‘I have been to Rome,’ said Chapman sulkily. ‘And I do sell relics on occasion. I sell lots of things, mostly for Miller, who says I have a talent for it. Since I often carry goods of considerable value, it is sometimes prudent to disguise myself, and that is why the prior did not recognise me.’
‘Then does Simon know you as Walter Chapman or as someone else?’ asked Michael.
‘I have never told him my name. He did not ask for it.’
Bartholomew regarded Chapman thoughtfully, not sure what to believe. Lincoln was a large city, so Simon was unlikely to know everyone who lived in it. However, Chapman was a member of the Commonalty, so enjoyed a modicum of local fame, and Prior Roger had noticed something familiar about him. Had Chapman really managed to deceive Simon, who had seen him at much closer quarters? Or had Simon lied?
‘Does Simon know you are a member of the Commonalty?’ Bartholomew asked.
‘I have no idea, and it is none of your business anyway. Stand aside, or I will tell Miller you manhandled me. And you do not want him to think badly of you, believe me.’
‘Tell me about this cup you sold Simon,’ said Michael, ignoring the threat. He put one hand on a nearby sapling and leaned on it, effecting a casually nonchalant pose. Bartholomew saw the whole thing begin to bend under his weight, and icicles and water began to shower downwards.
Chapman flinched when a clot of snow landed on his head. ‘It is not a “cup”. It is the Hugh Chalice – a relic worthy of great veneration. It belonged to the saint himself.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. The tree leaned at a more acute angle, and the monk was obliged to shift his hand to avoid toppling over. ‘We have been told that the Hugh Chalice disappeared while being carried to Lincoln from London, so how can you be sure it is the same one? Or are you the thief who took it from the couriers twenty years ago?’
Chapman was outraged. ‘I am no fool, going around stealing holy things! However, if you must know, I recognised it when it appeared for sale at a market in Huntingdon. I brought it here and sold it to Simon, because Lincoln is where it belongs.’
‘You recognised it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘How?’
‘Because it is distinctive,’ replied Chapman. ‘Old and tarnished, with a carving of a baby. Look for yourselves. It is in St Katherine’s Chapel, awaiting its translation to the cathedral.’
‘That does not answer my question,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How did you know it was the Hugh Chalice? Had you seen it before?’
‘In London,’ said Chapman, licking his lips nervously. ‘I travel a lot, and I saw it in the Old Temple there. That was before the saint made it known that he wanted it brought to Lincoln.’
‘But the saint allowed it to be lost en route,’ said Michael. ‘And I am under the impression that he has permitted a very large number of thieves to lay hands on it.’
Bartholomew regarded the monk uneasily. He was coming dangerously close to mentioning what they knew of Shirlok’s trial, and it was not a good idea to discuss the case with a man who would almost certainly repeat the conversation to Miller.
Chapman gazed earnestly at Michael. ‘St Hugh was angry when it failed to arrive at his shrine – rumour has it that he caused robbers to kill the two careless couriers on their homeward journey. He has rectified matters now, though, and I am the vessel he chose to help him. Brother, please! You will have that tree over in a moment.’
Michael released the hapless sapling, surprised that he had managed to push it so far out of alignment. He tried to tug it upright, but it continued to list, and Bartholomew suspected it always would. While Chapman picked shards of ice from his clothing, Bartholomew addressed the monk in an undertone.
‘Is he telling the truth? Could part of Shirlok’s hoard have appeared for sale in Huntingdon? Huntingdon is not far from Cambridge, where the goods went missing.’
Michael shook his head. ‘It is too much of a coincidence – the goblet stolen after a trial in which Chapman was acquitted, and then appearing in the same villain’s hands two decades later. Besides, he does not look like a truthful man to me.’ He stepped forward to speak to Chapman again. ‘De Wetherset tells me that shortly after your Cambridge trial, a lot of property went missing. Among the items that disappeared was a cup that he says looks remarkably like the Hugh Chalice.’
‘Poor de Wetherset,’ murmured Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I hope you have not put him in danger.’
‘It was the Hugh Chalice,’ said Chapman softly. ‘And it was Shirlok who stole it from the couriers. But then St Hugh intervened. He caused Shirlok to be caught, and everything he had stolen to be seized by the Cambridge sheriff. Then he caused the chalice to appear in Huntingdon when I happened to be there, knowing I would bring it home.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. Did you have anything to do with its disappearance from Cambridge, before it so conveniently arrived in Huntingdon?’
Chapman bristled with indignation. ‘I did not! As it happens, I was detained after Shirlok’s trial, because of a misunderstanding over some other goods, and the cup went missing when I was in still in gaol. I will swear on anything you like – even the Hugh Chalice – that I did not steal it.’
‘What about your co-accused?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or Langar? Could they have–’
‘No!’ snapped Chapman. ‘And they will be furious if I tell them the sort of questions you are asking. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to conduct.’
CHAPTER 7
The mist seemed thicker than ever as Bartholomew and Michael left the Gilbertine Priory and began to walk to the cathedral for High Mass. It encased them in a cocoon of grey-white, so they could not even make out the churches and houses to either side of the road, and fine droplets clung to their clothes and hair. Bartholomew could taste the fog in his mouth, touched with a hint of wood-smoke, although it was missing the malodorous taint of the marshes he had grown used to in Cambridge. Michael was reviewing what they had learned about the chalice and its travels, but the physician’s mind was fixed on the various diseases and ailments that might be carried in such a miasma. It was a long time since he had lost himself in a reflection of medical matters; mostly, he thought about Matilde in his free moments.
They reached the Cathedral Close, where the bells were pealing, announcing that Bishop Gynewell had arrived and was ready to begin the sacred rite. Michael went to his place in the chancel, and Bartholomew stood in the nave to listen to the singing. That day, the music was sporadic in quality and volume, and he saw why when he noticed that a number of those supposed to be taking part in the ceremony were actually wandering about on business of their own. Tetford was with Master Quarrel of the Swan and money was changing hands – Michael’s Vicar Choral was laying in supplies for his tavern. Tetford saw the physician watching and turned away.
Young Hugh, cherubic in his gown and golden curls, was racing up and down the aisles with several friends, chased by a flustered-looking man who was evidently the choirmaster. The boys considered it fine sport until Dame Eleanor, abandoning her customary spot at the Head Shrine, beckoned them towards her. She spoke a few quiet words that had them hanging their heads in shame before traipsing obediently towards their exasperated teacher. Hugh lingered uncertainly, so she added something that made him grin, then sent him after his cronies. Bartholomew saw Claypole observing the episode with a malicious smile, hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Nicholas Bautre was made choirmaster two years ago,’ he said when the physician approached. ‘He is worthless, and I should never have been dismissed in his favour.’
‘You were dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’
Claypole looked sullen. ‘I lost my clothes and all my vestments at the gaming table. It was my own fault – I should have chosen the white stones over the black. Dean Bresley decided to make an example of me, and had Bautre appointed in my place. It has been disastrous for the cathedral, because Bautre cannot even get the boys to stay put during the mass, let alone teach them music.’