Gynewell headed straight for the fire, where he climbed into a throne that was placed directly in front of it, waving his guests to a bench on one side. Both bench and chair were well supplied with cushions, all of them red. The bishop leaned down and took a bell in both hands, giving it a vigorous shake that made Bartholomew afraid he might burst into song, like the Gilbertines. After a moment, the door opened, and young Hugh marched in.
‘Yes, My Lord?’ the lad piped, doffing his hat.
‘It is your turn for bishop-duty, is it?’ asked Gynewell amiably, raising one of his short legs to cross over the other as he basked in the heat. Bartholomew wondered how he could stand it. ‘Or have you been assigned an additional spell of servitude for some act of mischief?’
‘Dean Bresley was cross because I accidentally dropped Master Bautre’s music in the stoup,’ said Hugh. ‘And the ink ran, so he cannot read it, which means we cannot practise the Te Deum today.’
‘I understand there is an archery practice this afternoon at the butts,’ said Gynewell with a grave expression. ‘You will have to go there, instead of singing Bautre’s latest composition.’
‘What a pity,’ said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. ‘What would you like me to fetch you, sir?’
‘Some wine – hot, of course. And a few of those red cakes the baker delivered yesterday. Oh, and bring my pitchfork, will you?’
Hugh left obediently, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop with renewed unease. ‘Pitchfork?’
Gynewell leaned forward to prod the fire into even greater fury, then sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Red cakes are best served toasted. Bishop de Lisle knows my liking for them, and he once gave me a miniature pitchfork, just for that purpose.’
When Hugh returned, heavily laden with a tray of wine and nasty-looking pastries, Gynewell showed off his ‘pitchfork’. It was the length of a man’s arm, and beautifully crafted to mimic the double-tined tools used for moving hay. Its handle was bound in crimson leather, to prevent the user from burning himself, and Bartholomew suspected de Lisle had considered the gift an excellent joke.
They had done no more than be served a cup of scalding wine, so liberally laced with spices that it turned Bartholomew’s mouth numb, when there was a tap on the door. It was the dean. He sidled in as though he was about to burgle the place, eyes darting everywhere. He jumped guiltily when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.
‘Come in, Bresley,’ said Gynewell genially, waving the dean to the bench and presenting him with a cup of wine. Bartholomew saw it was a wooden vessel, rather than one of the set of silver goblets with which he and Michael had been provided. ‘You know you are always welcome.’
‘I am not sure I want to be welcome in this company,’ muttered the dean unhappily. ‘Tetford has just informed me that Brother Michael plans to hold a wild celebration in his tavern the night before his installation. He said Christiana de Hauville has been invited, because the good Brother has developed an improper liking for her. However, Lady Christiana is a woman, so should not be in the Close after dark. It is not right.’
Michael regarded him in open-mouthed shock, while Gynewell speared a pastry with his fork and began to cook it.
‘I have tried on several occasions to shut that den of iniquity,’ said the bishop, ‘but each time I issue an order of suppression, Tetford finds a way to circumvent it. Still, I shall prevail in the end. I have better resources and infinite patience. Try one of my cakes, Brother.’
He passed a smoking morsel that the monk accepted without thinking, more concerned with the slur on his character than with food. ‘My Lord, I harbour no impure thoughts about Christiana de Hauville. I hope you do not believe these wicked aspersions.’
‘She is an alluring woman,’ replied Gynewell, ‘and lesser men than you have been smitten with her charms. But I shall trust you, if you say you are made of sterner stuff. Do you like the cake?’
Michael took a bite mechanically. ‘You will find me as pure as the driven–’ His protestations of innocence stopped abruptly, and his face turned dark. He reached for his wine, took a gulp, then started to choke. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, but Michael flapped him away.
‘The red cakes are full of pepper,’ explained Bresley dolefully, watching the monk’s sufferings with unhappy eyes. ‘And the bishop is the only man in Lincoln who can stand them. I should have warned you, but my mind was on other matters. I am sorry.’
‘I suppose they are an acquired taste,’ admitted Gynewell, regarding the puce monk anxiously. ‘Are you all right, Brother? Shall I summon Hugh to bring you something else to drink? Water?’
Michael shook his head, tears streaming down his face, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Your water is probably full of brimstone. Do you consume nothing normal men deem edible?’
Gynewell regarded him in a way that suggested he thought the question was an odd one. ‘I dislike bland flavours. If you are going to eat something, you may as well taste it, I always say. You should try my devil’s eggs. Now those are highly spiced.’
‘You refer to him as your Devil?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Gynewell stoked up the fire. ‘Shall we talk about Aylmer’s death? I am a busy man, and do not usually spend my valuable time chattering about victuals.’
Michael recovered once Hugh had brought a jug of ale from the kitchens. When it arrived, it was so cold there was ice in it, and Gynewell shuddered in distaste as the monk sipped. He dismissed Hugh for the day, waving away the lad’s gratitude, while Bresley regaled the company with a gloomy litany of the various vices enjoyed by the residents of the Cathedral Close. When his lips had regained some feeling, Michael brought the discussion back to his enquiry.
‘My Lord,’ he said huskily. ‘You were about to explain why you had neglected to mention Aylmer’s association with criminals when you asked me to investigate his murder.’
‘Aylmer was a member of the Commonality,’ acknowledged Gynewell, while Bartholomew held his breath, expecting the bishop to take umbrage at the admonitory tone. ‘Then Suttone wrote to offer him the post of Vicar Choral. He was moved to tears. He came to me and said he intended to renounce his evil ways, and was determined to live the life of an honest man.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Actually, I did,’ replied Gynewell, choosing to ignore the dean’s derisive snort. ‘He immediately left Miller and took a berth in the Gilbertine Priory – the convent farthest from Miller’s domain.’
Michael was exasperated. ‘But this is relevant! It means Miller may have killed Aylmer, because he was angry at being rejected by a man he had known for years.’
‘That assumes Miller knew about Aylmer’s change of heart,’ said Gynewell. ‘And Aylmer confided in no one here but Bresley and me.’
‘He told Sabina Herl,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘So, what is to say he did not mention it to other members of the Commonalty, too?’
‘Sabina is different,’ argued Gynewell. ‘She has also moved away from Miller, and is trying to forge an honest life. Aylmer probably asked her how to go about it.’
‘I seriously doubt Aylmer shared his plans with the Commonalty,’ said Bresley. ‘They were delighted when they heard one of their own was to become a cathedral official, and would not have been pleased had he then told them he planned to end their association. I imagine he intended to live quietly in the Close until they forgot about him.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Miller is keen to know the identity of Aylmer’s killer, so perhaps you are right – he did not know he was in the process of being abandoned. If he had, he would not care about vengeance.’
‘Bresley did not believe Aylmer was sincere,’ said Gynewell, glancing to where the dean was inspecting the wooden cup with more than a casual interest. ‘And he argued against the appointment.’
‘Were there similar objections to me choosing Tetford?’ asked Michael uneasily.