Bartholomew sighed. ‘I do not see Matilde making friends with a murderer.’
‘Perhaps that is why she declined to marry him,’ suggested Michael. ‘She found out what he was really like, and fled Lincoln while she could.’
Bartholomew turned to another matter that had puzzled him. ‘You told de Wetherset that the property recovered from Shirlok – and presented at his trial as evidence of his guilt – went missing immediately afterwards. How did you know that?’
‘How do you not? It was a huge scandal, and the whole county talked about it for weeks after.’
‘I was probably back in Oxford by then. What happened?’
‘The goods disappeared on the day of the trial, although they were not actually missed until the various owners contacted the sheriff some weeks later, demanding to know why they had not been returned. The sheriff had dispatched them on a wagon, but none reached their intended destination. Searches were made, but nothing was ever recovered.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘When I was looking at Shirlok’s body in the castle bailey, I recall seeing a cart being loaded with the items he had stolen. There was property relating to the other cases that had been heard that day, too. The sheriff wanted it all off his hands as quickly as possible. He ordered the jurors to help with the heavy work, but they objected strenuously, and the only one he actually snagged in the end was de Wetherset – who was furious about it.’
‘So, you saw Shirlok’s ill-gotten gains leave the castle?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘It was all very chaotic, because a few of the acquitted felons had been kept in gaol until the trial – obviously, the sheriff had not trusted them to appear on their own recognisance. They were being released at the same time, and there was a lot of fuss and noise. It was only when they had all gone that Shirlok made his own bid for freedom.’
‘So, any of these villains could have made off with the property at that point? It was being piled into a wagon under their very noses?’
‘The sheriff drew a line in the mud with his boot, separating the cart from the milling crowd in the bailey, and said he would shoot anyone who crossed it.’
‘Was he serious?’
‘Oh, yes. The jurors’ refusal to help with the loading had put him in a foul mood, and he was a surly man at the best of times. He was itching to vent his temper on someone. Had Miller or anyone else put so much as a toe over his line, he would gladly have loosed an arrow.’
‘So, Miller and his friends could not have taken the hoard, then?’
‘I sincerely doubt it. The sheriff was watching them like a hawk.’
‘Well, someone did – and whoever it was found himself in possession of the Hugh Chalice, as well as a chest of stolen property.’
‘Assuming this cup is the Hugh Chalice, Brother. De Wetherset does not seem to think so.’
‘Perhaps he will change his mind once he sets his “special skills” to work – especially if the bishop is convinced of its sanctity. He will not want to annoy his new prelate.’
Eventually, Bartholomew and Michael reached the top of the hill, where they passed through the gate that led to the Bail – the plateau that housed the minster and the castle. The Church had ensured its property was better defended than its secular counterpart, and its precincts were surrounded by a high, crenellated wall that was relatively new and in good repair. The resulting enclosed area, known as the Cathedral Close, was massive, and contained not only the minster itself, but two churches and a chantry; the chapter house; cloisters; offices for the dean, precentor, treasurer and sacrist; and living accommodation for the canons, Vicars Choral, choristers, and the clerks and scribes who undertook the onerous task of overseeing the largest diocese in the country.
Dominating all was the cathedral. From a distance, its nave and chancel had appeared low, dwarfed by the tower with its soaring spire, but Bartholomew saw this was an illusion, and the main body of the building was actually impressively lofty. He began to walk around the outside, gazing up at the mighty buttresses, the intricately carved pinnacles, and finally the ancient frieze on the splendid west front. Michael went with him, for once voicing no objection to the extra walking.
When they had finished admiring the exterior, they entered the building through a gate near the south transept, and were immediately assailed by the familiar scents of incense and candle wax, along with the musty smell of damp: somewhere, a roof was leaking. Bartholomew gazed at the ceiling high above, a celebration of colour and carvings. The vaulted nave drew the eye to the chancel screen, which was a joyful jumble of gold, red and blue, and everywhere the stone eyes of saints and angels watched the people who came to pray, do business, chat to the priests or shelter from the cold weather. Michael led the way towards the central crossing, his footsteps echoing in the great vastness of empty space.
‘I always feel so tiny in places like this,’ he whisper ed. He was not easily awed, but Lincoln’s grandeur had impressed him. ‘They tell me I can enjoy as many Lombard slices as I like, because however large I grow, I will always be insignificant.’
‘Go and stand next to a beehive then,’ suggested Bartholomew practically. ‘That should curb any abnormal desires to eat enough to fill a cathedral.’
‘You have no sense of the magnificent,’ said Michael irritably. ‘This is a building fit for God, and I am honoured to be one of its canons.’
‘It is splendid,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Especially those two rose windows.’
‘Bishop Gynewell told me they are meant to represent eyes. The Bishop’s Eye faces south, inviting in the Holy Spirit, while the Dean’s Eye looks north and shuts out the Devil.’
‘You had better not mention that to Cynric, or he will turn it all around and have the bishop ushering in Satan. He has taken a dislike to Gynewell.’
‘Cynric is a superstitious fool, and so are we for letting him talk us out of a sojourn at the Bishop’s Palace. It would be far safer – no one has been stabbed in Gynewell’s guest-hall. God’s blessings, madam. I hope the saints were not too distressed over your late arrival this morning?’
Bartholomew turned to see Dame Eleanor standing nearby, and noted the way her eyes twinkled with amusement at the monk’s mild irreverence. ‘They seem to have survived the inconvenience, thank you. I have just finished my devotions at the Head Shrine and am about to tend Little Hugh.’
‘I am ashamed to confess that I have been too busy to inspect these famous sites so far,’ said Michael. ‘But perhaps you might show us now? Can we accompany you to Little Hugh?’
Obligingly, Eleanor took them to the South Choir Aisle. Several pilgrims knelt next to a large stone sarcophagus, and the floor around it was carpeted with leaves and dried flowers. It comprised two sections: a sealed tomb-base, containing Little Hugh’s bones, and an ornately carved canopy above. The canopy was topped by a wooden statue of a child bearing the marks of crucifixion; the relevant parts were picked out in red paint, and were graphic enough to make Bartholomew wince. Pilgrims had left gifts of jewels, coins and prayers scribbled on scraps of parchment; they had been shoved through the canopy’s carved tracery, and could be seen piled untidily within.
‘I sweep up every day,’ whispered Dame Eleanor, gesturing to the vegetation-strewn floor. ‘But I have not had time to do it this morning, hence the mess. Meanwhile, the priests are supposed to collect the written prayers from inside the shrine, because they are the only ones allowed to touch them. They read them aloud, then burn them on the altar, to send them heavenward. All the other oblations go straight to the treasurer, who is trying to raise enough money to repair the roof in the north transept.’