The Tarnished Chalice

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Bartholomew politely. ‘One of your brethren?’

‘No, thank the good Lord. One of the guests. He was murdered.’

‘Well done, Matthew,’ whispered Suttone venomously, as the Michaelhouse men followed Whatton through the crumbling gatehouse and into the Gilbertines’ domain. ‘Gynewell wrote that there are six friaries and convents in Lincoln, to say nothing of hospitals that entertain paying guests, and you choose the one where someone has just been slaughtered.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ agreed Michael. ‘Whatton did not say whether the suspect is under lock and key or still at large. It would be a pity for me to have survived the treacherous journey from Cambridge, only to have my throat cut on arrival. Lord! It is a bitter evening – it would not surprise me to learn there was another blizzard in the offing. But I suppose there are four of us to repel the murderous advances of these Gilbertines, so I suggest we do as Matt says, and stay here tonight. We can always find somewhere better tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow might be too late,’ Suttone pointed out darkly.

Michael chose to ignore the comment as he ventured further into the priory. ‘This place should please you, Suttone: it looks poor, and you will not want to be too lavishly entertained, lest it encourages the plague to come again.’

‘My beliefs about the Death do not lead me to embrace squalor when alternatives are available,’ replied Suttone haughtily. ‘But we are inside now, and it would be churlish to take one look around and opt to go elsewhere. Some of these Gilbertines might be cathedral canons – future colleagues – and it would be a pity to offend them so soon. I agree with you: we shall sleep here tonight.’

A lay-brother came to take the horses, and Whatton issued a stream of instructions – the visitors’ beasts were to be given warmed oat mash and the stable that did not leak. The man nodded in a way that suggested he did not need to be told, indicating the orders were for the guests’ benefit, not his. Then Whatton bustled away abruptly, leaving the scholars alone and uncertain what to do next. When Suttone and Michael began a waspish debate about the merits of poverty in religious foundations, Bartholomew took the opportunity to inspect his surroundings before the light failed completely.

The buildings stood around two separate yards, with the chapel and the Prior’s House forming a barrier between them. As in most Gilbertine foundations, a nuns’ refectory and dormitory lay to the north, while the brothers had a similar set of buildings to the south, along with a two-storeyed hall for guests and a thatched shed for servants. A muddle of kitchens, pantries and storehouses stood to the west, overlooking the neat vegetable plots that ran down to the river. The land to the south of the complex comprised an extensive orchard of fruit trees.

‘Who has been murdered?’ asked Michael, breaking into the Carmelite’s tirade against those who hankered after luxury – with the natural exception of himself, of course. ‘Did Whatton say?’

‘One of the guests,’ replied Suttone. ‘Clearly, they do not offer much protection for those unlucky devils who are forced to stay within their walls.’

‘Look at that!’ hissed Cynric suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s arm hard enough to hurt as he pointed. ‘Surely, that is a woman? What is she doing in here?’

‘It is a Gilbertine foundation,’ explained Michael. Cynric did not look any the wiser, so he elaborated. ‘A dual house – where nuns and brothers live together.’

‘Does that mean those ladies will share our beds tonight?’ asked Cynric nervously. ‘My wife will not approve of that at all, and she is bound to find out. She always does.’

‘Well, I shall not do it,’ declared Suttone. ‘Unless there is absolutely no alternative. Here comes Whatton with a friend. Draw your sword, Cynric, lest they have come to kill us.’

‘Don’t,’ countered Bartholomew sharply, when Cynric started to comply.

‘God’s greetings,’ said the newcomer. He was taller than Whatton, and there was something unpleasant about his wet-lipped grin and the mincing quality of his voice. ‘You have caught us at a bad time, I am afraid. One of our visitors died this morning, and his friends have been here all day, demanding an explanation. Then several other guests left, because they do not want to sleep in a place where their throats may be cut during the night. So we are now all confusion.’

‘Someone’s throat was cut?’ asked Suttone in alarm.

The Gilbertine’s smile slipped a little. ‘It was just a figure of speech – he was merely stabbed, so do not worry yourself with unnecessarily gruesome images. I am Hamo, and the prior has asked me to see to your needs during your sojourn with us. I am more than happy to do so.’

‘You should be,’ remarked Whatton wryly. ‘It means an effective promotion to Brother Hospitaller, a post that has been vacant since Fat William died of a surfeit of oysters last year.’