The physician followed Michael through the Gilbertines’ main gate, where they were saluted cheerfully by Hamo, and then across the yard to the chapel. The ground was frozen hard, and dusted with new snow. Inside, candles and lamps gave the chapel a cosy feel, although the air was frigid, and his breath billowed in front of him. Then he saw why the monk had been so keen to inspect the chalice. Vespers had just ended, and one of the congregation had lingered to say additional prayers.
That evening, Christiana de Hauville’s slender form was accentuated by a tight, front-laced kirtle, and her fret – the net that covered her hair – was of gold. Although she was kneeling, she still managed to adopt the current fashionable posture for women, with abdomen thrust forward and back curved, which was meant to reveal them as ladies of breeding and style. Because all the Gilbertines had gone to their refectory for something to drink, Bartholomew could only suppose the display of courtly deportment was for Michael’s benefit. The monk’s expression was unreadable as he made his way towards her, and Bartholomew watched uneasily.
Christiana was not alone, however. When the monk would have gone to kneel next to her, a figure stepped out of the shadows and intercepted him. It was Sabina Herl. She held a basket over her arm, and looked bored and cold.
‘I have been told to act as chaperon,’ she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she was not very happy about it. ‘Dame Eleanor is still at the cathedral, and Hamo says that Lady Christiana should not be here alone in the dark, despite the fact that this is a convent, and you would think she would be safe.’
Bartholomew saw a grimace of genuine annoyance flick across Christiana’s beautiful face, and supposed she had objected to the Brother Hospitaller’s cosseting, too.
‘I see,’ said Michael, hands folded in his wide sleeves. ‘Well, she is not alone now, because I am here.’
Sabina was amused. ‘I do not think Hamo would accept you as a suitable substitute for Dame Eleanor, Brother. But why did you come? To pray? To admire the Hugh Chalice?’
Before the monk could reply, Christiana stood, took the cup from the altar, and came to hand it to him. Their fingers touched briefly, before she returned to the cushion on which she had been kneeling. She was clearly aware that she cut a fine figure from behind, because her hips swayed provocatively and she did not need to look around to know Michael’s eyes were fixed appreciatively on them.
‘What do you think?’ asked Bartholomew. The monk regarded him askance. ‘Of the chalice, Brother! What do you think of the chalice?’
Michael tore his attention away from Christiana’s trim shape, and looked at the goblet. ‘It is very small, and too tarnished to be handsome, although someone has tried to buff it up. Is it silver?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea how to tell. However, I do know that some kinds of tin can be made to gleam like precious metals.’
Michael turned the cup over in his hands. ‘Even if it is silver, it is thin and light, and I doubt it is worth much for its weight alone. Is there a carving on it? My eyes are not good in dim light.’
‘It is worn, but I think there might be a child with a halo around its head.’
Michael squinted at it. ‘As Simon told us so condescendingly, a Baby Jesus etched on a chalice is often associated with St Hugh – it is one of his icons. I suppose that might mean it is authentic.’
A shadow suddenly materialised at the physician’s side. It was Cynric. Michael leapt so violently that the goblet flew from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Christiana turned to gape at him, and Sabina issued a shriek of alarm, so the monk hastened to cover his clumsiness by pretending he had done it on purpose.
‘It is silver,’ he pronounced authoritatively, bending to retrieve it. ‘See how easily it dents?’
‘Be careful, Brother!’ breathed Cynric, round-eyed with shock. ‘St Hugh may not like his relic tossed about like a turnip. Of course, it is probably a fake, but you would be wise to be wary, nonetheless.’
‘You should not creep up on people like that,’ hissed Michael irritably, once Christiana had turned back to her prayers. ‘And how is it that you are suddenly in a position to make declarations about the authenticity of sacred cups?’
‘I have a good sense for what is holy,’ objected Cynric, hurt by the reprimand. ‘And a good sense for what is unholy, too. Speaking of unholy, did you see Bishop Gynewell’s statue in the cathedral? It is in the Angel Choir, looking longingly at Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb. It is probably trying to work out how to get inside and earn itself a meal.’
‘Gynewell does not like to be reminded of the similarity between him and the imp,’ said Michael. ‘So you had better keep your thoughts to yourself, unless you want to feel the end of his pitchfork.’
‘You think he might attack me?’ asked Cynric, appalled. ‘He is definitely one of Satan’s own. Master Quarrel of the Swan tavern told me that the fellow likes so much hot spice in his food, it is inedible to mere mortals. And he wears a Dominican habit to conceal his tail.’
‘Quarrel told you that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
‘Not the bit about the tail,’ admitted Cynric. ‘That is my own conclusion. You see, I have been in alehouses all afternoon, listening to gossip for you about Aylmer. Since I was there, I decided to ask a few questions about Gynewell, too. I went to the Swan first, then the Angel. The Swan is preferred by guildsmen, and the Angel is frequented by the Commonalty.’
‘What did you find out?’ asked Michael. ‘About Aylmer, I mean, not Gynewell.’
‘He arrived about twenty years ago – a few weeks after Miller – and immediately started work as Miller’s scribe. Then Langar came, and was better at clerking, so Aylmer elected to dabble in various other trades instead, but was never very successful. Apparently, he always said he was in holy orders, but no one believed him, so he was obliged to take his vows again a month ago. He was accused of theft, see, and needed to claim benefit of clergy. It is all wrong, if you ask me, and there will be a rebellion. People do not like priests tried by different rules to the rest of us.’
‘So you have been saying for years,’ said Michael, well aware of Cynric’s seditious sentiments. ‘What did he steal?’
‘A cup,’ said Cynric. ‘It may have been the Hugh Chalice, but the men at the Swan could not be sure. The fellow who lodged the complaint was Flaxfleete, but he withdrew his accusation when the property was returned. Word is that the bishop did it.’
‘Did what?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘Stole whatever it was that Aylmer was accused of taking?’
‘Returned it to its rightful owner,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘And the other thing I learned was that Aylmer was good at Latin, and mocked priests who were not. They did not like that at all, apparently, especially John Suttone and Simon. I shall try listening to gossip in a few more taverns tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Miller suspects I witnessed Shirlok’s trial, and Michael’s investigation has a dangerous feel to it. You will not be safe in these places.’
Cynric regarded him askance. ‘I can look after myself. The only thing I fear is Bishop Gynewell. So, I had better say a few incantations, to ward him off.’
While he went to kneel next to Christiana, Michael approached Sabina, who was rubbing chicken droppings off the eggs in her basket. ‘You are freezing,’ he said sympathetically.
She nodded, blowing on her hands. ‘I do not understand how Lady Christiana can kneel for so long in here. Dame Eleanor is the same. They both spend hours at shrines and in chapels.’
‘You said you were ordered to work at this priory as penance for kissing Aylmer behind the stables,’ said Michael. ‘How long did you say you had known him?’
‘I did not confide that particular detail. Why? Would you like to steal a few kisses from me, now he is not here?’