The Tarnished Chalice

Bartholomew was not sure he could. The possibility, however remote, that Spayne might be able to help him gnawed at his senses like a worm. ‘I know it is dark, but it is not late, and I cannot see Spayne being in his bed before seven o’clock. I am going to see him tonight.’

‘It is not wise to wander around strange towns after dusk,’ said Michael gently. ‘You know this.’

‘I will go with you,’ offered Cynric, seeing the physician was not to be dissuaded. He stood and slipped his sword into his belt.

Michael looked around for his cloak. ‘Then so will I. Cynric can protect you with his blade, and my habit may make footpads think twice about molesting you.’

‘It did not work yesterday,’ Cynric pointed out ruefully.

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall say a prayer before we go. In the chapel.’

‘You mean the chapel that lady went into?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Then go and fulfil your religious obligations, Brother. I do not need an escort.’

Michael was right: it was dangerous to explore unknown cities at night, and Bartholomew did not want to put his friends at risk just because he was impatient. They listened to his arguments for them remaining with the Gilbertines, then followed him outside anyway. Snow lay in untidy heaps, where it had been swept, and the ground was slick with hoarfrost.

‘You have been more than patient with my hunt,’ said Bartholomew, buckling his sword to his waist as they walked across the yard. He never carried weapons in Cambridge, but his travels in France and along some of England’s robber-infested highways meant he was now more cautious. ‘Both of you. And I shall make you a promise: this is the last time I race off in search of shadows. If I cannot find Matilde this time, I shall concede defeat.’

‘I shall hold you to it,’ warned Michael, selecting a tortuous route that avoided the bigger drifts. ‘You cannot spend the rest of your life haring around countries with which we are at war, and we need you at Michaelhouse. We have students eager to study with you – you taught them more last term than Doctor Rougham managed in a year – and England needs University-trained physicians. If Suttone is right, and the Death is about to come back, the importance of your work cannot be overestimated.’

‘You give me too much credit. Physicians were worthless during the plague – worse than worthless, even, since I sometimes wonder whether our advice and practices made it worse. But even if we cannot cure the pestilence, then I suppose there are other ailments to treat. We still have our uses.’

‘You do,’ agreed Michael. ‘Oh, look! We just happen to be at the Gilbertines’ church. Give me a few moments to say my prayers, and then we shall visit Spayne together.’

The Chapel of St Katherine was an attractive building, which had been raised by Normans. It boasted small roundheaded windows, and the arches in the nave were adorned with brightly painted dog-tooth mouldings. Its chancel was longer than its nave, although not as wide, and its stone floor made their footsteps echo as they walked towards the high altar. It smelled damp, as though the roof was leaking somewhere, and it was icy cold. It was also empty, although a doused but still-warm lamp suggested that Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana had not long left their devotions.

Michael grimaced before kneeling to recite a psalm of deliverance. Unlike Bartholomew, who enjoyed being on the road and seeing new sights, the monk considered travel a dreadful ordeal, and was genuinely grateful to have arrived in Lincoln unscathed. While he chanted, Bartholomew wondered what it was about Lady Christiana that had caught Michael’s attention, thinking she could not hold a candle to Matilde’s radiant beauty. But then, he acknowledged wryly, he could not look at a woman without comparing her unfavourably to Matilde these days. It was hardly healthy, and he knew he should stop before he drove himself insane.

‘You should leave some coins,’ Michael called over his shoulder, as he climbed inelegantly to his feet. ‘St Katherine will appreciate them, and we need all the good graces we can muster, since we have to ride home again in two weeks.’

When Bartholomew did as the monk suggested, he saw others had left oblations, too. In pride of place was a silver chalice. It was a simple thing, quite small, and its tarnished appearance suggested it had seen better days. Other people had used it as a receptacle, and several pennies and a ring lay on its bottom. Bartholomew dropped his offering in with them, then stood in the shadows, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for the monk to finish.