‘It is healthy to consume a decent breakfast,’ he declared, when Bartholomew warned that he might be sick if he ate more than a dozen eggs. ‘I am sure Surgeon Bunoun would agree.’
‘Bunoun is an excellent medicus,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Look what he did for Dalderby, although the reprieve was only temporary. I heard Miller killed him, by hitting him over the head with a stone.’
‘It is a bad time for men to slaughter each other,’ said Suttone worriedly. ‘In four days, we shall have our installation, the General Pardon and Miller’s Market, all at the same time. If there are tales that the Guild and the Commonalty have been killing each other, blood will flow for certain.’
‘The city felt very uneasy yesterday,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Men were gathering in groups, according to affiliation, and that is always a bad sign. I remember it from my Cambridge days.’
When Michael had reduced Cynric’s fine spread to a few gnawed bones and a sizeable midden of eggshells, the four scholars walked across the snow-covered ground to Prior Roger’s solar, where Bishop Gynewell was prodding the fire into a furious glow that was too hot to be comfortable for anyone else. Prior Roger stood near a window he had eased open, and Hamo was pouring cups of wine and readying platters of pastries. Bartholomew saw they were expected to consume yet more of the Gilbertines’ hospitality, and hoped Michael would not make himself ill.
‘There you are,’ said Gynewell, bouncing across the floor to offer them his ring. ‘It is a cold–’
‘There was a lot of snow last night,’ said Roger. ‘Have you seen the thickness of it on the chapel roof? I do not think I have ever known such weather. Well, there was last year, I suppose. And Fat William died on an equally bitter night the year before that, God rest his soul.’
‘Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters,’ explained Hamo when Gynewell looked bemused. ‘He was feeding quite happily, when he started to gag. Then he shuddered, gasped and drummed his feet until he died. Poor Fat William!’
He crossed himself, while Bartholomew wondered whether Fat William’s oysters might have been tainted with the same poison that had led to Flaxfleete’s demise. The symptoms sounded very similar.
Gynewell manoeuvred a chair directly in front of the hearth, sprang into it, then listened carefully while Michael outlined what had happened in the Church of the Holy Cross.
‘That leaves just you three,’ he said to Michael, de Wetherset and Suttone when the monk had finished. ‘You must promise to be very careful over the next four days. I do not want to tell the hopeful crowds that the ceremony is cancelled because all the canons-elect are dead.’
‘You are expecting crowds?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘I assumed everyone would prefer Miller’s Market.’
‘Dean Bresley suggested we hold the service earlier,’ explained Gynewell. ‘Now people can attend the ceremony first, and go to the fair afterwards.’
Michael was horrified. ‘The previous timing meant the two factions would remain separate, but now everyone will go to both, and fights will be inevitable. What was Bresley thinking?’
‘That he does not want anyone to know which side is the stronger,’ explained Gynewell. ‘He says the more powerful one will see it as a favourable omen for war. In this way, the two parties will never know the extent of each other’s army, and he thinks it is the best way to keep the peace.’
Suttone swallowed nervously. ‘Who knows with this city? It is worse than Cambridge!’
Michael turned his thoughts to his investigation. ‘Before he died, Simon gave us several clues, and I mulled them over at breakfast this morning. I now know enough to begin the process of unveiling Aylmer’s killer.’
Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Do you? Last night you were ready to give up.’
‘Food, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘It does wonders for a man’s mind. I mean to start with young Hugh.’
‘My cousin, the choirboy?’ asked Suttone in astonishment. ‘I do not think he killed Simon!’
‘No, but he will know who did,’ replied Michael. ‘The message Simon asked him to deliver to Chapman was intercepted by someone – and that same someone then arrived with armed cronies at Holy Cross. I shall have this killer yet. He will not outwit Cambridge’s Senior Proctor.’
Bishop Gynewell wanted to witness the impressive sight of six Hugh Chalices standing in a row in the Chapel of St Katherine, and his companions were more than willing to escape the stifling heat of Prior Roger’s solar and walk in the cold church. When they arrived they found Dame Eleanor on her knees before the altar and Christiana sitting at the back, waiting for her to finish. She had been slouching, and hastened to adopt a suitably elegant pose when she saw admirers might be watching her.
‘Dame Eleanor says it is not for a poor woman to say which is the real cup,’ she whispered, as they came towards her. ‘So she is praying to them all.’
Michael rested an unnecessary hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sure she is right, and there are almost certainly more to be found. We happened on these by chance; logic dictates that there will be others.’
Gynewell was unhappy. ‘I am afraid I cannot tell which is the original one now. I suppose we will have to send them all to Avignon, and let the Holy Father decide.’
‘There is no need for that, My Lord,’ announced de Wetherset. ‘I told you, I have a talent for detecting an air of sanctity in such things. If there is a real chalice, I shall be able to identify it for you. I know I could not do it yesterday, but I have recited several very eloquent prayers since then, and I am sure St Hugh will help me now.’
He went to stand at the altar, where his shuffling presence disturbed Eleanor. With a sigh, she rose and joined the others in the nave, hobbling slightly after kneeling so long.
‘I have been praying for Simon. And the others who have died – Aylmer, Dalderby and Tetford.’
‘We all need to pray,’ said Hamo. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. ‘In fact, we should praise the Lord with–’
‘Alleluia,’ agreed Roger with enthusiasm. ‘Let us lift our voices to the Heavenly King.’
‘Dame Eleanor has been petitioning St Hugh on my behalf, too,’ said Christiana to Michael, as the Gilbertines began to rail. ‘She has asked him to send me a good husband. I am not sure I shall follow your advice of taking the veil and soothing my loneliness with lovers.’
‘I did not put it quite like that,’ said Michael, startled. ‘I said there are ways to–’
‘We have learned a good deal about the Hugh Chalice,’ interrupted Bartholomew. He did not think Michael should have that sort of discussion with a bishop standing within earshot. ‘We know Simon and Aylmer were the friars charged to bring it to Lincoln, but that Aylmer sold it because he could not resist the temptation of easy money.’
‘Twenty shillings,’ said Suttone, shaking his head. ‘He could have had ten times that.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We do not know the Geddynge priest was his first and only victim. It is possible that he had already sold it several times before.’
‘And it has languished in Lincoln for the last twenty years,’ Michael went on, reluctantly dragging his attention from Christiana’s kirtle and focussing on his investigation, ‘because Miller knew Shirlok had escaped hanging, and did not want to attract his attention by hawking the goods that had been used to convict him. Meanwhile, the fraternity was Simon’s idea. Aylmer joined so as not to reveal his role in the original theft; Chapman enrolled because he sincerely believes it belongs here; and I suppose Flaxfleete and Herl subscribed later.’
‘Flaxfleete always was an ardent devotee of St Hugh,’ said Gynewell. ‘He was distraught when the chalice failed to arrive from London two decades ago, and wanted to serve the Head Shrine when he became a canon. This did not occur to me when we discussed the mark on his skin a few days ago, but on reflection it is obvious that he would have belonged to such a fraternity. He founded the Guild of Corpus Christi to emulate the saint’s good deeds.’