Susanna GREGORY - The Tarnished Chalice

‘We are not overly endowed with good fighting men at the University,’ explained Michael, seeing the Gilbertine did not know whether to believe him. ‘So, we are obliged to accept whoever offers.’

‘Actually, Doctor Bartholomew has recently returned from France,’ said Suttone, indignant on Bartholomew’s behalf at the slur on his fighting abilities. To underline his point, he deliberately gave the last word a sinister timbre that was potent enough to make both Gilbertines shudder.

‘How dreadful,’ said Hamo. ‘We are at war with the French, so it must have been very dangerous.’

‘It was,’ agreed Suttone. ‘He went to study there, and his devotion to acquiring foreign knowledge meant he was at Poitiers in September.’ He pursed his lips meaningfully, glancing at Michael to show that he was wrong to denigrate their colleague’s military skills.

‘Poitiers?’ asked Whatton eagerly. ‘There are tales of a great battle there – the Black Prince won a mighty victory. Did you see it? We would love to hear your account, if you were.’

‘Such slaughter is hardly a subject for fireside chatter,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully.

‘It is, though,’ countered Cynric immediately. ‘Most of the great Welsh ballads are about battles, and you have to admit Poitiers was one of the best. I shall never forget the moment when the Black Prince raised his sword after that third skirmish – when we were certain we were doomed because we were outnumbered and exhausted – and tore into the French like an avenging angel. It was a glorious sight and I do not mind telling you the story, Master Whatton.’

‘But I do,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He failed to understand how his book-bearer had distilled even the most remote flicker of enjoyment from the bloody carnage. Cynric, meanwhile, was bemused by the physician’s revulsion by what he saw as a bright, shining moment in history. They had discussed it at length, and both knew it was a matter on which they would never agree.

Whatton winked at Cynric in a way that suggested arrangements would be made later. ‘How did you come to be in Poitiers – or France, for that matter? Surely, the natives are hostile to Englishmen?’

Bartholomew was not about to admit that he had been visiting members of Matilde’s family, but he did not want to lie, either. He told a partial truth. ‘Cynric and I were forced to travel with the English army for some of the time. It was safer that way – until French forces trapped us and forced a fight. Poitiers might have been considered a great victory here, but it came at a terrible price – for both sides.’

‘While we are in Lincoln, we are hoping to meet an old acquaintance,’ said Michael, hastily changing the subject before Bartholomew’s distaste for war led him to say something unpatriotic or treasonous. Too late, he realised he had chosen another subject that was painful for his friend, but it would look odd to change what he was going to say, so he pressed on. ‘A lady called Matilde, who lived here once. I do not suppose you happen to know her?’

Suttone smiled suddenly and unexpectedly. Everyone at Michaelhouse had liked Matilde, even sour old miseries like the Carmelite. ‘Dear Matilde! We all missed her when she left. Do you think she might be here, Brother? It is possible, I suppose. She once told me – after I gave a sermon in which I mentioned my grandfather the bishop – that she considered Lincoln’s cathedral to be the finest in the world, so perhaps she does hail from this place.’

‘My Order compels me to preach among the laity, so I do know a large number of townsfolk,’ replied Hamo. ‘But I am afraid there are several women by that name. What does she look like?’

Bartholomew refrained from telling him that she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. ‘I believe she was once betrothed to a merchant called William de Spayne,’ he said instead.

Hamo beamed. ‘Oh, that Matilde – a lady with the face of an angel, and the sweet heart of one, too. I am not surprised you would like to trace her. She is an acquaintance well worth keeping.’

Bartholomew gazed at Hamo, aware that his heart was pounding. He had not imagined that the first man he asked would remember Matilde – he had not expected anyone to know her, having endured more than a year of shaken heads and apologetic smiles – and he wondered whether his luck had finally turned. ‘Is she here now?’ he asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

Hamo shook his head. ‘I am sorry – she is not. But Spayne might know where she went. You could ask him.’

‘He is our current mayor,’ added Whatton helpfully. ‘And he lives in one of the old stone houses near the corn market. Anyone will tell you how to find it.’

‘Not tonight, Matt,’ said Michael in an undertone, seeing the physician about to follow their directions immediately. ‘It is dark, and only a madman wanders around strange cities after sunset.’

‘When was she last here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice. It would be hard to wait all night for answers, although he saw the sense in Michael’s advice.

Hamo thought carefully. ‘It must be six years now. Everyone loved her. There is a deep rift between some of the city officials, you see, and she was one of few who have tried to heal it. But then she just left. She was here one day and gone the next, like a puff of wind, leaving no trace of herself.’

‘Just like she did in Cambridge,’ said Suttone, shaking his head sadly. Then he frowned. ‘Do I recall you being especially fond of her, Matthew?’

‘No more so than anyone else,’ replied Michael briskly, before Bartholomew could answer for himself. ‘He is a University Fellow, after all, and not given to hankerings for women.’

Suttone seemed to accept the point, and Hamo began to elaborate on Matilde’s abrupt departure from his city. Bartholomew’s brief flare of hope had died at the mention of six years. She had been in Cambridge since then, and he suspected her Lincoln friends would know even less about her most recent wanderings than he did.

‘Who is she ?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, pointing to where an unusually tall lady in the white habit of a Gilbertine nun was walking towards the chapel, holding a lamp to guide her. The robe accentuated her slim figure, and she moved in a way that suggested she knew she was attracting admiring glances. At her side was an older woman, slightly bent with age, but still moving quickly enough to make her younger companion stride out to keep pace with her.

‘That is Dame Eleanor,’ replied Whatton, his voice softening with quiet admiration. ‘As a child, she was presented to the old queen, who gave her to us. She has been here for nigh on six decades.’

‘You mean Queen Isabella?’ asked Suttone. ‘The wanton wife of the second King Edward?’

‘No, the queen before her,’ replied Hamo. ‘Eleanor – whose memorial stands outside our gate. We are very proud of that, because it is a symbol of the esteem in which our priory is held by monarchs. But our Eleanor – Dame Eleanor Darcy – has dedicated her life to Lincoln’s saints, and climbs the hill every day to tend their shrines in the cathedral. She is a devout and venerable lady.’

‘Is she the one who deplores gluttony?’ asked Suttone keenly. ‘You mentioned her earlier.’

‘What saints?’ asked Cynric, as Hamo nodded his answer to Suttone’s question. ‘Does your city have saints of its own?’

Hamo nodded again. ‘They are called Little Hugh and Bishop Hugh, both buried in the cathedral.’

‘I meant the other lady,’ said Michael impatiently, eyes fixed on the apparition in white that glided along the snow-dappled path. ‘The younger one.’