‘ It was rough – and so is he when he wields them,’ explained Michael to Christiana, in a voice that came very close to a whimper. ‘And I had suffered enough.’
‘There is a balm in the hospital,’ said Christiana kindly. ‘I have used it on nettle rashes myself. Come with me, dear Brother, and we shall soon have you feeling better. Dame Eleanor will be there, so do not worry about propriety.’
‘I shall not,’ promised Michael.
‘What is in this poultice?’ asked Bartholomew, starting to follow.
‘Dock leaves,’ replied Christiana, with a wry grin. ‘But a gently applied paste is far more soothing than being rubbed with foliage. I will show you, if you like.’
‘You need not come, Matt,’ said Michael airily. ‘I shall be perfectly happy with Lady Christiana.’
‘I am sure you will,’ murmured Bartholomew, watching them walk away together.
With Michael ensconced with Christiana, and the hospital doors firmly closed against any would-be intruders – even Cynric could not hear what was going on inside, and he was a far more experienced eavesdropper than Bartholomew would ever be – the physician found himself at a loose end. He did not want to visit Spayne again, despite the open invitation, since he suspected he would never have what he really wanted from the man. It was not his duty to investigate the death of Aylmer, and he had no idea how to move forward on it anyway. And the other murders were none of his affair – he did not think anyone would thank him for meddling, and, given the events in the garden the previous night, he was inclined to stay away from the whole business. He was restless, even so, feeling as if he should be doing something, and his sense of unease was exacerbated by the growing agitation among Lincoln’s citizenry. The talk in the convent, by the tradesmen who came to deliver victuals, and by the people who passed the gate outside, was full of the brewing crisis between Guild and Commonalty.
‘I thought we would be riding to Matilde by now, having new clues as to her whereabouts,’ said Cynric, standing next to him at the guest-hall’s window and staring across the yard. ‘I shall enjoy watching Brother Michael canonised, but it is not what I was expecting to be doing next Sunday.’
‘Not canonised, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. He shivered. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the sky at a vigorous lick, and the wind roared through the trees. It was going to snow again, and there would be a blizzard. ‘He is not a saint yet. And he never will be, if he allows himself to be seduced by Lady Christiana.’
‘She is not seducing him!’ exclaimed Cynric, shocked. ‘What a thing to say! He is a monk and she is a widow. They would never engage in lewd behaviour.’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the Welshman was apt to be prim. ‘I wonder if Spayne would be more forthcoming if he knew my real reason for trying to find Matilde.’
‘I imagine that would make him even less helpful. Brother Michael thinks he might have guessed anyway, which is why he is being stubborn – if he cannot have her, then neither will you. I could visit his house and have a poke around if you like. He might have written down her whereabouts, lest he forgot.’
‘I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing one commits to parchment. Besides, it is not a good idea to burgle the houses of wealthy merchants, Cynric. People are hanged for that sort of thing.’
‘Like Shirlok was, twenty years ago in Cambridge,’ said Cynric, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I heard Miller talking about it in the Angel tavern yesterday. I told you I was going to listen to a few–’
‘You eavesdropped on Miller?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘That was rash! The man is dangerous.’
‘You took me to Poitiers,’ said Cynric wryly. ‘Is Miller more dangerous than that?’
‘He was talking about Shirlok, you say?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to admit that the book-bearer had a point. He supposed Langar recognising him in the cathedral had prompted a discussion of the old case, which made him uncomfortable, since it meant they had been bothered by it. Perhaps Michael was right, and the Commonalty had decided to prevent the matter from being raised again, so had tried to dispatch the man who might do it.
Cynric nodded. ‘They were recalling how fast they had left Cambridge after the trial. Lora Boyner was bemoaning the abandonment of expensive brewing equipment, and Miller kept telling his cronies – Langar, Chapman, Surgeon Bunoun and others – how he hates being reminded of the whole affair.’
Bartholomew frowned, puzzled. ‘They were acquitted, so there was no need for them to go. Do you remember what I told you about Shirlok? That he was still alive after his hanging?’
‘Of course. It is a splendid tale, and I often tell it at Christmas. It scares the wife, see. But you are not the only one who knows he still lives. So do the Commonalty. Or some of them, at least.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because of what I heard in the Angel. They were mulling over the whole affair, from the moment they learned that Shirlok intended to betray them, to their arrival in Lincoln a few weeks later.’
‘Did any of them see Shirlok after his execution?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the man would have been a fool to make himself known to them – but that did not mean he had not done it.
‘Langar has a lawyer friend who claimed to have seen Shirlok racing along the north road after his hanging, so Langar knows the man was not properly dispatched. He was telling the others – who do not believe this tale – that Shirlok might come to Lincoln one day and make a nuisance of himself.’
‘Not if he has any sense. They will kill him.’
‘Sabina agreed with Langar, although it pained her to take his side.’
‘Sabina? She told us she was trying to distance herself from her old associates. Why would she be with them in a tavern?’
‘From her sullen manner, I suspect she was ordered to join them. After Sabina had been dismissed, Langar told his cronies that she might invite Shirlok to Lincoln. She has turned against her old friends, he says, and he believes she might use Shirlok to damage them. He really hates her.’
‘She is not very keen on him, either,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how both had leapt at the opportunity to defame the other. ‘Of course, Shirlok’s resurrection was twenty years ago, and a lot can happen in that time. He might have died of natural causes – or the plague.’
‘But he might not. He might be in Lincoln, avenging himself. First Nicholas Herl, then Aylmer.’
‘Why? All they did was deny his accusations. It was the court that sentenced him to hang. And, even if Shirlok does believe Miller is responsible for his “death”, he will not have waited two decades to make his feelings known. Also, it seems to me that Miller and company are the ones with the grudge: they were the ones who were named as accomplices.’
‘Langar thinks Shirlok will come to Lincoln because of the Hugh Chalice,’ said Cynric, dismissing the physician’s reasoning with a wave of his hand. ‘He thinks Sabina procured it to entice him here.’
‘I doubt it. If anyone made the chalice reappear, it is Chapman. However, I suppose we should not overlook the fact that Sabina’s lover Aylmer was holding it when he died.’
‘Or that Aylmer was accused of stealing it from Flaxfleete a month ago. I do not want to stay indoors all day. Shall we see if we can find out a bit more about this Hugh Chalice? It is obviously relevant to Aylmer’s murder, and anything we learn might help Brother Michael.’
Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of a morning inside either, even though it was starting to snow, and supposed he might as well put his time to good use. He reached for his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. ‘Where do you suggest we start?’
‘With a visit to Miller’s house,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘He asked Brother Michael to keep him informed about the investigation. We shall go and tell him a few lies – and pry at the same time.’
Bartholomew removed the cloak and sat down. ‘That would be wildly dangerous. Besides, Miller asked Michael to tell him about the enquiry, not us, and he is not interested in details, anyway. All he wants is the identity of the culprit, so he can kill him. He made no secret of his objective.’