‘Can we be sure Hugh delivered it to the right house?’ asked Michael, troubled.
By the time Bunoun declared himself ready to apply his salve, the priest was sinking towards death. Unwilling to see Simon subjected to painful treatment that would make no difference to the outcome, Bartholomew told the surgeon his chances of success were slim and suggested he abstain from spoiling his good record. Bunoun was experienced enough to know he spoke the truth, and packed up his equipment before going outside to declare that he had been summoned too late to effect one of his miraculous cures. Since there was no more to be done at Holy Cross, Bartholomew and Michael left Simon in the care of the parishioners he had served so long, and returned to the Gilbertine Priory.
‘I think he was telling the truth about the Hugh Chalice – at least, the truth as he knows it,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked. ‘It is obvious to us that Aylmer sold it to Geddynge, and Shirlok was asked to get it back again, but Simon harboured no such suspicions. He founded his fraternity to hunt it down and bring it to where he thinks it belongs.’
Michael nodded. ‘I am sure you are right.’
‘Aylmer was too cautious to sell it as the Hugh Chalice, but was quite happy to collect twenty shillings for a silver cup. He may have had redeeming thoughts towards the end of his life, but he was a despicable man.’
Michael sighed. ‘Simon confided a few other things while you were consulting with Bunoun. I asked why folk had joined his group, and it sounded as if he had applied a good deal of moral pressure. I suspect that is why they fell away so readily – their allegiance was not willingly given. Still, at least we know what the mark means. I assumed it was sinister, but it was not. He also denied impregnating Christiana’s mother, but admitted to setting his house alight – for the Hugh Chalice.’
‘How did he think that would help?’
‘As we suspected, Gynewell had intimated he might be in line for the Stall of Sanctae Crucis, so he burned down his home to draw attention to himself. It worked: he was offered the post in a matter of days. It meant full-time duties in the cathedral where the cup was to be displayed, and would have allowed him to guard it.’
‘Where is the chalice now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Simon’s, I mean, not the others.’
Michael removed something from under his cloak, and Bartholomew saw the familiar, dented vessel with its worn carving. ‘He asked me to make sure it is presented to the cathedral on Sunday.’
‘It looks just like the others,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘And I thought he was uncertain about it.’
‘He claims it is the real one, because St Hugh would not let him die without seeing it after his years of devotion. So, I shall put it in St Katherine’s Chapel with the others, and de Wetherset can decide.’
Prior Roger was full of questions when Michael presented a sixth cup for his growing collection, and it was some time before he allowed the monk to go. Wearily, Michael returned to the guest-hall, where he found Bartholomew already asleep. The monk had often envied his friend’s ability to doze through all manner of commotion, and in this case, the chamber in which he rested contained de Wetherset and Suttone, who had lit several candles and were making no effort to lower their voices. Cynric was honing his sword on a whetting stone, and Whatton and a few friends had just started to bellow psalms in the building next door.
‘He refused to tell us anything,’ said de Wetherset, indicating Bartholomew with an angry flick of his thumb. ‘He said he was tired, and that we would have to wait until tomorrow. Then Whatton came to tell us Simon is dead, and invited us to sing songs for his soul. Is it true?’
Michael nodded. ‘And I do not want to talk tonight, either. However, here comes Hamo. As he was outside his prior’s door when I gave my account of what happened, you can ask him about it.’
Suttone regarded Hamo in surprise. ‘I thought you would have abandoned eavesdropping, considering you had an accident the last time you did it. How is your arm, by the way?’
‘You hurt yourself listening to private conversations?’ asked Michael disapprovingly.
‘It happened the other night, when you and Matthew were assaulted,’ elaborated Suttone. He gave a rather malicious smile. ‘Hamo was so determined to hear what Prior Roger was saying to Whatton in the Lady Chapel that he tried to climb the ivy on the wall outside – I could see him through the window. And all the time, you were in the orchard, fighting for your life.’
‘Our Lady Chapel is a difficult challenge for eaves-droppers,’ said Hamo, making it sound as though the fault lay in the building, rather than the activity. ‘And the only way to monitor discussions is to go outside and scale the wall. I heard the clash of arms as you fought off your attackers, and I was so frightened that I fell and stunned myself. By the time I had recovered, Cynric was saying that you had escaped and Tetford was dead.’
‘Why were you trying to listen to your prior?’ asked Michael curiously.
‘He wanted to know whether Whatton was going to be promoted to Brother Cellerer,’ supplied Suttone helpfully. He assumed a pious expression. ‘Nosy men will die when the plague comes again.’
Michael smiled, noting that the timing of the incident eliminated Hamo, Roger and Whatton as candidates for the ambush. He wished Suttone had mentioned it sooner. ‘Would you mind extinguishing the lamps and going downstairs to talk? Matt will snore through the trumpets of Judgement Day, but I require silence and darkness for my slumber. Good night, gentlemen.’
He lay on his bed and hauled a blanket over his face. He did not think he would sleep, because his mind teemed with questions, but he did not want to spend the night chatting to de Wetherset and Suttone, either. He needed time alone, to consider what he had learned and try to instil some order into it. Therefore, he was surprised when he opened his eyes to find the room full of daylight.
‘Roger ordered the bells silenced this morning,’ explained de Wetherset, watching him look around in confusion. ‘You seemed so exhausted last night, that I thought you might appreciate longer in bed.’
‘It was our suggestion,’ said Suttone shyly. ‘Roger was set to produce some really loud music today, as he now has six Hugh Chalices lined up on his altar, but we persuaded him that your repose was important to solving the mysteries that have beset his city. Grudgingly, he agreed.’
Michael sat up and scrubbed his face. Bartholomew was shaving in some hot water Cynric had brought, and had changed his clothes. By comparison, Michael felt soiled and grubby. He swung his large legs over the side of the bed.
‘I have a lot to do today,’ he said ungraciously. ‘You should not have let me waste time.’
‘Your wits will be sharper with the additional rest,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I am trying to help you, Brother. If I am an instrument of the saints, then I should put my talents to good use.’
Michael glanced sharply at him, but could see no trace of humour in the ex-Chancellor’s face. His ploy to prevent de Wetherset from harming Bartholomew at some point in the future had worked better than he had anticipated.
‘Roger invited Gynewell to come and hear your account of Simon’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘I heard him arrive a few moments ago.’
‘He heard cloven hoofs rattle across the cobbles,’ murmured Cynric. He was in a foul mood, furious that he had not been there when Michael and Bartholomew had been attacked a second time.
Michael stood, stretched and performed his morning ablutions. Then he donned a fresh habit and asked Cynric to air the one he had been wearing, so it would be clean for the Sunday celebrations – if he lived that long. In an attempt to alleviate the guilt he felt for not protecting his scholars, Cynric went to the kitchens and forced the cook to prepare the best breakfast the convent could provide, fingering his dagger meaningfully as he recited a wholly unreasonable list of demands. The meal took three men to carry, and won Michael’s instant approval.