persuade Hamo to open the gate and let them out. Suttone had been less convincing with his excuses, so was condemned to remain. ‘We have had a narrow escape and should give quiet thanks. What will Roger think of next? Speaking in tongues?’ He shuddered.

The cathedral was a solid, black mass on the skyline, although delicate needles of yellow showed where candles had been lit in some of the windows. A cockerel crowed in the garden of one house they passed, and people were beginning to stir, despite the fact that it was still dark; when dawn came late, some duties needed to be performed by lamplight. The air was warmer than it had been the previous day, and there was a hazy drizzle in the air. It was melting some of the ice, and the scholars took care to walk in the middle of the road, to avoid being hit by falling icicles.

They arrived at the Close, where they were admitted by a sleepy lay-brother. They made their way to the minster, and stepped into the vastness of the nave. The scent of incense and damp wafted around them, and old leaves whispered across the stone floor in the draught from the door. As canons-elect, Michael and de Wetherset were expected to celebrate the divine office with the bishop at the High Altar, while Bartholomew went to listen from the Head Shrine, and Cynric expressed a desire to compare the carving of the imp with its episcopal original. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, and the building was a haven of silence and peace.

It was too early for pilgrims, so the Head Shrine was quieter than it had been the day before, and only three people were present. The sword-wearing priest, Claypole, was asleep, wedged into an alcove with his long legs stretched comfortably before him. Meanwhile, the dissipated Archdeacon Ravenser moved lethargically among the candles, trimming wicks and scraping spilled wax from the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and his complexion yellow, as if he had enjoyed another riotous night with too much wine. Dame Eleanor was kneeling in front of the shrine itself.

‘She has been here all night,’ whispered Ravenser, as Bartholomew approached. ‘Keeping vigil for the Feast of St Lucy, which is today as you will know. I cannot imagine how she stands it. She must be an angel, because I do not think any mere mortal could bear the tedium. Give me a tavern any day.’

Bartholomew refrained from pointing out that the old lady looked a good deal more pert and fit after her night of prayer than Ravenser did after whatever he had been doing. Dame Eleanor saw the two men looking at her, and beckoned them forward. Unwilling to be included in what might transpire to be an invitation to some lengthy prayers, Ravenser hastily busied himself with his candles.