‘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.’