‘He was not a dedicated silversmith,’ admitted Langar. ‘However, he was content until you started criticising his work, demanding to know why he did not make more money. You corrupted his mind, and it led him down a dark path.’
‘A dark path whereby he made copies of sacred relics?’ asked Michael guilelessly.
‘What?’ asked Langar, put off his stride by the question. He opened his mouth to resume his attack on Sabina, but she spoke before he could do so.
‘That is exactly what he did. And it was not right. The saints do not approve of that sort of thing.’
‘Are you saying Nicholas made copies of the Hugh Chalice?’ asked Langar. ‘Is that what he was doing, night after night in his workshop for the last month of his life, when he would not see me?’
‘He made bad replicas,’ said Sabina spitefully. ‘Only a fool would have been deceived by them – they are made of tin, for a start. And there are mistakes in the carving.’
‘He gave Jesus three fingers,’ said Michael.
‘Oh, he took that from the original,’ said Sabina scornfully. ‘He was not that inept.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Langar, looking around as though he expected them to appear. ‘I sincerely hope Chapman has not sold any. We do not want our Commonalty stained with that sort of thing. People have scruples where relics are concerned.’
‘Chapman did not sell them,’ said Lora disdainfully. ‘He believes the Hugh Chalice is sacred, and refuses to have anything to do with Nicholas’s work. Nicholas was so angry that he tried to scrape the mark off his arm.’
Langar frowned. ‘He told me Sabina caused that injury, by throwing a hot pan at him.’
‘How many did he make?’ asked Michael, while Sabina shot Langar a derogatory look.
‘A number,’ replied Lora evasively.
‘He died with four in a bag around his shoulder,’ said Sabina. Her expression was spiteful; she was enjoying Langar’s hurt shock as he learned things his lover had kept from him. ‘Tetford was kind, though: he helped me toss them in the Braytheford Pool, where they belong. As a reward, I gave him a cope, given to me by that horrible Canon Hodelston, as payment for–’
She stopped speaking abruptly. ‘As payment for providing him with information about the Commonalty?’ asked Langar softly. ‘We always did wonder how he and the Guild always seemed to know our plans. It almost saw us destroyed during the plague.’
‘That is the garment in which you will be installed, Brother,’ whispered Cynric, lest the monk had not made the connection. ‘Tetford’s tale about the chest in his tavern’s attic was a lie. And now we know how he came by the four chalices for his women, too.’
‘We do not have time for this,’ said Miller, pacing restlessly. ‘Kelby wants to slaughter us all, and the longer we stand here chatting, the more time he will have to organise it.’
‘Please,’ said Sabina, going to place her hand on his arm. ‘Do not walk the road to violence. Lives will be lost on both sides, and our town deserves better. Spend your money on helping the weavers.’
‘Sabina seems rather ready to persuade us to stand down,’ said Langar icily, ‘just as she was six years ago, when Canon Hodelston brought us to the brink of ruin. You should ask yourself why.’
‘Do not listen to him,’ said Sabina, while Miller and Lora regarded her with sudden suspicion. ‘He wants to get rid of you, so he can take your place as head of the Commonalty. He is telling lies, to confuse you and make you look inept.’
‘I have no reason to doubt him,’ said Miller coldly. ‘And perhaps he is right about you.’
‘I am here to help Chapman,’ sighed Sabina impatiently, as if she was becoming tired of repeating herself.
‘Kill her,’ said Miller to a man with a crossbow. The response was so immediate that Bartholomew wondered whether summary executions had been ordered before. One moment, Sabina was opening her mouth to protest her innocence, and the next she was lying on the floor with a bolt in her throat. The room was silent except for an unpleasant choking sound, which stopped before Bartholomew could do more than kneel beside her.
‘Damn,’ breathed Langar, rubbing a hand across his mouth. He glanced uneasily at the scholars. ‘That was inopportune, Miller.’
‘Rubbish,’ snapped Miller. ‘I have never trusted her, and should have listened to your concerns years ago. What is wrong with you? I thought you would be pleased.’
Langar shot the visitors another uncomfortable look, then headed for the door. ‘I cannot say I will miss her, but this was not how I envisaged the problem being solved. But we can discuss it later; now we must be about our business, if we are to survive this confrontation.’
Miller sneered disdainfully as the lawyer swept from the room. ‘We will do more than survive – we are going to win. Thoresby, rally the men. Lora, go to Spayne, and tell him we have need of his help.’
‘Wait,’ said Michael finding his voice at last. ‘This is not the way to resolve a dispute. We–’
‘Out of my way,’ said Miller, shoving him to one side. ‘We have work to do.’
‘Please,’ begged Michael. ‘Let us talk to Kelby and–’
‘I am inclined to dispatch you, too,’ said Miller, regarding Michael and then Bartholomew with his small eyes. He spat on the floor. ‘Especially as you have just witnessed what you probably regard as a murder. You are lucky that I do not want to annoy the Suttones by shooting their friends, so I shall let you go. However, the physician can consider it a temporary reprieve.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael in a low voice.
‘I mean that if Chapman dies, then so will he.’
Cynric bundled Bartholomew and Michael out of the house and down the nearest alley as fast as he could, afraid that if they tried to reason with Miller he might change his mind about letting them go. Even Bartholomew’s recent battle experiences had not steeled him for a murder ordered in front of his eyes, and he was deeply shocked. Michael was more concerned with the lives that would be lost if Lincoln went to war, and was ready to do anything to stop it.
‘You did your best to make him see sense,’ said Cynric, holding the monk’s sleeve when he attempted to return to Miller and argue the case for peace. ‘So did Langar, but he has the wits to see he was wasting his breath. And look what happened to Sabina when she argued for moderation.’
‘Cynric is right,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘We are completely helpless. If we warn Kelby, he will summon his own troops, and there will be a skirmish for certain.’
‘Sheriff Lungspee will not help, either,’ said Cynric. ‘When I told him his city was about to erupt into civil war, he asked whether I thought his gate would withstand invaders. He intends to lock himself in, and only emerge when the battle is done and he knows which side to favour.’
Michael peered around the corner, watching the scurrying preparations around Miller’s domain. Bartholomew stood next to him, seeing ancient weapons pulled from storage, and men assembling so quickly that he could only assume they had been waiting for the call. He was alarmed: he had not anticipated that Miller’s friends would be so numerous. He saw several traders among them, looking terrified, and suspected they had been forced to show their colours against their will.
‘Not everyone wants this fight,’ he said. ‘The more militant of the workless weavers have little to lose, and rich guildsmen will be desperate to protect their houses from looters. But most people are frightened, because they do not know where this dispute will take them – no matter who wins.’
‘What can we do?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘This is our fault, for going to Miller without thinking the situation through. We must stop him, or the blood will be on our hands.’
‘No, it will be on that killer’s, Brother,’ said Cynric practically. ‘It was him who unleashed all this mayhem with his poisoned wine. You are innocent.’
‘Well, I do not feel innocent,’ stated Michael. ‘I repeat: what can we do?’