The Tarnished Chalice (6 page)

‘Damn them to Hell,’ added Flaxfleete viciously. ‘So, we and Spayne are enemies, and have been for years. Fortunately, the Guild has more than fifty members, but the Commonalty is only twelve. However, these dozen hold a disproportionate degree of power, and the unemployed weavers favour them because they give charity. One is Adam Miller, you see.’ He regarded them with pursed lips.

‘Lord!’ said Michael, pretending to be shocked. He was amused by the way the merchants kept assuming strangers should know all about their city. ‘Not Adam Miller!’

‘The very same,’ said Kelby gravely. ‘The whole town is afraid of him and his devious ways – except the weavers, of course. And Spayne is his man.’

‘Spayne is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He did not think Matilde would have embarked on a friendship with a man who indulged in illegal activities; she was a woman of considerable integrity.

‘Yes, and so is Miller,’ said Kelby firmly, leaning so hard against Flaxfleete that the man dropped his cup. ‘We are
a divided city: the Guild and the cathedral stand for everything good, and the Commonalty represents everything bad. Every honest soul is terrified of Miller.’

Michael was puzzled. ‘But I understand a man called Adam Miller finances Miller’s Market. He cannot be all bad.’

Flaxfleete waved a dismissive hand. ‘As I said, he is popular among unemployed weavers, but we guildsmen and our people are not deceived by his so-called largess.’

‘You wear a priest’s robes, yet it sounds as though you were tried by a secular court,’ said Michael to Flaxfleete, intrigued both by the merchants and their chatter. ‘Why? You could have claimed benefit of clergy and been subject to more lenient Canon law.’

‘Because I took holy orders after the arson incident, and Bishop Gynewell declined to judge me,’ said Flaxfleete. It was clear he thought the decision an unreasonable one. ‘He said he did not wish to become embroiled in the city’s dispute, especially since the buildings I happened to incinerate belonged to my deadly enemy: Spayne.’

‘And there is the fact he would not be the first to take holy orders to avoid secular punishment,’ muttered Bartholomew to Cynric. ‘If that was allowed to happen, every felon in England would wear a habit.’

‘Most do anyway,’ replied Cynric. He had scant respect for clerics.

‘But it was our turn to win a trial presided over by Sheriff Lungspee, in any case,’ slurred Kelby. ‘Especially after what happened to poor Dalderby.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael.

‘A villainous rogue called Thoresby threatened to chop off his head,’ explained Flaxfleete indignantly. ‘It will not surprise you to learn that Dalderby is a guildsman, and Thoresby belongs to the Commonalty. It was obvious
that Thoresby was guilty, but Lungspee pardoned him anyway. It was shameful! Miller certainly bribed Lungspee to get him released. Here comes the wine at last.’

‘You did not say why you wanted to see Spayne,’ said Kelby, lurching to one side to allow a sweating youth to enter his house with a barrel. ‘If it is wool business, then you should deal with me instead – and I will even give you a cup of claret while we discuss terms.’

‘It is not wool business,’ said Michael. ‘Although I understand wool is what made Lincoln rich.’

‘It did,’ acknowledged Flaxfleete. ‘But times have changed, and we are all suffering from cheap foreign imports – except Spayne, who has trading rights in the upstart port of Boston. Damn him – and damn them, too! Boston is killing Lincoln, and he encourages it.’

‘You should go sparingly with that,’ advised Michael, pointing at the keg. ‘My friend here visited France this year, and he says the grape harvest was poor. That claret might make you sick.’

Kelby tried to focus on the barrel, screwing up his face as he did so. ‘Well, I have had more than enough for today, so perhaps I will abstain.’

‘I have not,’ said Flaxfleete, clapping a comradely hand on his shoulder. ‘I intend to make this a night to remember – my acquittal and the other good news.’

‘What other good news?’ asked Kelby, trying to focus on him.

Flaxfleete grinned. ‘I am saving that to announce later, but you will be delighted, I assure you. We shall be celebrating all night, and I mean to drink until I can no longer stand.’

‘My students do that,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘But they are sixteen. An excess of wine leads the black bile to—’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘Or it really will be too late to call on Spayne.’

‘He lives next door,’ said Flaxfleete, jerking his thumb at the handsome house that stood uphill from his own.

‘And you can tell him from me that if there is any Summer Madness next year, he might find more of his storerooms burned to the ground.’

In the darkness of the street, Bartholomew heard a roar of delight as the barrel was presented to the company within. It was loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring house, and he wondered what Spayne thought of the celebration. From what he had been told by the Gilbertines – and what he knew of the disease called Holy Fire – Flaxfleete’s claim that his illness had made him incinerate Spayne’s buildings was bogus, and Sheriff Lungspee had been wrong to acquit him.

‘This is a godless city,’ grumbled Cynric, as they walked towards the house Flaxfleete had indicated. ‘Disembowelled queens, warring merchants, crucified children. It is not what I expected.’

‘Flaxfleete was right: that boy did play a trick on us,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, ignoring the book-bearer’s unhappy mutters. He grinned. ‘If he is a chorister, he will have a shock when he realises he has just started a feud with one of the new canons.’

‘It sounds as though Lincoln has enough feuds already,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘The city feels uneasy, and you should avoid disputes, even with choirboys.’

They reached the house, and the physician stood hesitantly outside a second door that evening. He gazed at it, wondering whether the narrow alley that separated Spayne’s home from Kelby’s provided enough of a barrier between what sounded to be very determined foes.

Spayne was wealthy, judging from his house, which had new shutters on its windows and a highly polished front door. Snow was piled on the roof in a way that suggested it might slough off at any moment and flatten someone, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Spayne might hope it would, and that its victim would be a neighbour. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer, so he knocked again.

Michael was about to suggest they return in the morning, when they heard a bar being removed and the door was opened by a woman in a long green robe. Beyond her was a handsome hall with fine wall-paintings and polished floorboards. Unfortunately, the chamber’s elegant proportions were spoiled by the presence of a crude wooden brace near the hearth, suggesting the ceiling was unstable and needed to be shored up.

‘The answer is no,’ said the woman coldly. ‘The sound of your revelry is not disturbing us. You can carouse all night without having the slightest impact on our comfort. Good night.’

She started to close the door, but Michael inserted his booted foot. ‘My apologies, madam, but we have no idea what you are talking about.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Kelby did not send you?’

Michael shook his head.

‘He is trying to make as much noise as he can, in the hope of annoying us,’ she went on. ‘He and his Guild often enjoy raucous meetings, but this one is particularly galling: they are celebrating the fact that Sheriff Lungspee found Flaxfleete innocent of setting my brother’s storerooms alight. He claimed it was Summer Madness, but we all know it was not.’

‘That is not why we came,’ said Michael. ‘We are visitors from Cambridge, and I believe Master Spayne may share a mutual acquaintance with us.’

‘I am Ursula, his sister, but I am afraid he is out.’ Ursula gave a curious half smile. ‘Please do not tell Kelby this, but when Will heard there were plans to celebrate Flaxfleete’s acquittal, he made arrangements to sleep elsewhere. He asked me to go with him, but I refuse to allow Kelby and his henchmen to drive me from my home.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He backed away. ‘Then we shall return tomorrow.’

‘Where is your brother staying, Mistress?’ asked Bartholomew, prepared to travel some distance if it meant having answers that night. ‘Would it be possible to call on him this evening?’

‘He is lodging at the Black Monks’ Priory.’

‘How far is it?’

Her fierce expression softened. ‘Do not venture that way now. The road is haunted by footpads, and the monks always retire early in the winter. They will not admit you, and you will find you have made a wasted journey – if not a dangerous one. Can your business not wait a few hours?’

‘Yes, it can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We are sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘Come back tomorrow. I shall be up very early, baking.’ She smiled spitefully, giving the impression that she would be doing so as noisily as possible, and that neighbours with sore heads could expect to find themselves woken before they were ready.

‘We shall call as soon as we can,’ said Michael. ‘I hope you manage some rest tonight.’

‘That is what a tincture of valerian is for,’ she said, shaking a tiny phial at them. ‘Will declines to use it when the Guild is at its revels, but I do not mind. He—’

She broke off when a high-pitched shriek issued from Kelby’s house, and there came the sound of footsteps hammering on a wooden floor. Lights flickered under the
window shutters, and then there was shouting. When Bartholomew looked back at Ursula, she had closed the door, evidently unsettled by the sudden uproar in the enemy camp.

‘Murder!’ came a braying cry. ‘Help us!’

‘No,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder as he prepared to respond. ‘We are strangers here. It would be foolish to interfere in something that is none of our business.’

He began to lead the way down the hill. As they passed Kelby’s house, the door was thrown open, revealing the lighted hallway within. Flaxfleete lay on the ground, heels drumming, while his friends hovered helplessly above him. He was in the throes of a fit, and Bartholomew knew from the way he was lying that he would suffocate unless he was moved. He pulled away from Michael.

‘I am a physician, Brother. I cannot stand by while a man chokes to death.’

‘This is not a good idea,’ warned Michael, following with considerable reluctance. ‘They are sure to remember who visited before this murder – and who was first to arrive when the alarm was raised.’

‘It is not murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘He is still alive.’

But when he knelt beside the stricken cleric, he could see it was no fit that afflicted him. Flaxfleete was blue around the nose and lips, he was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide and frightened in his waxy face. His body twitched convulsively, and he had vomited violently enough to cause bleeding in his stomach. Even as Bartholomew knelt beside him, he knew that all the skill in the world would not save the man. He started to loosen clothing, in an attempt to ease his breathing, but Flaxfleete resisted.

‘No,’ he whispered, grabbing Bartholomew’s tunic and hauling him down so he could speak without being overheard. ‘Keep me covered. I am cold.’

It was an odd request under the circumstances, but as Flaxfleete’s struggle for air became increasingly frantic, Bartholomew had no choice but to pull the habit away from his neck. As he did so, he saw a strange blue mark on the cleric’s skin, on the point of the shoulder. It was not large – perhaps half the length of a little finger – and was the kind of blemish he had seen soldiers make with ink and needles, as a sign of brotherhood. It was a strange thing to see on a merchant-cleric who had probably never seen a battle. Suddenly, Flaxfleete’s convulsions reached a critical point, and all Bartholomew’s attention was focussed on trying to hold the man’s head in a way that might enable him to draw air into his lungs. But it was to no avail, and it was not long before he stood and raised his hands apologetically.

‘I am sorry. You should summon a priest.’

‘You wear the garb of a physician,’ said Kelby, regarding Bartholomew with appalled eyes as he stood in the bright light of his hall. ‘I will pay whatever you ask if you save him. Gold, jewels, anything.’

‘I wish I could help,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But your friend is beyond my skills.’

‘He has stopped twitching,’ argued Kelby desperately. ‘The fit is over, so he will recover now.’

‘He is not moving because he is dead,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’

‘I shall anoint him,’ said Michael. He knelt reluctantly, giving the impression that he wished Bartholomew had heeded his advice and walked away from the whole business.

‘He cannot be dead!’ cried Kelby. ‘He was perfectly healthy a few moments ago, clamouring for wine. You saw him. He was waiting for the new keg to arrive, because we drank more than usual tonight, and we ran out. We have a lot to celebrate, what with the acquittal. How could this happen?’

On the dying man’s breath, Bartholomew had detected the rank, fishy odour of a substance familiar to most physicians – one that occurred on some rye grain and that was sometimes used by midwives to control post-partum bleeding. It was highly toxic, and Bartholomew had been told by a witch in southern France that it was also the cause of the disease called Holy Fire. His medical colleagues had rejected her explanation out of
hand, although he found it more convincing than the commonly accepted perception that the sickness was the Devil’s doing.

‘Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’ he asked. Flaxfleete’s symptoms had certainly been similar to those exhibited by folk afflicted with Holy Fire, and people who had been stricken once were liable to suffer future attacks.

Kelby gazed at him. ‘You know he did, because we told you about it – it was when he burned Spayne’s storerooms. Why do you ask?’

‘Do not answer,’ murmured Cynric, who had come to stand behind Bartholomew. His hand rested on his dagger, and his eyes were watchful, as though he anticipated violence. ‘It is safer to say nothing.’

‘You should summon the sheriff,’ said Michael. There was definitely something odd about the merchant’s abrupt demise, and Cynric was right to advise them to have nothing to do with it.

‘Why should we do that?’ demanded Kelby. Shock had sobered him up, and although he was still unsteady on his feet, his wits seemed sharp enough. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Are you saying there is something suspicious about poor Flaxfleete’s sudden illness?’

‘He does not know,’ replied Michael before Bartholomew could speak. ‘That is why you should ask the sheriff to come. It is his job to ascertain what happened, not a passing physician’s.’

A tall man with dark hair stepped out of the watching throng and crouched next to his fallen comrade. He wore a priest’s robes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Suttone; as he inspected the dead man, Bartholomew wondered whether he was one of the Carmelite’s Lincoln kin.

‘This is odd,’ said the priest, sniffing the air with a
puzzled expression. ‘He smells of fish. The last time I encountered such a stench, it was on Nicholas Herl after he threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. There is a medicine for women that carries a similar reek, although I do not know why Flaxfleete should have swallowed any – just as I did not know why it should have been inside Herl.’

Kelby was bemused. ‘Medicine will not harm anyone – it is supposed to make folk better.’

‘Many medicines are poisonous when administered wrongly,’ said Bartholomew. He did not add that the one imbibed by Flaxfleete must have been unnaturally concentrated to produce such a dramatic result – and to smell so strongly on his body.

Kelby pointed at the wine keg, which had already been broached. ‘Did anyone other than Flaxfleete drink from this? Do you know, John?’

The priest was thoughtful. ‘He tapped the barrel himself, and swallowed the first cup because someone told him it might be bad. He said he was less drunk than the rest of us, so better able to assess its quality.’

‘You do not seem drunk,’ observed Michael.

John inclined his head. ‘I never touch strong brews. And when men are poisoned while in their cups, it makes me glad I practise abstinence.’

Kelby was unimpressed with his sanctimonious colleague. ‘Then, since you are so steady in your wits, you can tell us what happened to Flaxfleete.’

‘It would be wrong of me to try – I am no sheriff. But I can say Flaxfleete was the only one to drink from this barrel. He downed the first cup in a gulp, declared it good, then poured himself a second. He did not fill the jug for the rest of you, but went back to the table and sat down. I was filling the pitcher – at your request, Kelby – when he complained of feeling unwell. And we all know what happened next.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, earning himself a glare from Michael for his curiosity.

‘He said he was cold, even though he was next to the fire,’ replied John. ‘And that there was a pain in his chest and a numbness in his hands. Then he clutched his head and dropped to the floor. You saw the rest.’

Bartholomew went to the cask, where the familiar fishy odour was just recognisable under the scent of strong wine.

‘Is it tainted?’ asked Kelby. ‘Poisoned?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Call the sheriff, and let him establish what happened.’

‘We shall,’ declared Kelby, grief turning to anger. ‘Dalderby will fetch him.’

‘Me?’ asked a fellow with a thick orange beard and an expensive cote-hardie of scarlet and yellow. ‘I have a sore foot and will be too slow. Send someone else.’

‘You will not mind enduring a little discomfort for Flaxfleete,’ said Kelby harshly, shoving him towards the open door. Bartholomew wondered why Dalderby was loath to leave. Was it because he felt unsafe when a fellow guildsman had been murdered? Or was he simply more interested in what was unfolding in Kelby’s hall, and did not want to miss anything?

‘This barrel came from the Swan,’ said John, when the unwilling Dalderby had been dispatched on his errand. ‘So, someone from the Swan must have tampered with it – put the medicine inside.’

‘Master Quarrel has sold me good wine all my life,’ cried Kelby. ‘Why would he change now? Besides, can you imagine what impact it would have on his trade, if it became known that he poisons his wares? It was not Quarrel or anyone at the Swan. I will stake my life on it.’

John pointed to the floor. ‘Do you see those drops? They run all the way to the door, which means the keg was
leaking when it was brought in. If wine was dripping out, then it means something may have been dripped inside, too.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael, as he inspected the trail. ‘That does suggest the poison was added when the cask was at the tavern.’

‘God’s blood!’ cried Kelby in anguish. ‘Someone will swing for this!’

‘I imagine so,’ said Michael calmly. ‘However, I hope you will remember that it had nothing to do with us. We were talking to your neighbour, Ursula de Spayne, when your friend met his end.’

‘That witch,’ sneered Kelby. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that she poisoned poor Flaxfleete. She has a knowledge of herbs and potions, and regularly offers them to anyone foolish enough to trust her. She hated Flaxfleete and will delight in his death. She is the culprit!’

It was a sober supper for the Michaelhouse scholars that night. The meal – provided uncommonly late on account of Bartholomew and Michael going out – was served in the guest-hall’s main chamber. Not everyone had taken to his heels after the recent stabbing, and a handful of men huddled near the meagre fire at the far end of the room. Most were poor, as evidenced by their threadbare clothes and thin boots, and it was clear they simply could not afford to go elsewhere. There were baleful glares when Hamo provided them with day-old bread and a few onions, but brought roasted goose for the more valued party from upstairs.

Bartholomew barely noticed them. His thoughts had returned to Matilde, and all he could think was that Spayne might be able to tell him where she had gone. He did not feel like eating, and picked listlessly at the slab of fatty meat
Michael slapped on to his trencher. The monk made up for his lack of appetite by eating more than was wise, and then complained that his stomach hurt. Cynric was withdrawn and morose, and became more so when Suttone began a defensive monologue about the man he had hired to be his Vicar Choral, claiming that John Aylmer was a paragon of virtue, despite Hamo’s statements to the contrary.

‘What is the matter, Cynric?’ Bartholomew asked, pulling himself out of his reverie when he noticed something was bothering his book-bearer. The man had been with him all his adult life, and was more friend than servant. He did not like to see him unhappy.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Cynric, waving a hand that encompassed guest-hall, convent and city, all at the same time. He saw Suttone had broken off his tirade and was listening. ‘You should … pay your respects to Spayne, and leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be best.’

‘You cannot do that, Matthew!’ cried Suttone in alarm. ‘Michael and I are helpless monastics and need the protection you two provide for our journey home. What is wrong with Lincoln, anyway?’

‘It is shabby,’ declared Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘It looks as though it was fine, but has fallen on hard times – just like this priory, in fact. It is also set to be destroyed by an earthquake at any moment, and I am uncomfortable with the notion of murdered saints, queens deprived of their innards, and men poisoned with wine. And Brother Michael was right in what he said: Kelby and his friends may decide to blame us for Flaxfleete’s death, just because we are strangers.’

‘We are going to be canons,’ said Suttone indignantly. ‘No one would dare offend us with unfounded accusations.’

‘
You
are going to be a canon, Father,’ corrected Cynric morosely. ‘I am a book-bearer.’

‘He has a point,’ said Michael to Suttone. His next comment was directed at Bartholomew. ‘But we can avoid trouble if we keep to ourselves, and do not meddle in matters that are not our concern. Lord, my belly aches! Are you sure being near that poisoned wine did me no harm, Matt?’

‘When you were out, Hamo told me about a rift that is pulling Lincoln apart,’ said Suttone, watching Bartholomew prepare his usual tonic for overindulgence. ‘Virtually every man, woman and child is either on the side of the cathedral and the Guild of Corpus Christi or they support something called the Commonalty. Bishop Gynewell manages to stay aloof, and so does Sheriff Lungspee – but only so he can accept bribes from both parties.’

‘The bishop is neutral?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I thought he would side with his cathedral.’

‘Apparently, he thinks that if he refuses to align himself, then others will follow his example and the bitterness will heal,’ explained Suttone. ‘Although there is no evidence the ploy is working so far. Still, at least he is trying. He tried to stop the General Pardon for the same reason.’

‘You mean the ceremony in which everyone is going to be forgiven crimes committed when they pretended to be afflicted with seasonal insanity?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he object to that?’

‘Because it is another step in the escalating dissension,’ said Suttone. ‘First, there was the installation of canons. In defiance, Adam Miller said he was holding his Market on the same day – to entice people towards secular activities. The cathedral immediately responded with the General Pardon. Gynewell tried to prevent it, lest Miller invent something else.’

‘Perhaps we should go home,’ said Michael, sipping the tonic. ‘There is almost certain to be trouble, and I am disturbed by the fact that people think I have been
honoured with the Stall of South Scarle because the Bishop of Ely arranged it. I do not want to be accused of simony.’

‘Do not be so fastidious, Brother,’ said Suttone impatiently. ‘Michaelhouse is desperate for funds, what with the hall in need of painting and the conclave roof leaking like fury. You should not allow a dubious moral stance to prevent you from taking what is freely offered.’

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘Should I put my College before my personal integrity and accept this post? Or should I risk offending my bishop by handing it back?’

‘De Lisle will not appreciate his efforts being for nothing,’ warned Bartholomew, thinking the monk should have considered such issues before accepting the appointment in the first place.

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But Whatton made me feel … less than honourable about the situation.’

‘Ignore Whatton,’ advised Suttone. ‘Everyone knows the nomination of canons is a political matter, and that greed and favouritism are an integral part of the system. I fully accept that I owe mine to the fact that the cathedral is eager to have a Suttone in its ranks. Besides, we have just spent two weeks getting here, and it seems a pity to return home empty-handed.’

‘Make reparation, Brother,’ suggested Bartholomew facetiously. ‘Take some of this new income and offer a gift to the cathedral, or to one of the city charities.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘So, your advice is for me to buy myself a clean conscience? Very well. I shall see what the silversmiths have to offer tomorrow – assuming it is safe to go out.’

‘Do you have a kinsman called John?’ asked Bartholomew of Suttone, thinking of the dark-haired priest they had met at Kelby’s house and his resemblance to the burly Carmelite.

Suttone nodded. ‘A first cousin, once removed. His father was a tanner, but he perished in the Death, God rest his soul. John Suttone is a Poor Clerk.’

‘Why poor clerk?’ asked Cynric curiously. ‘Does it mean he earns even less than I get from Michaelhouse?’

‘It is a rank in the cathedral hierarchy,’ explained Suttone impatiently. ‘At the top, there is the dean. He has a Chapter, which comprises the canons, like Michael and me—’

‘Not until Sunday,’ interrupted Bartholomew.

Suttone ignored him. ‘Under us, there are the Vicars Choral, some of whom are in priest’s orders and include men like my deputy, Aylmer—’

‘But he is dead,’ said Cynric gloomily, crossing himself. ‘Stabbed in this very room. Right there, in fact, and you can still see his blood to prove it.’