The Tarnished Chalice (25 page)

‘You are probably wondering about that brace,’ said Ursula, although Bartholomew was actually staring at a cushion embroidered in a bold, flamboyant style that was almost certainly Matilde’s, and Michael was admiring a dish of sugared almonds. She pointed to the wooden post. ‘It is to stop the house from tumbling about our ears. When Flaxfleete burned our storehouses, the blaze damaged the roof in our home, too. The weakened timbers are buckling under the weight of the recent snows.’

‘Can you not mend it?’ asked Michael, glancing up uneasily.

‘Not as long as the ice is up there, apparently. The builders say it will collapse if they step on it now, and we are all waiting for a thaw. Only then can work begin to repair it.’

‘Then I hope winter ends early this year,’ said Bartholomew politely, when she paused for sympathy. ‘Is your brother home?’

‘Yes, and he is eager to meet you. He says any friends of a member of the Suttone clan can consider themselves friends of his. He is with a customer at the moment, but will come as soon as he is finished. Meanwhile, he has asked me to entertain you while you wait. Would you like some wine?’

‘Not at this hour in the morning,’ said Michael, lowering his ample rump on to Matilde’s cushion. ‘Ale, if you please. And perhaps a little bread. Unless you have any Lombard slices? Lincoln does produce rather fine Lombard slices – better than Cambridge, I am forced to admit. Did you hear about the death of your neighbour on Wednesday?’

She winced at the abrupt change of topic. ‘Not our neighbour, unfortunately. That would mean Kelby is dead, but we have only lost his henchman, Flaxfleete. Still, the
loss will blunt Kelby’s claws. It has not stopped him accusing my poor brother of murdering Flaxfleete, though. He claims Will gave Flaxfleete another bout of Summer Madness, so it is a good thing Will was staying with the Black Monks that night. They will swear he did not leave them, not even for a moment.’

‘How do you think Flaxfleete died?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he had already ascertained the Benedictines were able to do no such thing.

She grinned. ‘I imagine he was struck down by God, because he was going to demand absolution for burning our sheds at the General Pardon, when we all know he was not sorry at all.’

A servant arrived with a platter of pastries, and Michael leaned forward to claim the largest one. ‘Are you sure he was unrepentant?’ he asked, fingers hovering as he made his choice.

‘Of course I am,’ she snapped irritably. ‘He said Summer Madness made him do it, but no other sufferer was seized by a desire to commit arson.’

‘People are saying that you killed Flaxfleete,’ said Bartholomew, tugging the cushion from under Michael and inspecting it more closely. It was definitely Matilde’s handiwork, although it was frayed in places and had been repaired, suggesting it was several years old. ‘Because you have a motive, and it is known that you have dispensed strong substances in the past.’

‘I know,’ she said with a rueful sigh. ‘I made one mistake, and the Guild will never let me forget it. A woman came to me with a cough. She was with child, but did not men tion it when she asked for a cure. I gave her a remedy, but it served to bring the babe early and both died. It was not my fault. If she had been honest about her condition, I would never have given her an electuary containing cuckoo-pint.’

‘Flaxfleete was killed with a different poison,’ said Michael. ‘It was—’

‘Cuckoo-pint is not poison,’ snapped Ursula defensively. ‘It just has harmful effects on people in certain conditions. I hated Flaxfleete, but I am not so foolish as to kill him in so obvious a manner. Besides, I heard the toxin was in a wine keg, and while I detest guildsmen with a passion, it would be lunacy to murder them all. I would hang, because unlike Flaxfleete, I cannot claim benefit of clergy.’

‘Neither did he,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was acquitted by a secular court.’

‘Only because there was an outcry from decent folk when he demanded a Church trial. Quite rightly, Gynewell refused to do it. But God struck Flaxfleete down for his wickedness anyway.’

‘God had nothing to do with it,’ said Michael. ‘It was a human hand that put poison in his wine.’

‘Well, it was not mine, and it was not my brother’s,’ stated Ursula firmly. ‘You can search our house from cellars to attics, and you will find nothing to prove us guilty.’

After Ursula’s impassioned declaration, there was an uncomfortable silence, so she went to see what was taking her brother so long. Bartholomew stood in the window, staring across the cobbled street to the corn market, wondering what he would do if Spayne refused to help him. He thought about his own sister’s delight when he had returned from France in October, and how he had been touched by the warmth of the welcome provided by his Michaelhouse colleagues. He had been missed by family and friends, and it had been good to see them again. Would he be content to keep his promise to Michael, and return to the College that had been his home for so many
years, or would he always be wondering whether one more journey might earn him what he really wanted?

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ came a deep voice from the doorway.

Mayor William de Spayne was a man who commanded attention. He was tall, well muscled and his thick, red-gold hair and beard were neatly trimmed. His eyes were brown, and the combination of dark eyes and fair curls served to render him outstandingly attractive. His clothes were expensive and well cut, but it was his quiet dignity that set him above the other Lincoln merchants. The moment he walked across the room to greet his guests, Bartholomew understood exactly why Matilde had allowed herself to be courted by such a fellow.

‘We have come from Cambridge,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew said nothing. ‘One of our dearest friends was Matilde—’

‘Do not speak that name!’ cried Ursula, coming to take her brother’s arm protectively as a stricken expression crossed his face. ‘Not in our house. Is this who you meant when you said we had a mutual acquaintance? I would never have invited you in if I had known.’

‘She was … a … ’ Spayne suddenly seemed unable to speak coherently.

‘Will loved Matilde, but she accused me of poisoning that woman I was telling you about,’ said Ursula.

‘The older Christiana de Hauville was betrothed to one of my most bitter rivals,’ explained Spayne in a voice that was unsteady. ‘Ursula was accused of bringing about her death, because Lady Christiana’s demise meant Kelby lost his future wife.’

‘He lost her dowry, too,’ said Ursula spitefully. ‘And that is what really annoyed him.’

‘And his heir,’ added Michael. ‘The dead child is said to have been his, too.’

‘But Christiana did not tell me about that,’ said Ursula bitterly. ‘Her death was not my fault!’

‘All right,’ said Michael. ‘We believe you. However, I fail to see what this has to do with Matilde.’

‘Christiana was Matilde’s friend, and it was Matilde who made the fuss about her death,’ said Ursula resentfully. ‘The whole affair was extremely unpleasant.’

‘Matilde is not … ’ Spayne whispered, blood draining from his face as something occurred to him. ‘You have not brought me bad news about her … health?’

‘She was well when we last saw her,’ said Michael. ‘And as lovely as ever.’

Spayne closed his eyes in relief. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. ‘I could not bear it if she … But you must forgive me. I did not know you came here to talk about Matilde, and hearing her name after so long has been a shock. I... Matilde and I... ’ ‘Will believed she would consent to be his wife,’ said Ursula, when he faltered into silence. ‘But she refused him, and left Lincoln the following day. He tried to find her, but she once said she would never be located once she had gone, and she was right. So, she went to Cambridge, did she?’

‘I went to all the places where she had kin,’ said Spayne softly. ‘None had heard from her in years, so I was forced to concede defeat. Is she happy in Cambridge? I hope she is happy.’

‘I think she was,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew still said nothing. ‘But she is no longer there.’

Spayne’s expression was sad. ‘I shall not go after her, Brother. Her abrupt disappearance made it clear that she wanted to sever all ties with me, and I respect her wishes. She is a kind, good woman, and I feel myself honoured that she befriended me for a while.’

‘We were her friends,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘But she left before … she left suddenly.’

Spayne raised his eyebrows. ‘She abandoned you, too? I understand how that feels! And now you are looking for her? Well, I wish you luck, but do not hold too much hope. When she disappears, she does so very completely. I hired men to search the length and breadth of England – not to drag her back and force her to take me, but to invite her home, to live among the friends she had made here. I was even ready to leave Lincoln myself, if she did not want me in the city. But none of my hunters were ever able to deliver the message, so I am here and she is not.’

‘Will you tell us where her kin live?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You may know some that we do not, and she may be with them now.’

‘Why are you looking for her?’ asked Spayne warily. ‘Are you agents for some other jilted man?’

‘No,’ said Michael soothingly, while Bartholomew gripped the cushion and let the monk do the talking. ‘As Matt just said, she was our friend, and we were concerned when she disappeared so suddenly. All we want is to make sure she is safe. We had hoped to find her here, in Lincoln, and we were deeply disappointed when we learned she has not been seen for six years.’

Spayne stroked his beard for a while, regarding his visitors with troubled eyes. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I am sorry, but if she left you, it means she does not want to be found.’

‘We are concerned for her welfare,’ insisted Michael, while Bartholomew gazed at the mayor in dismay. ‘You do her a disservice by not telling us what you know. And besides, she was so happy in Cambridge that every fibre of my being tells me that she wants to be found and encouraged to return.’

‘That may well be true, but I do not know that, and I will not meddle in her life again.’

‘It would not be meddling,’ snapped Michael, becoming annoyed. ‘And she will certainly thank you if you assist us. She left over a misunderstanding of intentions – one that can be rectified just by talking to her for a few moments.’

‘No,’ said Spayne firmly. ‘I will not do it. But tell me about her, and how you came to be close. It warms my heart to learn she found happiness, even if it was not with me. Come and share a cup of wine. Anyone who earned Matilde’s good favour can consider himself a friend of mine.’

Bartholomew did not want to reminisce with one of Matilde’s former beaux, but it would have been churlish to leave, and he harboured the hope that Spayne might let something slip while he talked. Michael was a skilled interrogator, and had an uncanny knack for making people reveal secrets they later wished they had kept. He saw determination in the monk’s face, and knew he would do his best. Michael set to with a vengeance, and encouraged Spayne to talk all he liked. The merchant obliged with an eagerness that showed he still felt his loss very keenly.

As Spayne described his courtship, Bartholomew became aware that he was a man of culture and intelligence. He was also a skilled lutanist and an accomplished dancer, which suggested Matilde had probably had a good deal of fun in his company, too. Bartholomew tried to dislike him, but there was nothing in the man’s manners to offend, and he thought that under other circumstances, he and Spayne might have developed a friendship.

Ursula listened to the fond ramblings with pursed lips, obviously disapproving of the woman who had broken her brother’s heart, but too wise to say anything bad. Michael recounted some memories of his own, which made Spayne laugh. He had a rich, deep chortle that was infectious. Then he asked Bartholomew about his work, and expressed
an interest in his treatise on fevers – a vast tome that had taken most of the physician’s spare time before he had abandoned it to search for Matilde. It was still at Michaelhouse, packed in a chest and jealously guarded by his students. Bartholomew was impressed to learn that Spayne was familiar with the work of several Arab scholars, and they began a lively debate about Ibn al-Nafis’s controversial theory regarding the pulmonary circulation of the blood, which sent Michael to sleep and Ursula out to do some shopping.

When she returned, she offered her guests dinner, although not with very good grace. Spayne talked all through the meal, outlining his observations about the furious debate that was currently raging among scholars regarding the nature of Blood Relics – if Christ’s blood was holy, it would have risen with Him at His Resurrection, and it was therefore impossible for cathedrals and churches to possess drops of it in phials. Not all theologians agreed, and the Dominicans and Franciscans had ranged themselves on opposing sides of a schism that threatened to rip the universities apart. Michael had strong opinions about it, but found himself hard-pressed to refute Spayne’s arguments for the other side. Then the monk saw Ursula closing the window shutters, and realised it was nearly dusk.

‘We have been talking all day!’ he exclaimed, jumping to his feet in horror. ‘There was so much I was going to do, not least of which was making sure Tetford has seen to my ceremonial alb. And then there is the small matter of the murder Gynewell told me to investigate. He will wonder what sort of man he is going to install, if he learns I have been debating Blood Relics instead.’

Spayne smiled. ‘You are a scholar, so he should expect you to be diverted by intellectual pursuits.’ He surged forward suddenly, grabbing the monk’s arm and easing
him away from the brace near the hearth. ‘Mind the pillar, Brother. The house is quite safe as long as it is in place, but the carpenter says the roof might collapse if we move it. I would not like it jostled accidentally.’

‘I had no idea it was so dangerous,’ said Michael, edging away in alarm.

‘Well, you do now,’ said Ursula unpleasantly. ‘Flaxfleete may be dead, but his legacy lives on.’

Spayne shot her an admonishing glance. ‘There is no need for bitterness. Besides, the carpenter said the roof will be perfectly all right as long as his post is here. Of course, the additional weight of all this snow is not helping, but the rafters cannot be mended until the weather clears, and … I should not burden you with my problems.’