They shot away to do her bidding, but then she became aware that yet another person was lingering in the shadows. She sighed, and there was a weary expression on her face.
‘Do I have to devise errands for you, too, so I can pray uninterrupted?’
‘Is that what you are doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or are you here to exchange Dame Eleanor’s holy water for something else?’
She grimaced in annoyance. ‘You saw me, did you? Damn! I add wine to her water occasionally, because I have learned that it eases the ache in her legs brought on by the cold. She does not know, and I would rather you did not tell her. She believes a small miracle takes place when it happens – that Little Hugh is watching over her – and I would not like her to think otherwise. Look.’
She handed the jug to him, and while he thought Dame Eleanor would probably disapprove of being deceived, he supposed it was being done with the best of intentions. He tasted the contents, and was not surprised the old lady enjoyed it: Christiana had been generous in her mixing, and there was far more wine than water. It was good quality claret, too, and he supposed it might well help to keep the aches of a cold winter morning at bay.
‘It is very strong,’ he observed. ‘Does she ever fall asleep halfway through the morning?’
Christiana looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, she does, but that is just her age. Is it not?’
‘Reduce the amount,’ he advised. ‘Excesses of wine are unhealthy too early in the day.’
Her face burned red with mortification. ‘I am not doing her any harm, am I?’
‘Not if you practise moderation. Indeed, you may be doing some good.’
She smiled, relieved. ‘Dame Eleanor is the best of friends to me. I was lonely and frightened after my mother died, but she was kind and patient, and taught me to take pleasure in serving the saints in this magnificent cathedral. I do not think I would have survived without her.’
Bartholomew backed away. ‘Then I will leave you in peace.’
The physician continued his circuit of the minster. When he reached the nave, he saw Tetford hurrying towards the chancel, rubbing his eyes as though he had overslept. He was carrying the alb he was supposed to be altering for Michael. Ravenser approached him, fingering his dagger. Tetford’s hand dropped to his own belt, then scrabbled about in alarm when he realised he had forgotten to arm himself. Ravenser whispered something and, with a heavy sigh of resignation, Tetford produced a thick beeswax candle from the satchel he carried over his shoulder. Ravenser snatched it from him and darted towards Christiana, not seeing the obscene gesture Tetford made at his retreating back. Eventually, Bartholomew’s wandering brought him to the Angel Choir again, where he had started. It was possible to see through the carved screen to the sanctuary beyond, and he found Cynric there, looking from Bishop Gynewell to the stone imp in its lofty niche.
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew, before the Welshman could whip himself into too much of a frenzy. ‘Some of the angels have faces similar to living people, too.’
‘But angels are heavenly beings,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘And Gynewell is one of Satan’s imps. Just look at him! His horns are particularly noticeable today.’
Bartholomew wanted to contradict him, but Cynric was right. The bishop had evidently risen in a hurry, and had raked his fingers through his hair to ‘tidy’ it. As a result, the twisted curls at the sides of his head looked very much like horns in the unsteady light of the candles, and the way he hopped about behind the altar did little to enhance a sense of episcopal dignity, either.
‘If Gynewell is a demon, he will evaporate in a puff of smoke when he touches the Host,’ he said.
Irony was lost on Cynric, whose eyes gleamed in eager anticipation. ‘I will stay here and watch, then. I have never seen a devil consumed by flames, and it would make a good tale to tell of a winter night – along with my accounts of Poitiers. Perhaps there will be another earthquake, too, like the one that brought down the old cathedral. It probably happened when Gynewell first arrived. It is common knowledge that the denizens of Hell are hundreds of years old.’
Bartholomew looked through the screen and saw that Michael and de Wetherset were virtually the only ones paying any attention to Gynewell’s mass. The Vicars Choral were clustered around Tetford, who was relating some anecdote about the alb he held; they sniggered loudly enough to attract a stern glare from the dean. The Poor Clerks were sitting against a wall, half asleep, while the choristers – young Hugh among them – darted about in some complex, but relatively soundless, game of their own. They did not even stop when it was time to sing, trilling the notes as they ducked this way and that. Bartholomew could not imagine such antics permitted at Michaelhouse, and suddenly experienced a sharp desire to be back there again, among familiar things and faces.
Eventually, the rite was over, and Bartholomew waited for Michael to emerge. He watched the monk shake his head when Gynewell skipped towards him and asked a question, but then the bishop’s attention was caught by the dean, who was in the process of removing something from the altar. Gynewell took Bresley by the arm and hauled him away to one side. Tetford passed unnecessarily close to them, and made some remark that had the dean blushing furiously. Bartholomew looked away. Lincoln was as bad as Cambridge with its petty quarrels, rivalries and feuds.
‘You should forget you saw that,’ said Tetford, when he reached the physician. He leered slyly, as he stooped to ensure a lock was secure on an oblations box. ‘The dean, I mean.’
‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew.
Tetford grinned. ‘With an attitude like that, you would make a good canon yourself. I intend to be one soon. Perhaps I shall be given Brother Michael’s Stall of South Scarle.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Canons are installed for life, so I doubt it.’
‘Maybe he will resign,’ said Tetford with a careless and unconvincing shrug. ‘But now I am a Vicar Choral, there is no reason why I should not aspire to be a prebendary. And, once I am a full member of the cathedral Chapter, I shall do something about that dean.’
‘Something like what?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was a threat on Bresley’s life – and on Michael’s.
‘That is in God’s hands,’ said Tetford, striding away.
As soon as the mass had ended, and the streets were beginning to fill with the dim, grey light of pre-dawn, Bartholomew and Michael went to Spayne’s home. While the monk tapped on the door, then fidgeted impatiently for his knock to be answered – he disliked being kept waiting – Bartholomew stood back and inspected the house. It was a fine building, larger but not as tall as Kelby’s home next door. The window shutters looked new, and were brightly painted.
By contrast, Kelby’s abode was suffering from the same air of neglect that afflicted the rest of the city, and lacked the care that had been lavished on its neighbour. Loose tiles hung from its roof, and its chimney leaned in a way that suggested it might not survive the winter. The whole shabby edifice told a story of a merchant in financial decline – that while the wool trade might have allowed men to secure fat fortunes in the past, it was more difficult to make profits in the present economic climate. Thus Kelby could not afford to have his façade replastered, or even apply a coat of paint to conceal his rotting timbers. Would encroaching poverty among the mercantile classes intensify the feud between Guild and Commonalty? Bartholomew imagined it would, and that jealousy might well induce resentful guildsmen to burn down the storehouses of their wealthier rivals.
And Spayne? Bartholomew examined the mayor’s house more closely, and on reflection decided the gleaming paint-work and new shutters were more indicative of urgent repair than meticulous maintenance. There were scorch marks on the beams at the left side of the building, suggesting a recent conflagration. When he took a few steps to look down the narrow alley that separated the two houses, he saw Spayne’s walls were dark with soot, and the yard at the end of the house contained a burned-out shell. He had assumed the storehouses Flaxfleete had ignited were in some distant place, perhaps near the river, and it was with a shock that he realised they were actually at the back of Spayne’s home. It put the crime in an entirely different category – one that suggested Spayne’s goods might not have been all Flaxfleete had intended to incinerate.