The following day was cloudy, and it was still dark when Bartholomew was shocked from sleep by the harsh jangle of the Gilbertines’ bells. He leapt from his bed, but managed to stop himself from snatching up his sword when he realised it was a call to prayer, not a call to arms. Michael watched, then turned back to his psalter without comment, although his silence said more about his disapproval than any words could have done. They attended the beginning of another deafening prime, but the monk strode out in disgust when some of the Gilbertines started to clap in time to the music. Bartholomew followed him, relieved to be away from the racket.
‘It is too much,’ complained the monk petulantly. ‘It is a chapel, not a tavern. We should sing prime at the cathedral tomorrow, because I do not think I can stand much more of this … ’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.
After breakfast, he and Bartholomew sat on a low wall near the refectory while he reviewed what he knew about Aylmer. He had not been pontificating for long when Hamo bustled towards them.
‘Is anything amiss?’ the newly created Brother Hospitaller asked, licking his moist, pink lips anxiously. ‘Neither of you ate much, and we would be horrified to think you were dissatisfied with our humble fare. Prior Roger was saying only last night how good it is to have a Suttone under our roof, and he has written to the family, to let them know you have elected to stay with us. They have promised to remember us in their wills, you see, and some have plans to be buried in our chapel. It would be terrible if you were to go elsewhere. And if you did, Prior Roger might demote me.’
‘We shall stay,’ said Michael, although not very graciously. ‘You were right when you said everywhere else is full. Of course, Bishop Gynewell offered us a bed in his fine house, but Matt’s book-bearer has encouraged us to decline the invitation.’
This was an understatement. In a startling display of mutiny, Cynric had virtually ordered the scholars to keep their distance from the Bishop’s Palace, even threatening to resign if they did not accede to his ‘request’. Michael had been inclined to ignore him, but Cynric had been with Bartholomew for many years, and the physician was loath to upset a man who was more friend than servant. Thus Michael had been obliged to do as the Welshman demanded, although he was far from happy about it. Suttone, however, was livid at the loss of a luxurious sojourn, and declared that the book-bearer’s new-found confidence after his travels had rendered him impudent and rebellious. It was not really true: Cynric had always had strong feelings on matters of religion, and it was not the first time Bartholomew had been obliged to pander to his superstitions.
‘I shall have to give the man a jug of our best ale,’ murmured Hamo, pleased.
‘When I was inspecting Aylmer’s corpse, I noticed a drawing on his shoulder,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to see what he could learn for Michael. ‘Is that a common habit in Lincoln?’
‘I have seen some men mark themselves so,’ said Hamo, determined to be amenable, no matter how odd the topic of conversation chosen by his guests. ‘There was a sect that scratched crosses all over themselves during the Death, to prevent them from becoming infected. It made no difference, though: they were taken regardless.’
‘It is the marks on their souls that count,’ said Michael. He clasped his hands in front of him, and gazed skywards in a gesture of monastic piety that was wholly out of character.
Bartholomew was puzzled until Christiana and Dame Eleanor passed by, on their way to the chapel.
‘Amen,’ said Hamo, adopting a similar pose, but with considerably more sincerity. ‘Alleluia!’
‘Alleluia!’ chorused three Gilbertines who happened to be within hearing distance.
‘Aylmer’s mark looked like a cup,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before the brethren could revisit one of their fervent rites in the yard and expect him to join in. ‘Perhaps a chalice.’
Hamo frowned as he lowered his hands to his sides. ‘Really? How odd. I never noticed it, but then I never saw him without clothes. Perhaps you should ask Simon. He is considered an expert on sacred vessels, because he is going to donate the Hugh Chalice to the cathedral. It is a pity, because it looks nice on St Katherine’s altar, and we shall be sorry to see it go.’
‘We have already spoken to Simon, and he was not very helpful,’ said Michael, dropping his prayerful posture the moment the ladies were out of sight. ‘He told us about the Hugh Chalice’s curious travels, but revealed nothing about the man who sold it to him.’
Hamo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Prior Roger might be able to help. He and Simon discussed the Hugh Chalice at length yesterday. You see, Simon had kept it in a box under his bed in the guest-hall, but after what happened to Aylmer, it was decided the chapel would be safer. You are honoured guests, so he will be pleased to oblige you with anything Simon may have neglected to mention.’
He began to lead the way to the Prior’s House, but Bartholomew glanced at the sky to judge the time. ‘I wonder if Spayne will be home yet.’
‘His maidservant and Sheriff Lungspee told you he plans to be away until this evening at the earliest,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And even if he did return sooner than expected, you cannot leave me to investigate alone. If Cynric is to be believed, I have been given a commission by the Devil – and you will not want me on the wrong side of Satan for failing to provide answers.’
‘Take no notice of Cynric. He has been listening to too many soldiers around too many campfires. He has always been superstitious, but his reaction to Gynewell is excessive, even for him. We–’
He stopped abruptly when they neared the Prior’s House and someone wearing crimson hose scurried past. His head was down and his hood pulled over his face, but the distinctive leg-wear made Bartholomew sure it was the same man he had seen with Simon the previous day. He watched him go, wondering why the fellow should be skulking in so furtive a manner.
‘I am about to say a mass for one of our benefactors,’ said the prior, when the visitors were shown into his solar. ‘A few kyries with the organ should rattle his soul free from Purgatory.’
‘Did you know Aylmer had carved a chalice into his arm?’ asked Michael, declining to comment on the Gilbertines’ rumbustious approach to prayers for the dead. ‘Matt detected–’
‘No, I never saw him naked,’ said Roger. ‘But I have seen others with marks that sound similar.’
‘Where?’ demanded Michael eagerly. ‘And on whom?’
‘On a member of the Commonalty named Thoresby. You may have heard of him – he was recently acquitted of threatening to behead a rival merchant. I saw a cup carved into his shoulder when he came to our hospital suffering from Summer Madness. Then there was Fat William, Hamo’s predecessor. He had one, and so do a number of canons.’ He listed several names that were unfamiliar.
‘Does Father Simon have a–’
Roger raised his hands. ‘I have no idea.’
‘He says not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how the priest had come close to showing them before Michael had become squeamish and stopped him.
‘I have never known him lie,’ said Roger, ‘so there is no reason to disbelieve him. Last summer, when we swam in the river together, I asked Canon Stretle what the carving meant, and he said it was the mark of a foolish young man who should have known better. I suspect it had something to do with the Hugh Chalice. When it was due to arrive in Lincoln twenty years ago, people did some very wild things in anticipation. The fervour died away when it disappeared en route, although I suspect it will be resurrected now it has risen from the dead. Just like Christ the Saviour, praise His holy name!’
‘Amen,’ said Michael, seeing some pious response was expected. ‘Simon bought his chalice from a relic-seller. Did you ever meet this man, and assess whether he was an honest–’