The Tarnished Chalice

Book 12: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Medieval; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

For the twentieth anniversary of the start of the Matthew Bartholomew series, Sphere is delighted to reissue all of the medieval monk's cases with beautiful new series-style covers. ------------------------------------ The winter of 1353 has been appallingly wet, there is a fever outbreak amongst the poorer townspeople and the country is not yet fully recovered from the aftermath of the plague. The increasing reputation and wealth of the Cambridge colleges are causing dangerous tensions between the town, Church and University. Matthew Bartholomew is called to look into the deaths of three members of the University of who died from drinking poisoned wine, and soon he stumbles upon criminal activities that implicate his relatives, friends and colleagues - so he must solve the case before matters in the town get out of hand... On a bitter winter evening in 1356, Matthew Bartholomew, Brother Michael and their book-bearer Cynric arrive in Lincoln. Michael is to accept an honour from the cathedral, and Bartholomew is looking for the woman he wants to marry. It is not long before they learn that the friary in which they are staying is not the safe haven they imagine - one guest has already been murdered. It soon emerges that the dead man was holding the Hugh Chalice, a Lincoln relic with a curiously bloody history. Bartholomew and Michael are soon drawn into a web of murder, lies and suspicion in a city where neither knows who can be trusted.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 510

Sample

Cambridge Castle, March 1335

The court was full when the sheriff brought the accused from his cell. John Shirlok glanced at the jurors who would try him – twelve local men who shuffled and sighed their resentment at being forced to spend their precious time listening to unsavoury tales of robbery, burglary and murder. They were supposed to be respectable, up-standing citizens of good character, although Shirlok knew that simply meant they were men who had been unable to think of a good excuse to absent themselves. All were wealthy – they wore fur-lined cloaks and thick boots against the bite of late winter – and none would be sympathetic to the crimes Shirlok was accused of committing, but he was not unduly worried. There was no question of his guilt – he had been caught red-handed with stolen property, and that alone was enough to earn him an appointment with the hangman. But he had a plan. No thief worked alone, and Shirlok intended to walk free from the castle that day.

‘I bring John Shirlok before you,’ intoned the sheriff, quelling the babble of conversation that had erupted while the felon was being fetched from the gaol. ‘He stands accused of stealing white pearls, valued at a hundred shillings—’

‘Shirlok?’ interrupted Justice Sir John de Cantebrig. He was presiding over the court, making sure the trial and its subsequent conviction – he did not think acquittal was very likely in Shirlok’s case – followed proper protocols. ‘That name is familiar.’

It was his clerk, a clever lawyer called William Langar, who answered. Langar was tall, thin and had spiky ginger hair; his duties were to advise Sir John on the finer points of the law and to make an accurate record of the proceedings.

‘Shirlok was due to appear before you two months ago, Sir John,’ Langar said. ‘But he exercised his right to challenge the jury we assembled. He objected to eleven of them—’

‘That was because they were kinsmen of—’ began Shirlok indignantly.

‘Silence!’ snapped Langar. He turned back to the Justice. ‘He will make a fuss about any jury if we let him, just to delay his hanging, so I suggest we proceed as planned today. We cannot house thieves in our gaol indefinitely, and he has been enjoying our hospitality for three months already.’

Sir John nodded. He knew all about the devious ploys felons used in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. He glanced at Shirlok, taking in the sly, foxy expression on the man’s face, and the way his eyes were never still. He did not think he had ever seen such transparent guilt. ‘Very well.’

The sheriff glanced at the parchment he held. ‘I was listing the items Shirlok stole, some of which were found on his person – such as the white pearls. Next, there was a chalice worth twenty shillings that belonged to the church at Geddynge . . . ’

A murmur of distaste ran through the hall. Theft from a religious foundation was a serious offence. Shirlok heard it, and his composure slipped a little. ‘I had nothing to do with taking that cup.’

The sheriff waited for silence, then continued again. The list was extensive – linen cloth, a brass pot valued at two shillings, an expensive rug, a two-coloured coat, a jug he called an urciolum. His monotonous voice droned on and on, and the jurors’ eyes began to glaze as their attention wandered.

‘We have recovered some of these items, and they are here for your inspection,’ concluded the sheriff eventually. He turned to rummage in a box he had brought with him. ‘The Geddynge chalice was found in the possession of one Lora Boyner, after Shirlok had sold it to her. She claims she bought it in good faith.’

He held aloft a goblet, reclaiming the attention of the bored jurors – even Sir John had been lost in a reverie about the sorry state of his winter cabbages. The cup was not very big, and its battered, stained appearance suggested it was old. There was an etching on one side, which was worn and faint, although anyone with keen eyes would see it involved a baby.

‘That is worth twenty shillings?’ asked Sir John, trying to make up for his lapse in concentration by showing some interest. He took the vessel from the sheriff and studied it. ‘Is it silver?’

‘It is just some old thing,’ said Langar dismissively. ‘The rector of Geddynge maintains he recently bought it from a travelling friar, but when Shirlok stole it—’

‘I never took that cup,’ protested Shirlok again. ‘The other stuff, maybe, but not the chalice.’

‘He did – and then he had the gall to sell it to me,’ declared Lora Boyner indignantly. She was a squat, muscular person who made her living by brewing ale; Sir John had often marvelled at the way she could lift a full keg as if it weighed nothing. ‘He said it belonged to his grandmother, and I believed him – poor fool that I am.’

‘Poor fool indeed,’ murmured Sir John, thinking what he would have assumed, had a rogue like Shirlok appeared on his doorstep and claimed he had his grandam’s silver for sale.

‘And he stole my linen,’ added the young woman at Lora’s side, speaking because Lora had jabbed her in the ribs with a powerful elbow. Mistress Godeknave was a slender, graceful creature with large blue eyes. ‘I am a poor defenceless widow, and cannot afford to lose my few possessions to thieves.’

‘How do you plead, Shirlok?’ asked Sir John, watching Langar write down the charges.

‘Guilty to some of it,’ replied Shirlok, trying to stand upright. It was difficult with the manacles weighing him down. ‘But I intend to turn approver, and expose the eight men and two women what helped me steal all these years. Deal kindly with me, Your Highness, and I shall give you their names.’

‘Speak up, then,’ said Sir John, although his inclination was to sentence Shirlok and move on to the next case. He was weary of criminals bucking against the inevitable.

‘He is wasting our time,’ called one of the jurors, equally keen to be finished before more of the day was lost. Oswald Stanmore was ambitious, determined to make his fortune as a clothier, and because it was market day, he was eager to be back among his apprentices. Next to Stanmore was his youthful brother-in-law, enjoying a break from his studies at the University in Oxford, although Sir John knew why he had not been pressed into jury service: Matt Bartholomew had a sharp mind and would ask too many questions. They would probably be perfectly valid ones, but no one wanted to spend all day ironing out details that were irrelevant to the outcome anyway.

‘The law compels us to hear what the accused has to say,’ replied Sir John. He saw a ripple of annoyance pass through the twelve men. ‘Is that not so, Langar?’

Langar was thoughtful. ‘There have been other instances when criminals have turned approver. But their testimony is nearly always dismissed – mostly because felons are dishonest by definition, so they cannot be trusted to tell the truth. Thus, listening to Shirlok’s charges is not mandatory for this court.’

‘Not mandatory,’ mused Sir John. He was silent for a moment. ‘But I took an oath to be fair, even to the lowest of villains. Name your associates, Shirlok.’

There were several weary sighs, and Sir John was irritated to note that one came from Langar, who worked for him and so was supposed to support his decisions.

‘First, there is Nicholas Herl,’ said Shirlok. He pointed at a thickset man with black hair, who glowered at him. ‘We robbed the Walmesford mill together, then set it alight.’

‘That is a flagrant lie, Sir John,’ snapped Herl. He sounded more annoyed than concerned. ‘I am a silversmith – a professional man. Why would I burgle a mill?’

‘Not a very good silversmith,’ Sir John heard Stanmore whisper to his brother-in-law. ‘Did you see those spoons he made for me? Disgraceful workmanship!’

Shirlok was not a fool, and he could see the jury did not like him. In an effort to make himself sound more creditable, he scoured his memory for the Latin he had learned as a child, hoping it would make them revise their low opinions and give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘Second, Adam Molendinarius received that urciolum I stole. Third, “defenceless” Widow Godeknave and Lora Boyner are no innocents, either. With Walter Chapman and that sly clerk who is Molendinarius’s brother, they—’

‘Liar!’ yelled Lora, breaking into the diatribe. She appealed to Sir John, full of righteous fury. ‘He is trying to save himself by befouling the names of decent, law-abiding people.’

Shirlok pointed at a man who stood some distance from the others he was naming. The fellow wore sombre clothes and carried himself in a way that made Sir John suspect he had once been in holy orders. The country was full of fallen priests, and it was not unusual for them to turn to crime to support themselves.

‘Next, John Aylmer took the white pearls I gave him, knowing they were stolen,’ declared Shirlok. ‘It was probably him what stole the chalice, too! He has a liking for such things, because he is a—’

‘You are full of deceit, Shirlok,’ interrupted Aylmer dismissively. Although he was young, there was an air of dissipation about Aylmer, evident in his ale-paunch and bloodshot eyes. Sir John wondered if loose living had seen him defrocked. ‘I am no thief.’

Shirlok continued his malicious tirade, naming others he claimed had helped him burgle houses or who had offered to sell the goods he had dishonestly acquired – ten in total. Predictably, all were outraged, and the hall was soon full of clamouring voices. Sir John quelled them by hammering on Langar’s writing desk with his fist. He was used to tempers running high in such situations – although everyone on Shirlok’s list had been told exactly why they were obliged to appear at the castle that morning, few folk ever stood quietly when accused of crimes that could see them hanged.

‘Everyone indicted by Shirlok is present today, Sir John,’ said the sheriff, when it was quiet again.

‘And they all assert their innocence,’ added Langar, writing furiously.

‘It is pure spite,’ declared Chapman, an undersized fellow whose only outstanding feature was his penchant for startlingly gaudy scarlet hose. ‘There is no truth in these allegations. Shirlok knows he will hang, so he wants others to die with him.’

Sir John studied the ten appellees, noting the expressions on their faces. Herl and Adam Molendinarius appeared to be bored, and kept glancing at the hour candle in a way that suggested they resented their time being wasted. Chapman, the other Molendinarius brother and Widow Godeknave were anxious and flustered, aware that Shirlok’s accusations – even if unproven – might see them strung up in the castle bailey. The debauched Aylmer continued to stand apart from the rest, and Sir John wondered whether Shirlok had included him as an afterthought – the others knew each other, but Aylmer was obviously an outsider. Hefty Lora Boyner and the remaining three were sullen, angry that they had not been permitted to assert their innocence at greater length.

‘Did these people know you were a thief, and that the goods you sold them were stolen?’ asked Sir John of Shirlok, nodding at Langar to make a note that the question had been put.

‘Yes,’ stated Shirlok, his firm voice cutting through a new chorus of denials. ‘You cannot blame me for stealing when there are folk ready to buy cheap supplies, Your Majesty. I am human, so there is only so much temptation I can bear. These are the rascals who should be hanged, not the poor thief.’

‘The rest of us manage to resist the seduction of easy wealth,’ declared a juror called Stephen Morice, whose reputation for dishonesty – although nothing had ever been proved – and greed was legendary. Sir John tried not to gape at him. ‘I do not see why you should be any different.’

‘Morice is right,’ said Stanmore. ‘Men come to me all the time, offering to sell illegally imported cloth at low prices, but I say no. A man is responsible for himself, and should accept the consequences of the actions he chooses to take.’

‘Well put, Stanmore,’ said Morice. ‘But we have wasted enough time on Shirlok, and we must hear another two cases before we go home. My verdict is that Shirlok is guilty and these others are innocent. It is clear he named them out of malice.’

‘But most of these ten have been thieving and receiving stolen goods from me for a decade, and I have just exposed their sins, like the good citizen I am,’ cried Shirlok, alarmed by the statement. He appealed to the Justice. ‘Let me go, Your Worship, and I promise never to rob in your county again.’

‘What say you?’ asked Sir John, turning to the rest of the jury. ‘Does Morice speak for you all?’

‘He certainly speaks for me,’ said Thomas Deschalers the grocer, glancing impatiently at the hour candle. A consignment of dried fruit was due to arrive by barge at noon, and it was imperative he was there to check it himself – last time, the contents of one sack had been exchanged for wood-shavings. ‘He has admitted he cannot resist easy pickings, and I do not think he can be trusted to live an honest life. He should hang.’

‘I agree,’ said a portly scholar named Richard de Wetherset. There was an election at his Hostel that day, and he still needed to persuade two more Fellows to vote for him, so he was also eager to be on his way. ‘The law is quite clear about what to do with self-confessed thieves.’

‘And the others?’ asked Sir John. ‘These ten he accuses of helping him?’

‘No stolen goods were found in their possession,’ said Deschalers.

‘What about the chalice?’ asked Stanmore. Sir John saw the clothier’s young brother-in-law had prompted him to put the question. ‘The sheriff said that was recovered from Lora Boyner.’

‘But she received it in good faith,’ said Langar, consulting his notes. ‘And there is no evidence to suggest otherwise. All the other goods were recovered from Shirlok’s house.’

‘Shirlok has nothing to support his allegations,’ said Deschalers, pretending not to hear Bartholomew urging his brother-in-law to enquire whether the appellees’ homes had actually been searched. ‘I say we dismiss his testimony.’

Tentatively, Stanmore suggested further investigation, but fell silent when Morice and Deschalers rounded on him – why waste time exploring the claims of a self-confessed criminal? It would mean any thief could accuse whomsoever he liked, just to postpone his execution. Where would it end?

‘Then the verdict is carried,’ said Langar. ‘Shirlok is guilty; the appellees are acquitted.’

Shirlok’s jaw dropped as he listened to Sir John intone a sentence of death by hanging. ‘But I turned approver,’ he breathed, aghast. ‘You cannot kill me!’

‘You misunderstood the law,’ said Langar. ‘It does not matter whether you point fingers at the greatest villains in England – turning approver will not affect your sentence one way or the other. You lodged a plea of guilty, and there is only one possible outcome.’

‘Then I want to change it,’ cried Shirlok, as the sheriff’s men began to drag him away. ‘I am not guilty. I did not take anything after all – it was Chapman, Lora and . . . It was not me!’

‘Next case,’ said Sir John.

Cambridge, June 1355

A cart clattered along the tangled lanes known as the Jewry and headed for the high street. It was still early, and the wispy clouds were not yet tinged with the sun’s golden touch, although the birds were awake and sang loud and shrill along the empty streets. Folk were beginning to stir, and smoke curled lazily skyward as people lit fires to heat ale and breakfast pottage. Bells announced the morning offices, and sleepy monks and friars made their way to their dawn devotions.

Matilde urged her horse to move faster, but the cart was heavy – it was loaded with all her possessions and the beast was not able to move as briskly as she would have liked. When she passed St Michael’s Church, her eyes misted with tears. She glanced down the lane opposite, and saw the Master of Michaelhouse striding towards the High Street, his scholars streaming at his heels as he led the daily procession to the church. Matilde could not see whether the man she loved was there, because her tears were blinding her.

She reached the town gate and passed a coin to the man on duty, knowing he would barely look at her: guards were trained to watch who came into the town, but did not care who left it. He waved his hand to indicate she could go, and she flicked the reins to encourage her nag into a trot, wanting to put as much distance between her and Cambridge as possible, before anyone realised she had gone.

Matilde was leaving because she longed for the respectability she knew she would never have in Cambridge. Folk too readily believed she was the kind of woman to entertain men in her house all night, and she wanted something better. In another county, she could begin a different existence, where she would be staid, decent and respected by all. She would be courted by good men, one of whom she would eventually choose as a husband. She could not afford to waste more of her life on Bartholomew, when it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was never going to ask her to be his wife.

She did not look back as her cart rattled along the road that led to the future. She would not have seen anything if she had, with hot tears scalding her eyes. She did not hear the birdsong of an early summer morning, and she did not care about the clusters of white and pink blossom that adorned the green hedgerows. She wondered whether she would ever take pleasure in such things again.

When the service at St Michael’s had finished, Bartholomew slipped out of the procession to head for the Jewry. He heard the birds singing and saw the delicate clouds in the sky, and his heart was ready to burst with happiness. He was going to see Matilde, and it was the first day of his new life. The joy he felt told him he should have asked her to marry him years before.

He hesitated when he raised his hand to tap on her door, suddenly assailed with the fear that she might not have him – that the love he had for her was not reciprocated, and she might object to being wed to a physician with few rich patients and a negligent attitude towards collecting his fees. But he would not know unless he asked, so he knocked and waited. There was no reply, and he was tempted to postpone the matter, although he knew he was just being cowardly. He rapped again, then jiggled the latch, but the door was locked. He supposed Matilde had gone to the Market Square, to buy bread for breakfast, so he set off in that direction.

But the traders had not seen Matilde that morning, and nor had her friend Yolande. Then the physician was summoned to his sister’s house, where one of Oswald Stanmore’s apprentices had a fever. The illness was a serious one, and it was the following afternoon before he could leave his patient and go in search of Matilde again. He was surprised to find Yolande weeping on the doorstep.

‘She has gone,’ she wept. ‘And it is your fault.’

Bartholomew regarded her blankly. ‘What?’

Yolande pushed open Matilde’s door to reveal a chamber that was empty, with the exception of two benches that had evidently been too large to carry. When he stepped inside, his footsteps echoed hollowly. There was a note on the windowsill, which he picked up with shaking fingers. It said nothing other than that Yolande was to have the remaining furniture, and that the enclosed coins were to pay any outstanding debts.

‘She wanted to marry you, but you would never ask her,’ said Yolande accusingly. ‘It is your fault she has left us.’

He sank down on one of the benches, dazed and numb. ‘I came to propose yesterday.’

‘But it was too late,’ said Yolande harshly. ‘She told me she would not wait for ever.’

Bartholomew stood, resolute. ‘I will find her. Where would she go?’

‘She has a sister in Carcassonne and a cousin in Poitiers, so she may have gone to them. And there was a man who once asked her to wed him – he was rich, not a near-pauper, like you. His name was William de Spayne and he was a merchant, but I cannot remember where she said he lived.’

‘Well, try,’ ordered Bartholomew curtly. ‘It is important.’

‘She is more likely to go to her sister first,’ said Yolande, sniffing. ‘But she once said that if she ever left Cambridge, then no one would ever find her.’

‘I will,’ vowed Bartholomew with quiet determination. ‘I shall leave within the hour.’

Lincoln, December 1356

The sun was setting as the travellers approached the outskirts of the city. Red-gold beams struck the mighty cathedral perched atop its hill, turning its pale stone to a glowing bronze that darkened as night approached. Already, stars were beginning to appear in a cloudless sky, and shadows slanted across the frozen track. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at the University in Cambridge and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse, shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, and was glad the journey was almost at an end. It was unusually cold for the time of year, and early snows dusted the surrounding countryside.

‘A magnificent sight,’ breathed Thomas de Suttone, gazing at the minster in awe. He was a large man who wore the habit of a Carmelite friar, albeit a very elegant one. One of Michaelhouse’s theologians, Suttone preferred to tell others how to practise moderation and poverty than to do it himself. ‘A fitting tribute to the glory of God.’

‘It is on a hill,’ complained Brother Michael, the third of Michaelhouse’s travel-weary scholars, regarding it balefully. He was a Benedictine, and his dark cloak and habit were splattered with pale mud. His palfrey stumbled in an ice-filled rut, and a lesser horseman might have been thrown, but the monk had been taught to ride before he could walk, and he did no more than shift in his saddle and adjust the reins. ‘We shall have to ascend it on foot, because my poor beast is spent.’

‘It is spent because you are so fat,’ explained Suttone brutally. ‘My animal is not nearly as exhausted, and neither is Matt’s. Yours has a far greater load to carry.’

‘I am slimmer than I was this time last year,’ countered Michael indignantly. He was proud of the fact that the habits he had filled to bursting point eighteen months earlier were now slightly loose, although even the most sycophantic of his friends could not deny that he still possessed a very full figure. Bartholomew encouraged him in his new regime of moderation, because, as a physician, he believed that obese men were susceptible to dangerous imbalances of the humours.

‘When the Death returns – which it will – it will carry off gluttons,’ stated Suttone matter-of-factly. He was fond of predicting what would happen if the country were ever ravaged by the plague again. Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He was weary of Suttone’s gloomy prophecies, and did not like to be reminded of the time when all his medical skills and experience had proved to be useless.

‘We are more than a week late,’ he said, seeing Michael open his mouth to make a tart response that would almost certainly initiate a quarrel. He was too tired and cold to be caught in the middle of another of their rows. ‘Do you think you are still expected?’

‘Of course we are!’ cried Suttone, offended by the suggestion that the city of Lincoln might not be waiting on tenterhooks for his arrival. ‘The Feast of St Thomas the Apostle – when the ceremony installing Michael and me as cathedral canons will take place – is not for another two Sundays yet. It is Wednesday today, which leaves us plenty of time to prepare ourselves.’

‘I shall want to look my best,’ said Michael, grimacing at his dirt-splattered clothes. ‘We will need to commission special vestments, and I might even purchase some new shoes.’

Suttone nodded eagerly. ‘I shall do the same. We have been on the road for more than two weeks now, and I am tired of sitting astride this wretched nag and having sleet, snow and rain blow in my face. It has been clear today, but the good weather has come at a price, and I have never known such bitter cold. My feet are frozen to the point where I do not think they will ever move again.’

‘It is a pity the same cannot be said for your jaws,’ muttered Michael unpleasantly. ‘You have not stopped complaining for the last fifteen days.’

‘Where shall we go first?’ asked Bartholomew, before Suttone could respond to the insult. With dusk approaching, they needed to find lodgings before people closed their gates and retired to their beds for the night. ‘The cathedral?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Suttone and I cannot arrive there covered in mire and reeking of horse – the other canons will wonder what sort of fellows they have invited to join their ranks.’

‘I still do not understand why you two were offered these posts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neither of you have visited Lincoln before, and nor have you done anything to benefit the city.’

Michael glared at him. ‘I am Senior Proctor of England’s greatest University and a confidant of the Bishop of Ely. Thus, I am an important man, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that a place like Lincoln should want to include me among its officials.’

‘But you will not be among its officials,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You will be in Cambridge.’

‘A non-residentiary canon,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the cathedral will benefit from having my name in its records and, in return, I shall claim a modest income from the prebendal stall I am to “occupy”. Prestige, Matt. It is all about prestige – on both sides.’

‘I would have thought being the Bishop of Ely’s spy would count against you, Brother,’ said Suttone with his customary bluntness. ‘I, on the other hand, am one of my Order’s foremost scholars, and my family has long been associated with Lincoln. My grandfather was Bishop Oliver Suttone.’

Michael regarded him coolly, while Bartholomew supposed that either the long-dead prelate had taken vows of celibacy later in life or – more likely – had ignored them altogether.

‘I am not forced to rely on dead ancestors to help me win favour,’ declared the monk icily. ‘And my bishop is very well thought of by his peers.’

His comment suggested the same could not be said for Bishop Oliver Suttone, although Bartholomew had no idea whether the man had been a saint or the biggest crook in Christendom.

‘Night is drawing on,’ said Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, kicking his pony forward to speak quietly to the physician. Cynric was the last of the four-man party from Michaelhouse. ‘We should not dally while they quarrel again. Remember what happened last night? You and I were hard-pressed to fight off those robbers, and this pair were next to worthless.’

‘Michael was not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the competent way the monk had wielded a stave. For a man who had foresworn arms, the monk was remarkably adept with long pieces of wood.

The religious habits worn by Michael and Suttone had deterred most footpads from attacking them on their journey, although the ruthless band that had set their ambush the previous night had chosen to ignore the general consensus that it was a bad idea to raise weapons against men of God. They would be more cautious the next time, though. Cynric was a formidable swordsman, and Bartholomew’s recent experiences in France – a country with which England was currently at war – had honed his once mediocre skills to the point where he was more than a match for the common robber.

Cynric sniffed as he rode next to Bartholomew. ‘But Suttone distracted me by falling to his knees and squawking prayers. Look at them now – they are debating whether Bishop Gynewell of Lincoln is better than Bishop de Lisle of Ely, and neither is qualified to give an opinion, because they have never met Gynewell. They will squabble for hours, if you do not move them on.’

Bartholomew addressed his argumentative colleagues. ‘I can see the city gates ahead. They will close at dusk, so we do not have much time if we want to sleep inside tonight.’

Suttone squinted into the rapidly fading light. ‘Bishop Gynewell mentioned gates south of the city in his letter – although he said the first set actually protects a suburb called Wigford, not Lincoln itself. However, he also said the Carmelite Friary is located in Wigford, so we shall stay there.’

‘I am not staying with White Friars,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘They have a nasty habit of fasting or dining solely on fish during Advent – and after a day in the saddle, a man needs red meat. We shall hunt out the Benedictines instead. They have a more sensible attitude to such matters.’

‘If you had bothered to read Gynewell’s missive, you would know that the Black Monks’ Priory is a long way to the east of the town,’ argued Suttone. ‘Too far to go tonight. But my Carmelite brethren will not starve two hungry canons-elect and a University physician—’

‘Look,’ said Cynric, pointing to where someone was lighting a lantern outside a substantial gatehouse. The lamp swung in the gathering wind, and would not burn for long. ‘Only a convent would own such a great, thick door. We could ask to stay there.’

‘We could not,’ said S