‘The last time I saw someone drink wine provided by Kelby, it was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Poor Flaxfleete,’ said Ravenser insincerely. ‘Come at five o’clock tonight. You will have to knock, since the Close is locked at dusk, but John will wait for you, and let you in.’
‘I will take you up on your offer,’ said Cynric keenly. ‘I like good ale as much as the next man.’
Bartholomew did not reply, but he was tempted to go, just to see what happened when the prudish Welshman learned he had agreed to spend an evening in a brothel.
The market area called the Pultria was always busy on Mondays, and the steep street was a stark contrast to its silence of the previous day. It was full of people, despite the snow that was now falling in earnest, and traders used bells, rattles and voices to attract customers to buy their wares. Bakers’ boys with trays of pastries weaved among the crowds, although the fragrant scent of their goods was lost among the more powerful reek of chickens and geese. Women from the outlying villages sat in huddled heaps on the ground with winter-brown vegetables displayed in front of them, and carts vied for space with the animals that were being taken to the slaughterhouses.
Most of the people who thronged the stalls were poor. Some knew the traders, and addressed them by name, pleading for credit, but others were labourers from the farms and estates outside the city, or vagrants attracted by the prospect of Miller’s Market. Many of the locals had a pinched, dull look about them, and Bartholomew heard one trying to sell a blacksmith his oldest child.
Cynric liked markets, even ones that sold chiefly birds and eggs, and the physician trailed after him for want of anything better to do. He heard people talking enthusiastically about Miller’s fair, and rather less keenly about the installation. A few folk claimed they would absent themselves from the fair because it would take place on a Sabbath, and Bartholomew supposed they were guildsmen – or in the employ of them – taking a stand against the Commonalty. One person particularly vocal in denouncing Miller’s event was Kelby. He was with his friend Dalderby, who wore a massive bandage around his upper arm: Surgeon Bunoun was obviously of the belief that a patient liked something to show for his sufferings, and that the size of the dressing was directly proportional to the sophistication – and expense – of the treatment.
‘Sunday trading is a sin,’ announced Kelby. ‘And anyone who attends Miller’s Market will be damned in the eyes of God.’
Bartholomew watched uneasily as Ursula de Spayne overheard and stalked towards him. Around them, the clatter of voices stopped as people waited to see what would happen.
‘You can go to Hell for hypocrisy, too,’ she declared. ‘You were trading last Sunday yourself. I saw you. You sold Dalderby three ells of cloth at the butts.’
‘That was an arrangement between friends,’ said Dalderby. ‘It was not trading.’
‘You can go to Hell for lying, too,’ retorted Ursula. Her brother suddenly became aware that she was the centre of attention, and hurried to her side.
‘And you will burn for murder, madam,’ retorted Kelby, pointing a finger that shook with rage. ‘You had one death on your conscience with your careless use of cures, and now you have another. Poor Flaxfleete, murdered with poisoned wine.’
‘Please, Kelby,’ said Spayne quietly. ‘This is no place for such a debate. Come to a tavern with us. I will buy ale, and we can discuss this like civilised–’
‘So she can poison me, too?’ demanded Kelby. ‘No, thank you!’
‘I have poisoned no one,’ snarled Ursula. ‘However, I heard Flaxfleete’s death served a very useful purpose. It balanced out Aylmer and Nicholas Herl – both members of the Commonality.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Kelby furiously. ‘That I murdered Flaxfleete, to disguise the fact that I also killed Herl and Aylmer? You have taken too many of your own potions, woman, because you are mad if you think I would harm a much-loved friend.’
‘God will know,’ said Ursula smugly. ‘And He will punish accordingly.’
‘Come, sister,’ said Spayne. His face was taut with suppressed anger, although whether with Ursula or his rivals was impossible to say. He grabbed her arm and pulled; he was a strong man, and she could not resist him for long – at least, not without an undignified scuffle. She was livid as he hauled her away.
Meanwhile, Kelby spluttered with impotent fury. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully, thinking he had guessed what Ursula’s barbed comments had meant very quickly. Bartholomew himself had not understood her oblique insinuation immediately, and he wondered whether there was a good reason why Kelby had. He glanced at Dalderby, and saw him regarding his colleague with a troubled expression, as though the physician was not the only one asking the question.
Bartholomew left the Pultria, and went to the nearby Church of St Cuthbert, where he spent an hour standing at the back of the nave, mulling over what he had learned. He realised he had nothing solid to tell Michael, only more supposition and theories. He shivered in the damp chill, and emerged to find snow falling thickly. It coated the streets in a fluffy white carpet, which was soon churned to slushy black ruts by carts, hoofs and feet. Cynric had finished exploring the market, and was waiting for him, so they walked down the hill together. Spayne emerged from his house as they passed. His expression was grim, and Bartholomew supposed he had ordered his argumentative sibling to stay indoors. If so, it was good advice: the air of menace that had seethed when her accusations were levelled was tangible, and he sensed a violent encounter between Guild and Commonalty was looming fast.
Bartholomew smiled as Spayne greeted him. For good measure, he reached out and gripped the man’s arm, to assess whether there was a bruise that might make him wince, but Spayne returned the gesture with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Bartholomew was not surprised: he had never shared Michael’s conviction that Spayne would have attacked him.
‘This snow,’ said Spayne unhappily, glancing up to where the flakes were large grey puffs against the brightness of the sky. ‘It is doing my roof no good at all. If I did not know better, I would say Kelby had asked the bishop to conjure up some foul weather.’
‘But you do know better,’ said Bartholomew. Spayne started to walk down the hill, and the physician fell into step with him, Cynric at his side. ‘Gynewell remains aloof from this feud.’
‘Actually, I meant that Gynewell would never petition the Devil for snow, because he hates the cold. If sweltering heat was afflicting us, I would have no doubt that he had been using his powers.’
‘What powers?’ asked Cynric immediately.
‘I had an unpleasant experience last night,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Spayne might be about to fuel the flames of Cynric’s superstition. ‘Felons attacked Michael and me in the Gilbertines’ orchard.’
‘The orchard?’ asked Spayne, startled. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Trying to reach the guest-hall,’ supplied Cynric, his tone verging on the accusatory. ‘The porter had been drugged, obviously to make sure they were obliged to go round the back, where someone was waiting to dispatch them.’
Bartholomew watched Spayne intently, but the man revealed nothing other than shock that such an incident should have occurred in the first place.
‘It is not the first time decent folk have suffered the depredations of villains recently,’ said Spayne worriedly. ‘Miller’s Market has encouraged some very rough men to visit our town. Last night, an alehouse quarrel ended in violence, and Chapman was badly injured.’
‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Injured where?’
Spayne regarded him oddly. ‘Outside the Angel.’ He pointed to a sign depicting a debauched-looking cherub, which seemed to be the only thing in the city not coated with snow.
‘I mean where on his body?’
Spayne gave a grin that smacked of relief. ‘Of course, you have a professional interest in these matters. He was stabbed in the arm.’