He soon learned the task was a hopeless one, but persisted anyway. While he scoured the rolls with a growing sense that he was wasting his time, he overheard a group of canons discuss the growing bitterness of the town’s poor. The weavers were beginning to mutter more loudly against the selfishness of the Guild, and the canons were terrified that Miller’s Market might end in a riot. If that happened, then the minster and its clerics might become targets, too, because of their friendly relations with the Guild.
Bartholomew left with the sense that Michael could not have chosen a worse time to be installed, and was uneasy enough that he went to the town butts to practise his shooting. He had the awful feeling that his fighting skills might be needed, although he was relieved the monk was elsewhere, and not in a position to comment on his new-found preoccupation with martial pursuits. He was not surprised to see Hugh and his fellow choristers there – or to note that their aim was considerably better than many of the adults – but he had not imagined archery was something to be enjoyed by cathedral officials. There were so many clergy jostling for a turn that the townsfolk found it hard to break through them, and there was a good deal of bad feeling. And when Miller and his cronies arrived, it was only a matter of time before someone was shot.
The victim was a guildsman, and Bartholomew recognised him as the fellow who had been sent to fetch the sheriff when Flaxfleete had died – there were not many men in the city who sported large orange beards. His name was Dalderby, and he howled pitifully, despite the fact that it was only a flesh wound. His friends formed a protective cordon around him, and Bartholomew saw they carried some very expensive and sophisticated weapons. So did their allies from the cathedral.
They were solidly outnumbered by the mass of poor folk, headed by members of the Commonalty, but the balance was redressed by the fact that few of them were armed. They had shared bows when they had practised their shooting, and there were not half a dozen weapons among the entire mob. Bartholomew supposed, from their hungry, sullen expressions, that they were the same unemployed weavers who gathered in the streets to ask for work each day. He eased to the back of the crowd when it looked as though a harmless Sunday pursuit was about to turn dangerous.
‘You must make your peace with God, Dalderby,’ announced a surgeon, after a cursory glance at the wound. He was a nondescript fellow with long, greasy hair, who had been standing with Miller when the ‘accident’ had occurred. Bartholomew assumed he was a member of the Commonalty.
‘Does he have time for such a lengthy process, Master Bunoun?’ asked Langar. An expression of deep concern was etched into his face, so no one could castigate him for being facetious. ‘His crimes are very great, and it would be terrible for him to meet his Maker only part shriven.’
‘I could prolong his life with an elixir,’ declared Bunoun importantly. ‘And, if he pays me in gold, I may be able to work a miracle. What do you say, Master Miller? Should I attempt to save him?’
Everyone waited in silence as Miller pondered the question, spitting from time to time. Bartholomew itched to inform Dalderby that the wound was not mortal – that it only needed to be bound with a healing poultice for a complete recovery – but he knew better than to interfere.
‘For the love of God, man!’ cried Kelby, when Miller’s inner deliberations extended longer than was kind. ‘Do you want another death on your conscience? Let Bunoun do his work.’
‘I did not kill Flaxfleete,’ said Miller, eyes glittering. He hawked again, aiming perilously near to Kelby’s feet. ‘But you dispatched Aylmer and Herl, so that puts me two murders behind you.’
‘I did not touch either of them!’ shouted Kelby. ‘I would not sully my hands.’
There was an ill-humoured murmur from the crowd, and fingers clenched into fists. Bartholomew was certain Dalderby’s would not be the only blood shed that day.
‘Please, Miller!’ begged the stricken merchant, ashen with fear and pain. ‘I promise never to mention that business with Thoresby again. He did threaten to behead me, and we all know it, but I will agree to forget about it, if you let Bunoun give me his cure.’
‘What do you say, Thoresby?’ asked Miller of a puny, rat-faced fellow who stood grinning his delight at the situation. Bartholomew had seen him shoot the offending arrow, although – fortunately for the chances of a peaceful conclusion – no guildsman had. ‘Shall we be merciful?’
‘No,’ said Thoresby. ‘Let him die. His accusations saw me in court, and I did not like it.’
Miller regarded the injured man dispassionately, then turned to Langar, listening as the lawyer murmured in his ear. There was absolute silence, as everyone strained, without success, to hear what was being said. Eventually, Langar spoke.
‘Cure him, Master Bunoun. The Commonalty is not a vengeful organisation, and we do not engage in spiteful retaliation. We leave that to the Guild of Corpus Christi.’
Bartholomew watched a massive amount of money change hands – more than he had charged even his wealthiest patients for the longest and most intricate of treatments – and then left the butts before more trouble erupted. He met Michael exchanging forced pleasantries with Spayne near the fish market, and was appalled when the monk started to question the mayor closely about the current state of his finances. The physician brought the discussion to an abrupt end, declining Spayne’s offer of refreshment with the excuse that he wanted to read a scroll he had borrowed from the library.
‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Michael, resenting the unceremonious manner in which he had been dragged away. ‘Spayne was given some of the money the King sent for draining the Fossedike, and I want to know what he has done with it. He has certainly not spent it on the canal; in some places, it is so shallow you can walk across without getting your feet wet. That sort of information would persuade him to part with what he knows of Matilde.’
‘I do not want you to resort to blackmail,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not right, and it could be dangerous. I have just seen a guildsman shot by one of the Commonalty. Tensions are running high, and it is stupid to risk being caught in the middle.’
‘It might be your only chance,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is not unethical – I am merely using the wits God gave me to extract information that a decent man would have parted with willingly. Time is short, Matt; we do not have the luxury of tiptoeing around the man.’
‘If you were not going to be installed next Sunday, I would recommend we leave Lincoln tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I have never felt so vulnerable or so alone, not even at Poitiers. At least I could recognise the enemy there.’
‘I recognise them here,’ said Michael grimly. ‘The problem is that there are so many of them.’
Being installed as a canon was not just a case of donning new robes and reciting oaths of obedience during a grand ceremony. There were administrative matters that needed to be resolved, too, and Michael found himself trapped at a desk in the scriptorium under a growing mound of parchment. Bartholomew helped him, afraid that if it was not completed, it would delay their departure the following Monday. They worked until the light began to fade, and left when Michael confided that he did not want to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory after dark.