The Tarnished Chalice (28 page)

‘No!’ snapped Chapman. ‘And they will be furious if I tell them the sort of questions you are asking. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to conduct.’

The mist seemed thicker than ever as Bartholomew and Michael left the Gilbertine Priory and began to walk to the cathedral for High Mass. It encased them in a cocoon of grey-white, so they could not even make out the churches and houses to either side of the road, and fine droplets clung to their clothes and hair. Bartholomew could taste the fog in his mouth, touched with a hint of wood-smoke, although it was missing the malodorous taint of the marshes he had grown used to in Cambridge. Michael was reviewing what they had learned about the chalice and its travels, but the physician’s mind was fixed on the various diseases and ailments that might be carried in such a miasma. It was a long time since he had lost himself in a reflection of medical matters; mostly, he thought about Matilde in his free moments.

They reached the Cathedral Close, where the bells were pealing, announcing that Bishop Gynewell had arrived and was ready to begin the sacred rite. Michael went to his place in the chancel, and Bartholomew stood in the nave to listen to the singing. That day, the music was sporadic in quality and volume, and he saw why when he noticed that a number of those supposed to be taking part in the ceremony were actually wandering about on business of their own. Tetford was with Master Quarrel of the Swan and money was changing hands – Michael’s Vicar Choral was laying in supplies for his tavern. Tetford saw the physician watching and turned away.

Young Hugh, cherubic in his gown and golden curls, was racing up and down the aisles with several friends, chased by a flustered-looking man who was evidently the choirmaster. The boys considered it fine sport until Dame Eleanor, abandoning her customary spot at the Head Shrine, beckoned them towards her. She spoke a few quiet words that had them hanging their heads in shame before traipsing obediently towards their exasperated teacher. Hugh lingered uncertainly, so she added something that made him grin, then sent him after his cronies. Bartholomew saw Claypole observing the episode with a malicious smile, hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Nicholas Bautre was made choirmaster two years ago,’ he said when the physician approached. ‘He is worthless, and I should never have been dismissed in his favour.’

‘You were dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

Claypole looked sullen. ‘I lost my clothes and all my vestments at the gaming table. It was my own fault – I should have chosen the white stones over the black. Dean Bresley decided to make an example of me, and had Bautre appointed in my place. It has been disastrous for the cathedral, because Bautre cannot even get the boys to stay put during the mass, let alone teach them music.’

‘They have a poor example in the adults,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not many clergy are in their places, either. They are either in the nave doing secular business, or they have not bothered to come at all.’

Claypole shrugged. ‘It is the dean’s responsibility to maintain discipline, so you can blame him. He is a sanctimonious fool! What is wrong with the odd game of chance of an evening?’

‘Presumably, he has a problem with you arriving for your duties with nothing to wear.’

Claypole pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is in no position to preach, given what hedoes in his spare time. Perhaps he appointed Bautre because he knew the choir would run amok, and it means his own voice can be heard. He is singing now.’

Bartholomew winced as a response was issued several tones too high, creating a discordant clash that had the other choristers faltering uncertainly. ‘Lord help us!’

Claypole grinned. ‘I had better get back to St Hugh’s head before Dame Eleanor admonishes me again. The dean can ride me all he likes for insolence and irregularity, but I do not like it when she does it. She has a knack for making me feel ashamed – and she might tell Lady Christiana.’

He moved away, but was intercepted by Ravenser, who was weaving up the nave in a manner that suggested he was drunk. He leaned heavily on Claypole, and laughed raucously at some joke of his own making. A woman joined them, and Ravenser whispered something that made her slap him.

It was some time before Michael emerged from the chancel. His face was bleak. ‘The dean has just given me a complete catalogue of offences committed by Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks. It seems I am about to be installed in a den of vice. And speaking of vice, here is my deputy.’

‘Your alb, Brother,’ said Tetford cheerfully, flinging a garment at Michael in such a way that it landed on his head. ‘Rosanna could not believe the dimensions I gave her, and is keen to meet you for herself. I intend to introduce you.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Michael, hauling the vestment from his face. ‘I am not some prize bull, to be produced on demand for the entertainment of women of easy virtue. And you agreed to give them up, if you recall. Or had you forgotten my threat to dismiss any assistant whose character is tainted?’

Tetford snorted his disdain. ‘Which saint will you hire,
then, Brother? Dame Eleanor? She is the only one around here who reaches your lofty standards. What do you think of the alb?’

Michael glared at him, but declined to waste his breath with further recriminations. Bartholomew stepped forward and helped him hoist the garment over his shoulders. The length was good, and the seam was barely visible thanks to some talented sewing, but it was nowhere near large enough around.

Tetford took it back with an unkind snigger. ‘Rosanna will think I am playing a game with her when I say it needs to be made bigger still. Or would you rather I abstained from her company, and you can be installed as it is? It makes you look fat, so I would not recommend it.’

‘It will take more than a morning away from women to save your sinful soul,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am not fat, I have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘Massive ones,’ agreed Bartholomew obligingly. ‘Will the alb be ready in time for the ceremony? There is only a week to go.’

‘It will be tight – and I do not mean the alb,’ said Tetford. ‘Christ in Heaven!’

Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode away with the robe over his arm. Bartholomew turned quickly, and saw Ravenser and John Suttone coming towards them. Although he was obviously inebriated, Ravenser had still remembered to arm himself, and he fingered his dagger as he nodded a cool greeting to the scholars.

‘My Vicar Choral seems nervous of you, Ravenser,’ remarked Michael. ‘I told him to disarm, but I can see from here that he is wearing a sword under his habit.’

‘He should be nervous,’ said Ravenser, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Tetford hurrying away. He began to follow, drawing his sword as he did so and calling over his
shoulder, ‘There are rules in the Cathedral Close, and he broke them.’

‘What rules?’ asked Michael of John, watching Tetford break into a run. Ravenser lumbered after him, but it was not long before he gave up the chase, putting his hand to his head as if the exercise had been too much for the delicate state of his health. ‘Would they be the monastic ones of chastity, obedience, humility and poverty?’

‘Tetford has certainly broken those,’ replied John, watching his colleagues’ antics in distaste. ‘And you can add theft, fornication and insolence, too. But in this instance I think Ravenser refers to who has rights to a certain lady. It is anathema to me, of course. I do not indulge in licentious behaviour.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Would you like me to tell our friend Suttone about his cousin’s virtuous character? He is looking for a new Vicar Choral, now his original choice is murdered.’

John regarded him icily. ‘I am naturally virtuous. It is not something I enact simply because there is a post of Vicar Choral on offer. Good morning, Brother.’

‘Poor Dean Bresley,’ said Bartholomew, while John stalked away, head in the air. ‘If all his clergy are like the ones we have met, his life must be like a foretaste of Hell.’

‘Speaking of Hell, here comes the bishop. Or is it the stone imp from the Angel Choir?’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Gynewell, skipping towards them. His curly hair gleamed in the dull morning light, and so did his eyes. ‘Have you found Aylmer’s killer yet? The dean said you questioned some of the Vicars Choral after High Mass.’

‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘However, my task has not been made easier by the fact that you were not entirely open with me. It would have been helpful to know that Aylmer was a
member of the Commonalty and that he was friends with unsavoury men like Adam Miller.’

Gynewell was rueful. ‘I see you have questions, but this is not the place to talk. Come to my house, and we shall discuss it there.’

The Bishop’s Palace was a sumptuous set of buildings that stood in the shadow of the cathedral. It boasted a stately hall with a great vaulted undercroft, which was the prelate’s private residence, while a range to the west held rooms for the clerks and officials who managed his diocese. The complex stood on a series of terraces that afforded fine views of the city, while the cathedral loomed protectively behind. The palace was made from honey-coloured stone, and its thick walls and sturdy gates suggested its builders had an eye to security, as well as to beauty and comfort. It formed a stark contrast to the shabby poverty of the town that huddled outside its well-tended grounds.

‘A tavern would have been more convenient, My Lord,’ said Michael irritably, as he followed Gynewell down a narrow path with steep stairs that provided a shortcut between palace and minster. The dampness of the fog made it slippery, and it was not an easy descent. ‘I understand the Close is rather well supplied with them.’

‘I am a bishop,’ said Gynewell archly. ‘I do not frequent alehouses – and especially not the Tavern in the Close, which is more brothel than hostelry.’

Once they reached the bottom, he led the way to a fine hall. At the far end was a massive hearth, in which a fire blazed so fiercely that it was difficult to approach. The window shutters were closed against the winter cold, and flames sent shadows dancing around the room, giving the impression that some of the figures in the wall-tapestries were alive and moving. None of the hangings depicted religious scenes, and
some were openly pagan. Bartholomew glanced at the diminutive bishop uneasily, then realised he was allowing himself to be influenced by Cynric’s prejudices.

Gynewell headed straight for the fire, where he climbed into a throne that was placed directly in front of it, waving his guests to a bench on one side. Both bench and chair were well supplied with cushions, all of them red. The bishop leaned down and took a bell in both hands, giving it a vigorous shake that made Bartholomew afraid he might burst into song, like the Gilbertines. After a moment, the door opened, and young Hugh marched in.

‘Yes, My Lord?’ the lad piped, doffing his hat.

‘It is your turn for bishop-duty, is it?’ asked Gynewell amiably, raising one of his short legs to cross over the other as he basked in the heat. Bartholomew wondered how he could stand it. ‘Or have you been assigned an additional spell of servitude for some act of mischief?’

‘Dean Bresley was cross because I accidentally dropped Master Bautre’s music in the stoup,’ said Hugh. ‘And the ink ran, so he cannot read it, which means we cannot practise the Te Deum today.’

‘I understand there is an archery practice this afternoon at the butts,’ said Gynewell with a grave expression. ‘You will have to go there, instead of singing Bautre’s latest composition.’

‘What a pity,’ said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. ‘What would you like me to fetch you, sir?’

‘Some wine – hot, of course. And a few of those red cakes the baker delivered yesterday. Oh, and bring my pitchfork, will you?’

Hugh left obediently, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop with renewed unease. ‘Pitchfork?’

Gynewell leaned forward to prod the fire into even greater fury, then sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Red cakes
are best served toasted. Bishop de Lisle knows my liking for them, and he once gave me a miniature pitchfork, just for that purpose.’

When Hugh returned, heavily laden with a tray of wine and nasty-looking pastries, Gynewell showed off his ‘pitchfork’. It was the length of a man’s arm, and beautifully crafted to mimic the double-tined tools used for moving hay. Its handle was bound in crimson leather, to prevent the user from burning himself, and Bartholomew suspected de Lisle had considered the gift an excellent joke.

They had done no more than be served a cup of scalding wine, so liberally laced with spices that it turned Bartholomew’s mouth numb, when there was a tap on the door. It was the dean. He sidled in as though he was about to burgle the place, eyes darting everywhere. He jumped guiltily when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.

‘Come in, Bresley,’ said Gynewell genially, waving the dean to the bench and presenting him with a cup of wine. Bartholomew saw it was a wooden vessel, rather than one of the set of silver goblets with which he and Michael had been provided. ‘You know you are always welcome.’

‘I am not sure I want to be welcome in this company,’ muttered the dean unhappily. ‘Tetford has just informed me that Brother Michael plans to hold a wild celebration in his tavern the night before his installation. He said Christiana de Hauville has been invited, because the good Brother has developed an improper liking for her. However, Lady Christiana is a woman, so should not be in the Close after dark. It is not right.’

Michael regarded him in open-mouthed shock, while Gynewell speared a pastry with his fork and began to cook it.

‘I have tried on several occasions to shut that den of
iniquity,’ said the bishop, ‘but each time I issue an order of suppression, Tetford finds a way to circumvent it. Still, I shall prevail in the end. I have better resources and infinite patience. Try one of my cakes, Brother.’

He passed a smoking morsel that the monk accepted without thinking, more concerned with the slur on his character than with food. ‘My Lord, I harbour no impure thoughts about Christiana de Hauville. I hope you do not believe these wicked aspersions.’

‘She is an alluring woman,’ replied Gynewell, ‘and lesser men than you have been smitten with her charms. But I shall trust you, if you say you are made of sterner stuff. Do you like the cake?’