‘Taverns are turbulent places,’ the dean was saying, while Cynric looked manifestly unconvinced by the physician’s explanation. ‘Surgeon Bunoun thinks Chapman might die.’
‘If that is so, then discussing sacred objects will be good for his soul,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘And he may even donate something to the cathedral. Then Suttone will not have to part with his silver, but can still bask in the credit of arranging a gift.’
‘That would defeat the purpose,’ said Suttone. He reconsidered as avarice got the better of him. ‘Although I imagine the cathedral will not mind who pays, as long as it receives something valuable.’
‘True,’ said the dean. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you, and point out that gifting a relic to St Hugh may effect a miraculous cure.’
‘Come with us, Bartholomew,’ ordered de Wetherset. ‘You can tell him he is in danger of death, which will make him listen to us more readily.’ He held up his hand when the physician demurred. ‘It is not dishonest. It is for the good of the cathedral, so the end justifies the means.’
‘If you go, Father Simon, you will be able to pay your respects to your brother,’ said Cynric with a guileless grin that made him look slightly deranged. Bartholomew closed his eyes.
Simon stared at the book-bearer. ‘What?’
‘Your brother,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Adam Miller. I see the family resemblance now.’
There was an uneasiness in Simon’s eyes that was apparent to even the least astute of observers. ‘Rubbish! I barely know anyone from the Commonalty, and they are certainly not kin.’
‘You know Chapman well enough to have bought the Hugh Chalice from him,’ said Bartholomew. He disliked being told brazen lies – it suggested Simon thought him gullible and stupid.
Simon was outraged. ‘I have already told you who sold it to me – someone who is no longer here.’
‘My colleague does not believe you, Simon,’ said Suttone, glancing at the physician. ‘But that is easily remedied. Swear on the Hugh Chalice that Chapman did not sell it to you. He will believe you then.’
‘You can swear that you and Miller are not kin at the same time,’ added Cynric opportunistically.
‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Simon. ‘I do not have to prove myself to anyone.’
‘You can do it without harm, Simon,’ said Bresley, although his tone was more unhappy than malicious. ‘It is not the real one, so you can safely prevaricate and not be struck down.’
‘It is real!’ shouted Simon angrily. ‘Chapman told me … ’ He faltered. ‘Damn!’
‘Damn, indeed,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Why did you lie?’
‘Because of Chapman’s reputation,’ said Simon wearily. ‘I knew the Hugh Chalice was real as soon as I saw it, but I also knew that no one else would think so, if word spread that it had come from him. So I invented a different relic-seller, to avoid such an outcome. I did what I thought was best.’
‘We shall discuss the ethics of this tonight, by the fire,’ said de Wetherset loftily, beginning to walk northward. ‘First, however, we should see Miller. Do not dally, Bartholomew; we need your services.’
He strode away before the physician could tell him that frightening patients with gloomy prognoses went against all the oaths he had sworn at his graduations, but Cynric pointed out that they had needed an excuse to visit Chapman anyway, and pulled him after the portly ex-Chancellor. Bartholomew was surprised when Simon came too. The priest shrugged when he saw the physician’s bemusement.
‘Now you know the truth, it does not matter whether Chapman tells you he sold me the Hugh Chalice or not. And I am a cleric – if he is dying, he may require my services. He and Miller live in the parish of Newport, you see, and its vicar is Flaxfleete’s cousin. He may decline to give Chapman absolution, although I have never had anything against the Commonalty.’
‘And we know why,’ said Cynric pointedly. ‘What about Lady Christiana the elder?’
Simon looked at him askance. ‘I have no idea what she thought of the Commonalty. What a bizarre thing to ask.’
‘You knew her, then,’ pressed Cynric. Bartholomew cringed at the bluntness of the interrogation.
‘Of course. Why do you want to know?’
‘Is the Swan tavern noted for brawls?’ blurted Bartholomew. Cynric glared at him.
‘It is a respectable place,’ said Simon, still regarding Cynric with a puzzled frown. ‘Miller and his friends went there last night, probably because they did not feel like sliding down the icy hill to the Angel, where they usually drink. Quarrel usually manages to keep everything in order, though.’
‘He failed last night,’ said Bartholomew.
Simon nodded. ‘So it would seem.’
CHAPTER 9
The suburb of Newport comprised a ribbon of houses that stretched along the main road north, two churches and a convent of Austin friars. Like much of Lincoln, Newport was poor, and Bartholomew supposed its inhabitants were mostly farmers and their servants and unemployed weavers. There was only one building of note, a handsome edifice surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. De Wetherset opened a gate, marched through the grounds, and tapped on the door.
‘Several of the Commonalty, including Chapman, live here with Miller,’ he explained. ‘And Lora Boyner’s brewery is near the stream over there. She claims the secret of her ale is that she uses water that has not yet flowed through the city.’
Bartholomew saw a neat, squat shed at the end of the garden. A horse was hitched to a cart, which was being loaded with barrels, and Lora was issuing orders to a pair of sweating apprentices. One keg was abandoned near the gate, and Lora and her people studiously looked the other way when a gaggle of women approached and began to roll it towards the nearest hovel. The weavers were proud, and Bartholomew was surprised the belligerent Lora should be sympathetic to their sensitivities.
‘Lord!’ said Suttone, gazing at Miller’s home in awe. ‘This is a mansion! Its owner must do very well at his trade – whatever it is. Is he a miller? There is a wheat-sheaf carved on his lintel.’
‘I do not think so,’ said the dean. He frowned. ‘Actually, I am not sure what he does.’
De Wetherset was better informed. ‘He is in the export-import business, although that cannot be easy with the Fossedike silting up. It means he sells things to people. In fact, if you express a desire to purchase anything, Miller is the man to get it for you. He has some very good contacts.’
‘Father Simon?’ asked Cynric innocently. ‘Can you be more specific about Adam Molendinarius’s work?’
Simon scowled. ‘I know nothing about his dealings. Why would I?’
The door was answered before Cynric could reply. A manservant conducted them to a solar, but insisted on remaining with them while a maid went to fetch Miller. It was an odd way to treat guests, but when Bartholomew looked behind him and realised Cynric had disappeared, he supposed Miller was right to be wary of men he did not know. He sincerely hoped the book-bearer would be careful, and refused to dwell on what might happen – to them both – if Cynric were caught snooping.
Within a few moments, Miller and Langar arrived. Both looked tired and pale, and Miller was oddly subdued. His voice was husky when he spoke, as though he had been shouting. Bartholomew looked at the daggers they carried in their belts and tried to ascertain whether they were the ones drawn against him and Michael the night before. There were no obvious signs that they had been used in a fracas, but he suspected that even if there were, Miller and Langar would claim they had resulted from the skirmish in the Swan tavern.
‘Surgeon Bunoun says Chapman will die,’ said Miller, when Suttone had explained why they had come. ‘So he cannot show you his relics.’
‘Does he need a priest?’ asked Simon.
Miller smiled at him, revealing his four teeth. ‘Not yet, although it is good of you to come.’
‘Then perhaps I can help,’ said Bartholomew, when de Wetherset shoved him forward with such force that he staggered. He had been watching the dean inspect a tray on which stood four gold goblets and a matching jug. ‘I have some experience with wounds.’