‘Where was he an oblate?’ asked Bartholomew eagerly.
‘I asked around, but no one seemed to know, so I spent all day yesterday trawling through the cathedral’s records. I found the answer late last night. It was Stamford, but that is on Christiana’s list, and you just said you have visited everyone on that. Ergo, I do not think you would have learned anything useful from Spayne.’
Bartholomew sighed. He was disappointed, but at the same time relieved. ‘Thank you. At least now I will not spend the rest of my life wondering.’
That morning, he had been surprised to wake up and find himself looking forward to returning to Cambridge and his teaching. There was a desperate shortage of University-trained physicians, and Suttone had been talking about the imminent return of the plague only at breakfast. Reinforcements might be needed soon, and in Cambridge he could do some good. He would see his patients, teach his students and write his treatise on fevers, and in time the wound Matilde had left would heal.
He was about to ask Hamo whether he had heard any rumours regarding the pestilence, when there was a sudden, ear-shattering blare on a trumpet that had all the Gilbertines grinning in delight. The procession began to pass through the great west door. At the front was Hugh, struggling under a massive cross, and following him was the choir. Then came the Vicars Choral, dissolute and slovenly, and the canons. Michael winked at Bartholomew, de Wetherset nodded, and Suttone gave him a self-satisfied smile. Then came the relic-bearers, which included John toting the Hugh Chalice, men carrying St Hugh’s head, a fat canon with Joseph’s teeth, and the dean with the gospels. Gynewell, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, brought up the rear, his mitre sitting incongruously atop his curly head and his heavy cope dragging the ground behind him.
The ceremony was as grand and impressive as any Bartholomew had witnessed. Gynewell had a good voice, and his careful Latin was a pleasure to hear. The physician began to lose himself in the beauty of the place and the occasion, closing his eyes to listen to the music soaring through the nave. When he opened them, he noticed some of the choristers were becoming restless. Two seemed to be playing a game with pebbles, studiously ignoring Bautre’s warning glares, while Hugh had abandoned his place altogether. Bartholomew hoped his absence would not herald the beginning of some piece of mischief that would spoil Michael’s day.
In the South Choir Aisle, unseen by prying eyes, Hugh shrugged out of his choir robes and hid them behind the tomb of Little Hugh, recovering his cloak at the same time. Then he inserted his new sword – the one Christiana had been going to give him for his birthday – between two stones at the base of the shrine and levered, making sure to do it when the dean was reaching a crescendo to mask the noise. The stone popped out, and Hugh dropped to his knees, to rummage in the recess it revealed.
First out was the Hugh Chalice – the real one, which Eleanor had acquired from Herl after he had made his copies. She had immediately brought it to the cathedral, where Hugh had adapted the plinth so she could keep it safe from wicked men. They were the only two who knew about the hiding place, and it had proved useful for concealing one or two other items, too – such as the white pearls Hugh had stolen from Bartholomew’s medical bag during the confusion following the collapse of the Spayne house. These went quickly into the purse at his belt.
Finally, he extracted two flasks. One contained the wine-and-water mixture Dame Eleanor had swallowed to fill herself with holy strength, and the other held the poison she had used to kill Herl, Flaxfleete and countless others; she had asked Hugh to secrete it inside the plinth when a smattering of dust had told her someone had discovered its usual hiding place. The two cheap pots looked identical, and Hugh wondered how she had known them apart. He sniffed them gingerly, but they both smelled foul, as far as he was concerned.
He unwrapped the Hugh Chalice and stared at it for some time, trying to decide what to do. Eventually, he put it back inside the tomb. It would be safe there until he had secured a wealthy buyer. Perhaps he would try the Old Temple in London, where St Hugh had died. Then he placed the two flasks in his hat and slipped out of the nearest door. He skipped down the hill to the Bishop’s Palace, and let himself into the kitchens, where food and a large keg of wine stood, waiting to be served to the newly installed canons and their guests. He sniffed the flasks a second time, taking his time to decide which was which, although it was not easy.
Looking around quickly, to make sure no one was watching, he emptied the contents of one pot into the bishop’s wine. Then he took a long draught from the second, to fortify himself for the long journey he was about to make. He grimaced at the flavour, but he was not afraid. Dame Eleanor would watch over him, as she had promised. And she was a saint, after all.