The Tarnished Chalice (5 page)

‘It did not work yesterday,’ Cynric pointed out ruefully.

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall say a prayer before we go. In the chapel.’

‘You mean the chapel that lady went into?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Then go and fulfil your religious obligations, Brother. I do not need an escort.’

Michael was right: it was dangerous to explore unknown cities at night, and Bartholomew did not want to put his friends at risk just because he was impatient. They listened to his arguments for them remaining with the Gilbertines, then followed him outside anyway. Snow lay in untidy heaps, where it had been swept, and the ground was slick with hoarfrost.

‘You have been more than patient with my hunt,’ said Bartholomew, buckling his sword to his waist as they walked across the yard. He never carried weapons in Cambridge, but his travels in France and along some of England’s robber-infested highways meant he was now more cautious. ‘Both of you. And I shall make you a promise: this is the last time I race off in search of shadows. If I cannot find Matilde this time, I shall concede defeat.’

‘I shall hold you to it,’ warned Michael, selecting a tortuous route that avoided the bigger drifts. ‘You cannot spend the rest of your life haring around countries with which we are at war, and we need you at Michaelhouse. We have students eager to study with you – you taught
them more last term than Doctor Rougham managed in a year – and England needs University-trained physicians. If Suttone is right, and the Death is about to come back, the importance of your work cannot be overestimated.’

‘You give me too much credit. Physicians were worthless during the plague – worse than worthless, even, since I sometimes wonder whether our advice and practices made it worse. But even if we cannot cure the pestilence, then I suppose there are other ailments to treat. We still have our uses.’

‘You do,’ agreed Michael. ‘Oh, look! We just happen to be at the Gilbertines’ church. Give me a few moments to say my prayers, and then we shall visit Spayne together.’

The Chapel of St Katherine was an attractive building, which had been raised by Normans. It boasted small roundheaded windows, and the arches in the nave were adorned with brightly painted dog-tooth mouldings. Its chancel was longer than its nave, although not as wide, and its stone floor made their footsteps echo as they walked towards the high altar. It smelled damp, as though the roof was leaking somewhere, and it was icy cold. It was also empty, although a doused but still-warm lamp suggested that Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana had not long left their devotions.

Michael grimaced before kneeling to recite a psalm of deliverance. Unlike Bartholomew, who enjoyed being on the road and seeing new sights, the monk considered travel a dreadful ordeal, and was genuinely grateful to have arrived in Lincoln unscathed. While he chanted, Bartholomew wondered what it was about Lady Christiana that had caught Michael’s attention, thinking she could not hold a candle to Matilde’s radiant beauty. But then, he acknowledged wryly, he could not look at a woman without comparing her unfavourably to Matilde these days. It was hardly healthy, and he knew he should stop before he drove himself insane.

‘You should leave some coins,’ Michael called over his shoulder, as he climbed inelegantly to his feet. ‘St Katherine will appreciate them, and we need all the good graces we can muster, since we have to ride home again in two weeks.’

When Bartholomew did as the monk suggested, he saw others had left oblations, too. In pride of place was a silver chalice. It was a simple thing, quite small, and its tarnished appearance suggested it had seen better days. Other people had used it as a receptacle, and several pennies and a ring lay on its bottom. Bartholomew dropped his offering in with them, then stood in the shadows, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for the monk to finish.

Eventually, Michael was ready and they left the priory, ignoring the unhappy strictures of Whatton at the gate, who told them they would miss supper if they took too long. Bartholomew was not hungry, his appetite vanished at the prospect of new information, while in his newly ‘slender’ form, Michael had trained himself to miss the occasional repast. And Cynric was an old soldier, used to eating at irregular times, and was adept at obtaining what he wanted from locked kitchens anyway.

The first obstacle they were obliged to surmount was a tall, narrow structure known as the West Bargate. It straddled a foul-smelling dyke, and comprised a vaulted arch with a stout wooden gate – the heavy bar that secured the gate from inside gave the building its name – and a guard-room above. Smoke issued from the chimney, and a good deal of hammering and shouting was required before the soldier could be persuaded to leave his cosy domain. Once they had his attention, it cost fourpence to be allowed through, and another fourpence to extract the promise that they would be let out again later, to return to their lodgings.

Bartholomew expected to find himself in the city once they had passed under the West Bargate’s dripping portal, and was surprised when the guard said Lincoln was still a mile away: the churches and houses that lined the road ahead comprised the elongated suburb-settlement of Wigford.

The first of Wigford’s dozen churches was a stately affair dedicated to St Botolph. Next was St Margaret’s, once fine, but now showing signs of neglect. Then came Holy Cross, adorned with a handsome steeple, but with its priest’s house a blackened shell at the far end of its churchyard. Some of its parishioners were moving around the ruins with torches, and the rattle of saws and the tap of hammers showed they were rebuilding it, lending their labour once their day’s official work was done. A young priest – no more than a boy – had been given the job of stirring the mortar, but he was unequal to the task, and his parishioners’ complaints rang in the still night air.

Eventually, after a stumbling walk that took twice as long as it would have done in daylight, they reached a river spanned by a bridge of stone. On the other side was a substantial gatehouse. The building appeared to be several hundred years old, and was the kind of crumbling, unstable edifice that did not encourage people to linger underneath. The Michaelhouse men paid another toll and hurried through its cracked arches, relieved when they reached the city on the other side.

They were pleasantly surprised to find Lincoln far more lively than its suburbs. People were in the streets, and shopkeepers operated by the light of lamps. Inns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade, and musicians entertained frozen admirers with pipes, drums, lutes and rebecs. The performer with the largest crowd was a singer who bawled obscene ballads and encouraged his audience

– a scruffy horde with the pinched look of poverty about them – to join in the chorus. They were watched with rank disapproval by several well-dressed merchants. The scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, and Michael bought some to eat as they walked, parting with a few to a boy with a mop of golden curls, who agreed to lead them to the house of the merchant called William de Spayne. Michael was unimpressed when it transpired to be up a very steep incline.

‘Now you see why I prefer the Fens,’ he gasped, as he laboured upwards. ‘There are none of these mountains to ascend. Only heathens live in places where there are hills.’

‘That is Spayne’s home,’ chirped the boy, grinning his amusement at the monk’s discomfort. ‘It is almost opposite the corn market, which always runs late on Wednesdays, as you can see. Spayne’s place is called the Jewes House because it was built by the Jews who crucified St Hugh.’

He snatched the rest of the chestnuts and scampered away before the monk could object, while Cynric regarded Spayne’s abode with serious misgivings.

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ he muttered. ‘Saints murdered by Jews.’

‘He is confusing two stories,’ explained Bartholomew, knowing Cynric could be superstitious and not wanting him to take against the city quite so soon. ‘St Hugh was a Lincoln bishop who died peacefully in his bed, and who was a good man. Little Hugh was a child allegedly crucified by Jews, although since identical stories arose at the same time in Norwich, Bury St Edmunds, York and Gloucester, it makes me wonder whether it was just an excuse.’

‘An excuse for what?’ asked Cynric uneasily.

‘For the expulsion of Jews from England a few years later,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And the confiscation of all
their goods. The Crown made a lot of money by passing that particular law.’

‘And whoever managed to lay hands on this building did rather well out of the Jews’ misfortunes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a very fine house, although in desperate need of loving care.’

‘Just like everything else around here, then,’ said Cynric, looking around disparagingly.

‘Are you going to knock?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did no more than stare at Spayne’s front door. That part of Lincoln was full of stone houses, although Spayne’s and the building next door were by far the best. Both were pure Norman, with round-headed doors and windows, and the stocky sense of permanence always associated with that particular style of architecture. The monk was right when he said Spayne’s home needed money spent on repairs, though, because the mouldings were beginning to weather, and the window shutters were rotting under cheap paint. The house next to it was in a far better state, although the lamps from the nearby corn market showed scorch marks that suggested it had been in a recent fire.

When Bartholomew continued to hesitate, Cynric knocked for him. The book-bearer jumped back quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword, when it was hauled open by a man wearing a purple cote-hardie – a tight-fitting tunic with flaring knee-length skirts – and a red hat. He was laughing and held a goblet in his hand. Behind him was a hall filled with cheering men.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his humour evaporating when he saw strangers in the darkness outside. ‘I was expecting more claret from the Swan tavern, not visitors.’

‘Master Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping into the light spilling from the house. Despite his finery, the man
was unattractive – no chin at all and eyes that were far too small for his fleshy face – and the physician was not surprised Matilde had rejected his offer of marriage.

The man flushed with anger. ‘I most certainly am not! My name is Walter Kelby, and you would do well to remember it. Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. There was a strong smell of wine, and Kelby was unsteady on his feet. The physician knew perfectly well that intoxicated men sometimes began fights over nothing, and he did not want trouble. ‘I apologise for the intrusion – we have obviously been directed to the wrong house.’

‘You want Spayne?’ Kelby staggered when he tried to lean against the door jamb and missed. ‘Why? Is it about wool? If so, then you would fare better with me, since I offer competitive prices. Come in, and join our revelries. I am Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we are celebrating.’

‘Celebrating what?’ asked Bartholomew, since the man was obviously itching to tell him.

‘Our good fortune. One of us accidentally committed a crime during the Summer Madness, but obviously he was not in his right wits when he did it, so he should not be held accountable for the consequences. But God made Sheriff Lungspee see reason today, and Flaxfleete was acquitted. He will make reparation at the General Pardon, of course – it only costs sixpence, anyway – but it was good to learn he will not be fined by the secular courts for something that was not his fault.’

Bartholomew smiled politely. ‘Then we shall leave you to savour your victory.’

‘Hurry up, Kelby.’ A short man with sharp, rat-like features came to stand behind the merchant, and Bartholomew had the immediate sense that he was dishonest, despite the fact that his sober clothes suggested
he had taken holy orders. ‘Where is the wine? Master Quarrel said it would be delivered within the hour, and I would kill for a drink.’

‘These fellows want to know if I am Spayne,’ slurred Kelby. He stumbled when his friend flung an arm across his shoulder, and Bartholomew jumped forward to prevent both from toppling into the street. ‘The ground moved! It must have been another earthquake. Is the cathedral still standing? Can you see it, Flaxfleete?’

‘It is too dark,’ replied Flaxfleete, after a few moments of intent peering. ‘But I do not think God will tear up the land tonight. Not after my success in the law courts.’

‘Earthquake?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘Is Lincoln subject to them, then?’

‘We had one during the life of Bishop Hugh, although he died more than a hundred years ago,’ explained Flaxfleete. ‘The minster was shaken to pieces, and he rebuilt it. Our Guild reveres St Hugh, and we try to emulate his actions.’

‘By raising cathedrals?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought Lincoln only had one of them.’

‘I mean we donate money to worthy causes,’ said Kelby, fortunately too drunk to know the monk was mocking him. ‘Such as providing ourselves with a new guildhall, and buying wine for the cathedral officials. We are good friends with them, unlike some I could mention.’

‘Very worthy,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could prolong the conversation with more questions. He started to back away. ‘Good evening to you.’

‘Who told you Spayne lived here?’ asked Flaxfleete curiously. ‘One of the choristers – small boys with angelic faces and the Devil’s manners? It is the kind of trick they might play on strangers.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael, ignoring
Bartholomew’s tug on his arm that indicated he wanted to go.

‘To inconvenience men who have business with him,’ said Kelby. ‘God bless them for it.’

‘And because we are good, honest guildsmen,’ added Flaxfleete. ‘But Spayne is a member of that vile coven of rich merchants known as the Commonalty.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. When he saw the monk’s interest had been piqued by the two men’s odd remarks, Bartholomew sighed and gave up his attempt to cut the discussion short.

‘All decent, respectable traders are members of the Guild of Corpus Christi,’ explained Kelby patiently. ‘Meanwhile, all corrupt ones belong to a council known as the Commonalty.’