The Tarnished Chalice

‘I am sorry about what happened to Christiana, Michael,’ he said in an undertone, as the others moved away. Since her death, the monk had spent all his time either at the cathedral preparing for the installation, or sitting quietly in St Katherine’s Chapel. There had been no opportunity to talk. ‘I know you were growing fond of her.’

‘I am a monk, Matt, sworn to a life of chastity. How could I be “fond” of a woman?’ Michael smiled, but the expression did not touch his eyes. ‘And I am sorry I did not believe you when you saw the truth. None of this was her fault, you know. She was seduced by that evil old lady’s deranged lies.’

Bartholomew nodded, but made no other reply. He did not want to spoil the day with an argument.

‘Is my cope straight?’ whispered Michael, plucking nervously at his robes. Rosanna had done a fine job, and he looked magnificent in his vestments. ‘Damn this breeze! It is ruffling my hair.’

Bartholomew gave the heavy garment a tug that jerked it from perfectly even to a decided list to the left. Suttone sniggered.

‘You should go,’ advised de Wetherset, before the physician could do any more damage. ‘Or you will not find a good place to stand. Obviously, you will not want to miss anything.’

Bartholomew walked up the winding path to the cathedral and found the building full of people. It was so packed that he considered seeing the procession inside and then slipping away. He did not feel equal to the occasion, and wanted time alone, to absorb the fact that his quest to find for Matilde was at an end. Unfortunately, he was spotted by Prior Roger, who invited him to the South Transept, an area that had been reserved for special guests.

‘What a fine day God has created!’ bawled the prior, making several merchants jump in alarm. ‘I am looking forward to raising my voice in praise today! The choir will appreciate a little help, I am sure, given that so many of their number are either dead or in prison.’

Bartholomew tried to think of an excuse to leave before the music started, but then Hamo approached and pulled him to one side.

‘I cleared out the rooms of Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana this morning,’ he said. He no longer rubbed his arm, because Roger had ordered him to submit to a medical examination, and Bartholomew had removed the splinter he had acquired while eavesdropping. He was astonished that he could be so painlessly ‘cured’, and had been gratefully obsequious to the physician ever since. ‘I found this.’

He passed Bartholomew a piece of parchment. It contained a long list of names Matilde had mentioned to the two women, and the settlements where they might be found. Bartholomew’s hopes soared when he realised Eleanor’s declaration that there had been no written record had been a desperate ploy to force him to save Christiana. Then they plummeted again.

‘I have already visited all these people.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Hamo sincerely. ‘I was optimistic when I discovered it. Dame Eleanor was not a bad woman, and spent more than half a century serving the cathedral. Do not judge her too harshly.’

‘She murdered Herl, Aylmer, Chapman, Flaxfleete, Simon and Ursula, and she admitted to dispatching many more – including your Fat William. She looked the other way while Hugh rid himself of Tetford and Ravenser, and she tried to hurt Michael. And it was her killing of Canon Hodelston that inflamed the feud that has ravaged the city ever since. It is hard to see her as a saint.’

‘Her motives were pure,’ argued Hamo. ‘She really thought that ridding the city of wicked men would benefit everyone. And she had a point – no one she killed will be bound for Heaven.’

‘I have heard murderers use these justifications before, but who was she to judge?’

Hamo acquiesced. ‘You seem sad and preoccupied. Why?’

‘I cannot stop thinking about Spayne, and how he was about to tell me Matilde’s secret when Cynric shot him. It makes me wonder whether I should abandon my duties in Cambridge and continue my search. There is still more to be learned about her.’

‘Spayne had no answers,’ said Hamo. He shrugged when the physician showed surprise at the confidence of his words. ‘He knew nothing that would help you, and your book-bearer was right to shoot him before he could harm you with his dagger.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I am good at hearing conversations not intended for my ears, as you know.’ Hamo patted his arm ruefully. ‘And I happened to chance upon a discussion between him and Langar once. He was telling the lawyer all the places he had looked for Matilde, but said there was one he would never search, because it was where he had been an oblate and it held too many unhappy memories. I imagine that is where he was going to send you – if indeed he was ready to confide. I am inclined to believe Cynric: he was trying to make sure you died with him.’

‘Where was he an oblate?’ asked Bartholomew eagerly.