The Tarnished Chalice (9 page)

‘Was he alone when he was attacked?’ asked Michael. ‘Were there any witnesses to his death?’

‘The bells here are very loud,’ replied de Wetherset. ‘I think the Gilbertines installed some especially large ones with intention of out-clanging the Carmelites up the road. The upshot is that once the damned things get going for the dawn offices, it is impossible to sleep. Everyone quit the guest-hall this morning, and either left the priory to begin business in the city or went to attend prime.’

‘Aylmer did not, if he was admiring other people’s property,’ Michael pointed out.

Simon inclined his head. ‘That is true. However, he definitely accompanied us to the chapel, because he walked across the yard at my side. Then I went to stand near the front, so everyone could hear me singing, and I suppose he must have slipped out later.’

‘The killer must have slipped out, too,’ said Michael.

De Wetherset nodded. ‘Of course. But the chapel is dark in the mornings, because the Gilbertines cannot afford many candles. It is impossible to make out the man next to you, let alone identify which of the brethren, nuns and guests were or were not present. Any of them could have stabbed Aylmer.’

‘Except me,’ said Simon firmly. ‘I was singing and had I left, my absence would have been noted.’

‘Is that true?’ asked Michael of de Wetherset.

De Wetherset raised laconic eyebrows. ‘He certainly has a penetrating voice,’ he said, giving the impression he was not as impressed with it as was its owner.

‘How many people are in this community?’ asked Michael, becoming intrigued with the case, despite his resent ment at the way in which it was being foisted on him.

‘There are twelve brothers and fifteen nuns,’ replied Simon. ‘The sisters’ duties revolve around the six or so
inmates of St Sepulchre’s Hospital, which is part of the Gilbertines’ foundation. And there are a score of lay-brothers who manage the gardens and the sheep.’

‘One of the brethren – Hamo, this week – conducts a separate ceremony for layfolk in the hospital,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I asked whether he had noticed anyone creeping out to murder Aylmer, but he said he had not. He is not overly observant, despite the fact that he loves to gossip.’

‘I shall repair to the Carmelite Friary at first light tomorrow,’ announced Suttone, horrified by the discussion. ‘It will be safer. And Brother Michael intends to foist himself on the Black Monks.’

‘You will find both convents are full,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Do you think we would stay in a place tainted by murder, had there been an alternative available? Simon and I will be safe with you, though – you cannot be the killers, because you have only just arrived.’

‘True,’ said Suttone nervously. ‘But the same cannot be said for you.’

‘De Wetherset is no killer,’ said Michael with more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Yet surely, you have homes in Lincoln, if you live here? Why not go there?’

‘De Wetherset was lodging with me,’ explained Simon, ‘but my house burned down last month – we should have been more careful when we banked the fire. Unfortunately, every bed in the city is now taken by folk who are here for Miller’s Market, the General Pardon or – as a very poor third – the installation of canons. We have no choice but to stay with the Gilbertines.’

‘This poor town,’ said de Wetherset softly. ‘A century ago, it was one of the greatest cities in the world, but now it is wracked by poverty. The plague did not help, carrying off two in every three of the clergy, and now the Fossedike
– the old canal that gives access to the sea – is silting up, and trade suffers sorely. It deserves better than to be befouled by murder.’

‘Two murders,’ corrected Michael. ‘Aylmer and Flaxfleete.’

‘Not to mention the others,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Simon mutter.

Bartholomew slept badly that night for several reasons. He was over-tired from the journey; the bed was hard enough to hurt a back made sore by days in the saddle; he was eager to question Spayne about Matilde; he was disturbed to learn that a murder had taken place in the chamber below where he was tossing and turning; and he was uncomfortable sharing a room with de Wetherset and Simon. He had never liked the ex-Chancellor, and had been relieved when the man had left Cambridge. Like Michael, de Wetherset had relished the University’s intrigues and politics, and loved nothing more than to scheme and pit his wits against the clever minds of rival scholars. Bartholomew often felt Michael had learned rather too many bad practices from the cunning de Wetherset.

He had also taken something of a dislike to Simon. The priest possessed an arrogant self-confidence that suggested he was used to having his own way, and Bartholomew felt he was exactly the kind of man to kill the hapless Aylmer while claiming to be singing psalms. He distrusted him, and was grateful Cynric and his ready dagger were to hand.

‘I am uneasy here,’ whispered the book-bearer in the depths of the night, hearing him shift restlessly. ‘The servants are a miserable lot, who are raising toasts to the man who stabbed Aylmer – they all hated him, although none would tell me why. And I do not like de Wetherset wanting to sleep
in the same chamber with us. He is a crafty man, and there will be trouble for certain.’

‘We shall find somewhere else tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not have to stay here.’

‘Unfortunately, we do,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘The servants say these are the last free beds in the entire city. Father Simon was right: folk have flocked here for Miller’s Market and the General Pardon.’

‘How many people were affected by this Summer Madness, then?’ asked Bartholomew, startled to learn the disease might have reached plague-like proportions. ‘And what sort of things did they do?’

‘Theft, robbery, rape, adultery,’ recited Cynric. ‘Every felon in the county is here, determined to buy absolution for crimes committed during August, when the physicians say no man was responsible for his own actions.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the servants say that while we might get one berth elsewhere – if we offer enough money – there is absolutely no chance of finding four together. I do not want to abandon Brother Michael in a place like this. He may need us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They say the bishop is going to order him to look into Aylmer’s stabbing. Gynewell is appalled by an unlawful death in a convent, and wants the culprit brought to justice. We cannot let him do it alone.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘I suppose we cannot.’

Bartholomew was jolted from an unsettling dream, in which Matilde was happily married to de Wetherset, by a discordant jangle that made him leap from the bed and grab his sword. Michael was already awake, and sat on the edge of his own bed, reading a psalter.

‘Easy, Matt,’ he said softly. ‘It is only the bells for prime.

De Wetherset said they were louder than normal, and he is right.’

‘It sounded like an alarm at the start of a battle,’ said Bartholomew sheepishly, setting down the weapon before Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon could see what he had done. They were kneeling next to the hearth, whispering prayers of their own.

Michael closed his book and regarded his friend with concern. ‘You have been different since you returned from France – wearing a sword all the time, and drawing it at the slightest provocation. I thought you disapproved of fighting and violence.’

Bartholomew sat back on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I do, Brother, but this city does not feel safe, and you cannot blame me for being wary when a man was stabbed here only yesterday.’

Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘Cynric approves of your newly honed battle instincts – he worries less now he thinks you can look after yourself – but I am not so sure. It is unlike you.’ He saw the physician did not agree, and changed the subject when Cynric approached with a bowl of water. ‘Are you coming to prime? Laymen are not obliged to attend, so you can go back to sleep if you like, although that will not be easy with those bells going. It is enough to wake the dead.’

‘I hope it does not,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘Although at least then you could just ask Aylmer who dispatched him, which would save a lot of time. But what will happen to Queen Eleanor’s innards? Would they wake, too, and slither around looking for the rest of her?’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a lurid imagination you have, Cynric.’

‘It must come from living among the English for so
long,’ sighed the book-bearer unhappily. ‘We Welsh do not chop up the corpses of princes, and nor do we have earthquakes or saints crucified by Jews. We were on very good terms with the Jews, so a very great wrong must have been done to provoke them to that sort of behaviour.’

Bartholomew followed him down the stairs and through the hall, where the other guests were either readying themselves for prayers, or lying in their beds with their hands clapped to their ears. The bells were even louder in the yard, and when he tried to tell Suttone that his braes were showing under his habit, he was obliged to shout to make himself heard. And then, as abruptly as it had started, the clamour stopped.

‘All right,’ hissed the Carmelite, adjusting his under-clothing while the physician’s yell still reverberated around the stone buildings. His plump face was scarlet with mortification. ‘There is no need to inform half of Lincoln.’

It was pitch dark and the ground underfoot was frozen hard, although treacherous patches of ice indicated the Gilbertines’ main courtyard was more usually an expanse of soft mud and puddles. The air was bitterly cold, and Bartholomew shivered as he drew his winter cloak more closely around his shoulders. Above, the sky was clear, and thousands of stars glittered in a great dome of blackness. A fox yipped in the distance, and trees whispered softly in the wind.

Bartholomew was used to prime being a peaceful, contemplative affair, where the hushed voices of priests echoed around an otherwise silent church, allowing those participating to reflect on the day that was about to begin. Things were different at the Gilbertine convent. The brethren began by marching in to take their places in the chancel, their prior rattling a pair of wooden clappers as he went. Bartholomew knew lepers sometimes wielded
such devices, but he had never seen one employed by a religious community, and especially not that early in the morning. Then there was a peculiar whining sound, and a good deal of hissing. Suttone cried out in alarm, and Bartholomew started to reach for his dagger before remembering that he had left his weapons in the guest-hall, in deference to the general rule against bearing arms in churches.

‘It is the organ,’ whispered de Wetherset, although the Gilbertines’ stamping feet and the prior’s rattle meant he could have spoken at normal volume and not raised any eyebrows. ‘Surely you have encountered them in divine masses before?’

‘I most certainly have not,’ replied Suttone, resting a hand on his pounding heart. ‘Such objects are best left in taverns, where they belong. We have no organs in Cambridge, and nor shall we – especially not once I am Chancellor.’

Bartholomew edged to one side and saw a man operating something that looked like a large pair of bellows. There were more creaks and wails, then a tune of sorts began to emerge. The Gilbertines – men and women together – cleared their throats and stood a little taller. Then the psalm of the day was underway, the Chapel of St Katherine was suddenly awash with such vigorous noise that the physician could not hear himself when he coughed. Suttone leapt in shock at the abrupt cacophony, and Michael started to snigger. Overwhelmed by the volume, Bartholomew moved away, hoping the aisles would render the racket a little less painful. Michael followed, his large frame quaking with laughter.

‘What a row! I thought the Michaelhouse choir was bad enough, with its love of the crescendo, but it has nothing on these fellows. Anyone would think God and His angels were hard of hearing.’

‘They probably are, if they are obliged to listen to this day after day,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be good for the ears. Like the ribauld, it will make men deaf.’

‘Like the what?’

‘The ribauld – a weapon that propels missiles through long tubes by means of exploding powder. The Black Prince had several, and the noise was appalling. The men operating them came to me afterwards, because they could not hear. One never did recover.’

Michael tried to imagine what one looked like. ‘Were they very dangerous to the enemy?’

‘Not as dangerous as they were to us. They regularly blew up or burned people, and I never saw a missile hit a Frenchman. But they were terrifying to anyone who has never seen one. They spit fire and produce black smoke which, combined with the din, was enough to make some men – and not just the enemy, either – turn and run for their lives.’

Michael shook his head. ‘There is something innately distasteful about using exploding devices to harm another person, even the French. The very notion should be anathema to any decent soul.’

Bartholomew nodded, but his thoughts had returned to the noise the Gilbertines were making, and he was considering its implications for Aylmer’s murder. ‘Everyone is bellowing at the top of his lungs. And while Father Simon is one of the loudest, I am not sure he would be missed, were he to slink away and stab a man who sat admiring his possessions.’

‘You do not like Simon, then?’ asked Michael, arching his eyebrows in amusement. ‘There is an entire convent of suspects to choose from, and you pick holes in his alibi.’

‘Because no one else has offered us one yet,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘De Wetherset was cunningly cautious about his whereabouts. All he said was that the
Gilbertines make a lot of noise at their offices, which is not the same thing as saying he was here when Aylmer was killed. But no, I cannot say I have taken to Simon. He thinks himself better than you, because he intends to be a residentiary canon, and you will have to be an absent one.’

‘Well, we will not have to put up with him for long. It is Thursday now, and we can be gone a week next Monday – the day after my installation.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘Will you not stay a little longer? It will not look decent to grab the Stall of South Scarle and make off with its prebend the very next morning.’