The Tarnished Chalice (3 page)

‘My beliefs about the Death do not lead me to embrace squalor when alternatives are available,’ replied Suttone haughtily. ‘But we are inside now, and it would be churlish to take one look around and opt to go elsewhere. Some of these Gilbertines might be cathedral canons – future colleagues – and it would be a pity to offend them so soon. I agree with you: we shall sleep here tonight.’

A lay-brother came to take the horses, and Whatton issued a stream of instructions – the visitors’ beasts were to be given warmed oat mash and the stable that did not leak. The man nodded in a way that suggested he did not need to be told, indicating the orders were for the guests’ benefit, not his. Then Whatton bustled away abruptly, leaving the scholars alone and uncertain what to
do next. When Suttone and Michael began a waspish debate about the merits of poverty in religious foundations, Bartholomew took the opportunity to inspect his surroundings before the light failed completely.

The buildings stood around two separate yards, with the chapel and the Prior’s House forming a barrier between them. As in most Gilbertine foundations, a nuns’ refectory and dormitory lay to the north, while the brothers had a similar set of buildings to the south, along with a two-storeyed hall for guests and a thatched shed for servants. A muddle of kitchens, pantries and storehouses stood to the west, overlooking the neat vegetable plots that ran down to the river. The land to the south of the complex comprised an extensive orchard of fruit trees.

‘Who has been murdered?’ asked Michael, breaking into the Carmelite’s tirade against those who hankered after luxury – with the natural exception of himself, of course. ‘Did Whatton say?’

‘One of the
guests
,’ replied Suttone. ‘Clearly, they do not offer much protection for those unlucky devils who are forced to stay within their walls.’

‘Look at that!’ hissed Cynric suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s arm hard enough to hurt as he pointed. ‘Surely, that is a woman? What is
she
doing in here?’

‘It is a Gilbertine foundation,’ explained Michael. Cynric did not look any the wiser, so he elaborated. ‘A dual house – where nuns and brothers live together.’

‘Does that mean those ladies will share our beds tonight?’ asked Cynric nervously. ‘My wife will not approve of that at all, and she is bound to find out. She always does.’

‘Well,
I
shall not do it,’ declared Suttone. ‘Unless there is absolutely no alternative. Here comes Whatton with a friend. Draw your sword, Cynric, lest they have come to kill us.’

‘Don’t,’ countered Bartholomew sharply, when Cynric started to comply.

‘God’s greetings,’ said the newcomer. He was taller than Whatton, and there was something unpleasant about his wet-lipped grin and the mincing quality of his voice. ‘You have caught us at a bad time, I am afraid. One of our visitors died this morning, and his friends have been here all day, demanding an explanation. Then several other guests left, because they do not want to sleep in a place where their throats may be cut during the night. So we are now all confusion.’

‘Someone’s throat was cut?’ asked Suttone in alarm.

The Gilbertine’s smile slipped a little. ‘It was just a figure of speech – he was merely stabbed, so do not worry yourself with unnecessarily gruesome images. I am Hamo, and the prior has asked me to see to your needs during your sojourn with us. I am more than happy to do so.’

‘You should be,’ remarked Whatton wryly. ‘It means an effective promotion to Brother Hospitaller, a post that has been vacant since Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters last year.’

‘Fat William was a greedy fellow,’ said Hamo, and his grin became a little gleeful. ‘He was in the habit of eating the food left by pilgrims for the poor, and Dame Eleanor said God struck him down for his unrepentant gluttony.’

‘Then Dame Eleanor sounds like a woman after my own heart,’ said Suttone, impressed. ‘Does she believe gluttony is the sin most likely to provoke God into sending the Death again? If so, I would like to meet her.’

Whatton raised his eyebrows in surprise: Suttone was not as large as Michael, but he was still a very well-fed man. ‘I do not know which sin she deplores the most, but she is a saintly lady, and often weeps when she sees brazen wickedness. Since she walks from here to the cathedral
every day – and it is quite a long way – she tends to notice rather a lot of it.’

Hamo clasped his hands in front of him, and adopted an ingratiatingly submissive pose. ‘But enough of us. Have you come to Lincoln for the installation of canons, for Miller’s Market or to make reparation for sins committed during the Summer Madness?’

‘Summer Madness?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Hamo regarded him oddly. ‘People ran insane in August. Did you not hear? It happened all over the country. They fell shuddering and screaming to the ground, and had to be bound hand and foot to prevent them from harming themselves. We took them to the churches, so God could cure them.’

‘And did He?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. He and Cynric had only returned to Cambridge in October, for the beginning of the academic year. The ensuing term had been frantically busy, and neither had had much time to catch up on what had happened in England during their absence.

Hamo nodded. ‘For the most part, although we lost a few because they refused to eat or were smothered as they were restrained. However, a number of very evil deeds were perpetrated by some sufferers, and many will flock to the cathedral on St Thomas’s Day to make amends.’

‘What sort of evil deeds?’ asked Suttone curiously. ‘Gluttony? Avarice?’

‘Worse,’ replied Hamo. ‘One man – a merchant called Flaxfleete – set fire to a rival clothier’s storerooms. I am sure
he
will be among the petitioners – he will not want arson on his conscience.’

‘The Dean and Chapter have offered a complete absolution from
all
summer sins for the very reasonable price of sixpence,’ elaborated Whatton, clearly impressed by
such a good bargain. ‘And since the Madness was used as an excuse for committing all manner of crimes, there will be a lot of folk eager to take advantage of the offer. It is all in a good cause – the cathedral’s roof is very expensive to maintain.’

‘We had no cases in Cambridge, but the town was full of the news for weeks,’ explained Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The sickness struck across all of England, and I am surprised you did not hear the tales when you returned from France.’

‘What caused it?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael was startled to be asked such a question. ‘I have no idea. An imbalance of humours, I suppose, since that is the explanation you physicians usually give for any ailment that mystifies you.’

‘Actually, the Devil was responsible,’ countered Hamo matter-of-factly. ‘He sent people into fits of twisting and contortions, and made them see things that were not there.’

‘
Ignis sacer
,’ surmised Bartholomew, drawing his own conclusions. He translated for Cynric’s benefit. ‘Holy Fire. It is a kind of plague that often occurs after wet, cold winters. It causes a swelling and a rotting of the limbs – and that
does
create an imbalance of humours, Brother.’

‘Well, weare not in Lincoln to confess sins brought about by Summer Madness,’ said Suttone to the Gilbertines. His tone was smug. ‘Brother Michael and I are here to be installed as canons.’

Hamo beamed in genuine pleasure. ‘I must tell Prior Roger immediately! He will be delighted – he likes to keep favour with the cathedral.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you kin to these two, come to share their moment of honour?’

Bartholomew did not want to tell him the truth, which
was that he was looking for the woman he hoped might become his wife. When Matilde had despaired of him ever putting the question that would make her happy and had left Cambridge, he had promptly resigned his Fellowship and had gone to find her, taking Cynric with him. He had visited her relatives in France and on the Italian peninsula, and searched every city, town and village he had ever heard her mention, but all to no avail. Matilde had disappeared as though she had never been born.

When he had returned to Cambridge after almost sixteen months of futile hunting, he learned that Michael – wholly on his own initiative – had destroyed his letter of resignation and arranged a sabbatical leave of absence instead, which meant his job at Michaelhouse was still his own. He had been grateful beyond words, because he liked teaching, and a hall full of eager students had helped ease the emptiness in his heart that Matilde had left.

Then Michael and Suttone had been offered posts as canons in Lincoln, and the mention of that city had jolted a memory in one of Matilde’s friends – they had discussed Lincoln once, she said, and Matilde had almost married a man who lived there. Matilde had never talked about Lincoln to Bartholomew, although he knew about the aborted betrothal, and while he doubted he would find her there, he felt compelled to turn the very last stone. And it was the very last stone, because he had followed every other lead, even the most unlikely ones. He had waited patiently for term to finish – Michael could not be expected to inveigle a second sabbatical so soon after the first – and then had offered to accompany his two colleagues when they travelled to Lincoln for their installation.

But what should he tell the Gilbertines? No one at Michaelhouse knew why he had gone the first time, except
Michael and Cynric; as far as Suttone and the other Fellows were concerned, he had been seized with a sudden desire to inspect the medical faculties in Padua, Montpellier, Paris and Salerno. Bartholomew was not a monk or a priest in holy orders, unlike most University officers, and so women were not forbidden to him, but chasing them across half the civilised world was not the kind of behaviour expected from scholars nonetheless, and he preferred to keep his business to himself.

‘He came to protect us helpless monastics on the long and dangerous road from Cambridge,’ explained Michael, when the physician took rather too long to reply to what was a simple question. The monk did not want the Gilbertines to assume there was another reason for the physician’s presence, and start to pry. And, since he seriously doubted Matilde would be found in Lincoln, there was no need for anyone to know the real purpose for his friend’s journey.

Personally, Michael believed Matilde did not want to be found, and thought Bartholomew should abandon his quest and take the cowl instead. Scholars were not permitted to marry, and if the physician caught his prize, he would be forced to give up his Fellowship. He was a valuable asset to Michaelhouse, which was why the monk had gone to the trouble of arranging the sabbatical in the first place – something he would not have done for any other colleague.

‘He defended you against robbers?’ asked Hamo doubtfully. Bartholomew’s hat and cloak revealed him as a physician, and he wore a leather jerkin of the type favoured by seasoned travellers and soldiers. However, his sword was caked in mud and beginning to rust in a way that would shame a real warrior, and the medicine bag he wore looped over his shoulder would impede his drawing of it.

‘We are not overly endowed with good fighting men at
the University,’ explained Michael, seeing the Gilbertine did not know whether to believe him. ‘So, we are obliged to accept whoever offers.’

‘Actually, Doctor Bartholomew has recently returned from France,’ said Suttone, indignant on Bartholomew’s behalf at the slur on his fighting abilities. To under line his point, he deliberately gave the last word a sinister timbre that was potent enough to make both Gilbertines shudder.

‘How dreadful,’ said Hamo. ‘We are at war with the French, so it must have been very dangerous.’

‘It was,’ agreed Suttone. ‘He went to study there, and his devotion to acquiring foreign knowledge meant he was at Poitiers in September.’ He pursed his lips meaningfully, glancing at Michael to show that he was wrong to denigrate their colleague’s military skills.

‘Poitiers?’ asked Whatton eagerly. ‘There are tales of a great battle there – the Black Prince won a mighty victory. Did you see it? We would love to hear your account, if you were.’

‘Such slaughter is hardly a subject for fireside chatter,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully.

‘It is, though,’ countered Cynric immediately. ‘Most of the great Welsh ballads are about battles, and you have to admit Poitiers was one of the best. I shall never forget the moment when the Black Prince raised his sword after that third skirmish – when we were certain we were doomed because we were outnumbered and exhausted – and tore into the French like an avenging angel. It was a glorious sight and
I
do not mind telling you the story, Master Whatton.’

‘But I do,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He failed to understand how his book-bearer had distilled even the most remote flicker of enjoyment from the bloody carnage.
Cynric, meanwhile, was bemused by the physician’s revulsion by what he saw as a bright, shining moment in history. They had discussed it at length, and both knew it was a matter on which they would never agree.

Whatton winked at Cynric in a way that suggested arrangements would be made later. ‘How did you come to be in Poitiers – or France, for that matter? Surely, the natives are hostile to Englishmen?’

Bartholomew was not about to admit that he had been visiting members of Matilde’s family, but he did not want to lie, either. He told a partial truth. ‘Cynric and I were forced to travel with the English army for some of the time. It was safer that way – until French forces trapped us and forced a fight. Poitiers might have been considered a great victory here, but it came at a terrible price – for both sides.’

‘While we are in Lincoln, we are hoping to meet an old acquaintance,’ said Michael, hastily changing the subject before Bartholomew’s distaste for war led him to say something unpatriotic or treasonous. Too late, he realised he had chosen another subject that was painful for his friend, but it would look odd to change what he was going to say, so he pressed on. ‘A lady called Matilde, who lived here once. I do not suppose you happen to know her?’

Suttone smiled suddenly and unexpectedly. Everyone at Michaelhouse had liked Matilde, even sour old miseries like the Carmelite. ‘Dear Matilde! We all missed her when she left. Do you think she might be here, Brother? It is possible, I suppose. She once told me – after I gave a sermon in which I mentioned my grandfather the bishop – that she considered Lincoln’s cathedral to be the finest in the world, so perhaps she does hail from this place.’