‘You could say Flaxfleete was responsible,’ said Michael, still looking at the broken stone. ‘It was his inferno, after all.’
As they left Spayne’s abode, Bartholomew became aware that the situation had changed since they had gone in. There were a number of men loitering outside Kelby’s home and, judging from the buzz of voices, there were a lot more inside. Further down the street, people stood in small, uneasy groups next to shops and houses. Most were well dressed, and Bartholomew was puzzled.
‘Is there a Guild meeting today?’ he asked. ‘There are a lot of trader-types in this part of the city, but there is not an unemployed weaver in sight.’
‘It looks as if the Guild has claimed the area around the Pultria,’ said Cynric. ‘The Commonalty must be gathering near Miller’s house. In Cambridge, men assemble in clans like this when there is a riot in the offing.’
‘Lord, you are right!’ muttered Michael. ‘Will you warn the sheriff while we speak to Hugh?’
The book-bearer nodded. ‘You may not have another opportunity to wander where you like, if the city turns violent, Brother, so make the most of your time. I have a feeling we might be spending the next few days in the Gilbertine Priory, hoping the fight does not spill across the city walls.’
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the cathedral, Gynewell was waiting to tell them that Hugh was at choir practice. The boys’ voices soared along the vaulted ceiling, although Michael pointed out that the lower parts were under-represented – a number of Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks were missing. Bartholomew saw why when they passed the Head Shrine: Christiana was there, and several men who should have been singing hovered around her. Ravenser was polishing a brass cross, Claypole and John were pretending to read psalters, and Bautre was inspecting the offerings left by pilgrims. When Christiana raised her head and said something, all four scurried to a nearby cupboard, and there was a good deal of elbowing as each tried to grab the candles she had requested. Her smile suggested she expected no less.
‘Hugh is a rascal,’ said Gynewell. ‘When I heard a kinsman of his had been appointed to the Stall of Decem Librarum, I was afraid your Suttone might be an adult version of him. He seems a decent man, though – more like John.’
‘He is all right,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘Although rather preoccupied with the plague.’
‘Who is not?’ asked Gynewell. ‘I lost two-thirds of my clergy, and all but two of my canons. I was afraid the balance of power would tip so far that Lincoln would be ruled by Miller, but the Commonalty also lost men, and the equilibrium was maintained.’
‘It is a pity these factions exist,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A pity for Lincoln.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Gynewell. ‘When the balance is in effect, it is a good system, because one side holds the other in check. I have heard your University has amassed a lot of power in Cambridge, to the detriment of the merchants. That is not good, either.’
‘The merchants do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I am more than content.’
‘Moderate yourself, Brother. You will find it pays in the long term.’ Gynewell cocked his head. ‘I hear this Gloria coming to an end, so you should nab Hugh before he escapes to do something else.’
He was right, and Michael was hard-pressed to waylay the boy before he could disappear with his friends. Hugh looked particularly angelic in his white alb, although mischief winked in his eyes.
‘Father Simon gave you a letter to deliver last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘It was for Master Chapman,’ piped Hugh.
‘Yes,’ said Michael patiently, ‘but to whom did you take it? Chapman is unwell, so I doubt you would have been allowed to give it to him personally.’
Hugh shuffled his feet. ‘He said he would give me two pennies. And Father Simon had already given me one, which made three! That is enough to buy seven arrows for the butts.’
‘Who offered you twopence?’ asked Gynewell. ‘Speak up, Hugh. This is important.’
‘Master Langar,’ said Hugh reluctantly. ‘But it was not my fault! He refused to let me see Chapman, so I had no choice. He promised to pass the message to Chapman, and said I had fulfilled my duty in bringing the note to the house. Then he gave me a marchpane, too.’
‘Did you eat it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Hugh grinned. ‘Yes, and it was a good one – from the best baker in the city.’
He scampered away, and Bartholomew watched him dart to Christiana’s side. She smiled at him, but did not stop her prayers.
‘I will go and drag him away from the poor lady,’ said Gynewell with a sigh. ‘She will have no peace if he is hovering like a fly. What will you do now? Go to see Langar?’
‘We have no choice,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘It is the only way forward.’
‘Well, there is your Welshman with his sword,’ said Gynewell, nodding to where Cynric was waiting. ‘I strongly advise you to take him with you.’
‘We should give Gynewell that poison we found,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked along the South Choir Aisle. ‘He can dispose of it, because we cannot leave it here another day.’
Michael agreed, and watched as Bartholomew knelt by the Shrine of Little Hugh and pushed his arm through the gap at the back. He frowned when the physician drew his dagger and used it to fish about, lying full length on the floor to extend his reach. ‘Hurry up, Matt. We do not have all day, and I want to get this interview with Langar over with as soon as possible.’
‘I knew we should have taken the time to deal with the flask yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, standing empty-handed, covered in dust and thoroughly alarmed. ‘Because now it is no longer here. Someone has taken it.’
CHAPTER 12
Bartholomew and Michael left the Close and walked to Miller’s fine house in Newport. Remembering what he had seen the last time he had been there, Bartholomew was grateful Cynric was with them. As they moved farther north, an increasing number of weavers and their families thronged the streets. They spoke in low voices, and there was a distinct aura of fear and uncertainty. Miller’s house and enclosure was like a castle under siege. Armed guards lurked outside, and there were even archers on the roof, training their weapons on passers-by. The grinning Thoresby patrolled the grounds with a black dog that snarled at anyone who came too close.
‘I do not like this,’ whispered Michael. ‘Miller has helped the weavers over the years, and it looks as though they are going to show their appreciation by massing against the Guild.’
‘And the Guild is ready to resist,’ said Cynric. ‘The two sides are fairly evenly matched.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘The Commonalty’s supporters outnumber the Guild by at least five to one – there are far more poor in Lincoln than merchants.’
‘The guildsmen have better weapons, though,’ argued Cynric. ‘And they have horses and hired mercenaries. I would not risk a single penny by betting on the winner: the outcome is too uncertain.’
He led the way across Miller’s yard, ignoring the way the dog slathered at him, although Bartholomew made sure Michael was between him and the creature; it did not look as if Thoresby had it fully under control. No one spoke as they approached the door, although dozens of eyes watched. Cynric rapped with his dagger, and when it was whipped open, Miller’s face was as black as thunder.
‘I told you not to come back, physician,’ he snarled, ‘or have you come to gloat over sending Chapman a few steps nearer the grave?’
‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. A fever was often the outcome with dirty wounds – and then there was the poultice of henbane. Perhaps he had not cleaned it all out.
‘Bunoun said Chapman would have recovered by now, had you not meddled,’ said Miller furiously. ‘We sent for you at dawn, when he became sicker, but the Gilbertines said you were not to be disturbed, so we summoned Bunoun instead. Thank God we did.’