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.