‘I do not think Spayne is responsible, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I grabbed his arm today, and there is no evidence of a bruise.’
‘However, he admitted he was abroad last night, and refused to say where,’ said Cynric, giving Michael a meaningful look. He and the monk were united as far as Spayne was concerned.
‘He did say: he was at business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was returning home when he saw the chaos surrounding Chapman’s stabbing.’
‘Outside the Angel, he said,’ elaborated Cynric, still looking at Michael. ‘However, Chapman was wounded outside the Swan. Spayne lied.’
Simon was dismissive. ‘There will be a rational explanation. Spayne said the Angel, but meant the Swan. The Angel is where the Commonalty usually drink, so it is an understandable slip.’
‘Perhaps Spayne was not the swordsman you wounded, Matt,’ said Michael, not sure what to believe, ‘but he might have been one of the three others.’
‘He would have been a far more formidable opponent than any of them.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Simon, ‘although that is not to say I think he is guilty. Spayne is not like you – the sons of wealthy landowners. He was an oblate at an abbey from the age of five. While you two were playing with wooden swords and learning how to ride, he was singing psalms. He later declined to take holy orders, and opted for a career in wool instead.’
‘That explains his interest in Blood Relics,’ said Bartholomew.
‘The point I am making is that Spayne is unfamiliar with any kind of weapon,’ said Simon. ‘Lord, it is cold out here! The sooner I am home by the fire, the better. Do not stay out too late, not with a blizzard coming.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘So, Spayne is in the clear. It was not he who attacked us, as I have been saying all along. He does not know how.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael. ‘Simon’s testimony suggests to me that Spayne might well have staged a feeble attack, then fled in terror when he realised he was out of his depth. But we will not agree, so we shall waste no more time debating. Let us go to this tavern, and see what the minster priests can tell us about Aylmer and Tetford.’
John was waiting to let the scholars in through the Close gate, stamping his feet to stay warm. Ravenser’s tavern was larger than Bartholomew had expected, even bigger than the Swan. Lights burned within, visible under badly fitting window shutters, and there was loud, thumping music that included a flute and drum. Shouts and cheers accompanied the instruments, and it was a lot more rowdy than anything he had seen in the city. John excused himself before they entered.
‘You will not join us for a drink, cousin?’ asked Suttone. ‘It will give us a chance to talk.’
John’s tone was cool. ‘A canon-elect can have nothing to say to a Poor Clerk with no prospects.’
‘Talk to me instead, then,’ suggested Michael. ‘You can tell me about Aylmer and Tetford.’
John’s expression was prim. ‘Willingly, Brother, but not in there. I take no strong drink, and I am scrupulously celibate. Good night – and if you want me, I shall be praying at the High Altar.’
‘Sanctimonious prig,’ muttered Suttone, watching him strut towards the cathedral. ‘He always was that way, which has never endeared him to me. I prefer his younger brother, Hugh.’
‘What do you think of Father Simon?’ Bartholomew asked of de Wetherset, as they scraped mud, ice and ordure from their feet outside the alehouse door.
De Wetherset shrugged. ‘He never misses an office, so will make a good canon. Can we discuss this inside? It is freezing out here. Ah, here is a charming young maid to take our cloaks. How kind. A warm welcome makes such a difference. And I cannot smell wet dog, either. Thank you, child.’
‘That is all right, Father,’ said the woman with a sultry smile. ‘Welcome to Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, which is the new name for the Tavern in the Close. I am Belle. What can I do for you?’
‘I would like some ale, Belle,’ said de Wetherset, rubbing his hands as he looked around him. ‘Spiced, if you please, although not to the extent that you might flavour it for Bishop Gynewell.’
‘The bishop will never come here,’ said Belle ruefully. ‘However, Ravenser said we must do anything he asks, if he ever does put in an appearance, even if it involves his pitchfork. Gynewell wants this alehouse closed, you see, and us ladies thrown on the streets with nowhere to go.’
‘Do not worry,’ said de Wetherset kindly. ‘There is always a demand for the labour of virtuous maidens.’
She shot him a bemused glance, then led them to a table near one of the room’s two fires. The wood was well worn, and full of the kind of dents that said a good deal of jug-bashing had taken place on it. They sat and Belle fetched ale. She tripped as she approached, slopping some on Cynric’s sleeve, and when she placed the other goblets on the table, she did so clumsily enough to spill more.
‘Perhaps she would be unemployed if Gynewell suppresses this place,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘I do not like to be rude, but she is not very good at serving drinks.’
‘I suspect her talents lie in other areas,’ said Michael. He ordered food, and when the rabbit pie arrived, she slapped it down in a way that splattered Suttone’s habit with gravy. He tutted in annoyance, but did not make the kind of fuss he would have done had an ugly boy been the culprit. When she wiped his lap with a cloth, taking rather longer than necessary, he forgave her completely.
‘She is very obliging,’ said de Wetherset to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is why she is so popular. Lots of Vicars Choral are calling to her, trying to attract her attention.’
‘Good evening, sirs,’ said another woman. The front of her dress was indecently low, and it became more so as she leaned across the table to refill their cups. Bartholomew saw de Wetherset’s jaw drop. She ran her eyes across the gathering like a butcher looking for prime cuts, and her insolent gaze fell on Michael. ‘Oh, my! You are a large man. Tetford was right.’
‘Rosanna?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The seamstress who adjusted Michael’s ceremonial alb?’
‘The very same,’ she crooned, her eyes fixed on the monk. ‘Now I see why Tetford insisted it should be so massive. Yours is an impressive figure, Brother.’
Michael preened himself. ‘Some of my colleagues say I am fat.’
‘Then they do not know what they are talking about. However, I imagine you have some very big bones.’
Bartholomew laughed, although Michael did not see anything amusing in the comment. ‘Tetford fought Ravenser over a misunderstanding involving you,’ said the monk.
She grinned mischievously. ‘A mistake was made in booking arrangements. Tetford was nasty about it, and I am pleased we now work for Ravenser. He will be a far nicer master.’
‘You did not like Tetford, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He was miserly and spiteful. Ravenser may seem wild, but he has a good heart. I think the tavern will do very well under him. For a few ghastly hours, we thought it might go to John Suttone.’
‘John?’ asked Suttone in surprise. ‘He is not the kind of man who would run a … ’ He waved his hand, not sure what to call it.
‘He is good at administration, and the canons asked if he would consider taking on the responsibility. He would have bowed to the bishop’s demands for moderation, though, and that would have been tedious. Now, whose company would you like? There is Belle from Wigford, and Jane and Agnes from Newport. And, since there are four of you, I shall make sure I am to hand, too.’
‘To hand for what?’ asked de Wetherset, bewildered. ‘We have come for a drink.’
‘Of course you have, Father. Now, you sit quietly and I will send Belle over. I think you have already taken a liking to her, and she certainly has to you. Look! She is waving.’
‘I do not want the company of women,’ objected de Wetherset, puzzled. ‘I encountered a new argument pertaining to Blood Relics today, and I intend to practise it on my colleagues here. A lady would be bored with such an erudite discourse, and her restless shuffling might distract them.’