Susanna GREGORY - The Tarnished Chalice

‘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 Suttone distastefully. ‘According to Gynewell, the first friary encountered from this direction will be Gilbertine.’ He almost spat the name of the only religious Order to be founded in England. ‘And we all know they are inferior to the rest of us.’

‘Then you can find somewhere better tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, spurring his horse forward. The Cambridge Gilbertines were respectable, sober men, and he thought Suttone’s prejudice against their Order was unjustified and ignorant. ‘But tonight we shall stay here. It is too near nightfall to be choosy.’

Suttone opened his mouth to argue, but the temperature was dropping fast as the sun disappeared, and even he saw further travel would be foolish. He set his pony after Bartholomew, with Michael and Cynric at his heels.

The Gilbertine Priory of St Katherine occupied a substantial tract of land about a mile south of the city, tucked between the main road and the broad River Witham. Like many convents that had been built outside a town defences, it looked to its own security, and was protected by a high wall. Unfortunately, the wall was in a poor state of repair, suggesting it had been built in a time of plenty, but the priory within was currently experiencing leaner times. On closer inspection, the gatehouse was similarly afflicted: there was worm in its wooden door and its metal bosses were rusty. The grille that allowed guards to scan visitors before opening the front door was missing, affording anyone outside an unobstructed view of the buildings within. Bartholomew saw several long, tiled roofs, indicating that the Gilbertines owned a sizeable institution, if not a wealthy one.