Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Read online

  For a year Matthew Bartholomew has been searching for the woman he is desperate to marry. He’d left his proposal too late, and Matilde had left Cambridge with no word to anyone about her destination. Now, he was running out of options, having travelled through England and France to every place she had ever mentioned. Only one remains: Lincoln.

  In the bitter winter of 1356 he and his book-bearer, Cynric, accompany Brother Michael to that cathedral city, the latter to be installed as a canon, Bartholomew hoping that Matilde may have returned to the household of a merchant named Spayne, to whom she was once betrothed.

  They find Lincoln an unholy place, riven by discord between two opposing groups of tradesmen, the bishop seemingly unable to control the wild behaviour of his clergy, and with a sheriff happy to take bribes and kick-backs to give him, if not the citizens, a peaceful life. They also find murder – one victim being the man whom Michael had chosen as his assistant – and the apparent reappearance of a holy relic that had been stolen over twenty years ago.

  Against their will, the men from Cambridge are drawn into the investigations of the unnatural deaths and the circumstances surrounding the provenance of the Hugh Chalice, endangering both their lives and their souls as they are caught up in the maelstrom of corruption which courses through Lincoln. And through it all Matthew continues his hunt for the elusive Matilde …

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  The Matthew Bartholomew Series

  A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

  AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  A DEADLY BREW

  A WICKED DEED

  A MASTERLY MURDER

  AN ORDER FOR DEATH

  A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT

  A KILLER IN WINTER

  THE HAND OF JUSTICE

  THE MARK OF A MURDERER

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  CONSPIRACY OF VIOLENCE

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12448-0

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 Susanna Gregory

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  For Gill Cooper and Mike Smith,

  dear friends

  PROLOGUE

  Cambridge Castle, March 1335

  The court was full when the sheriff brought the accused from his cell. John Shirlok glanced at the jurors who would try him – twelve local men who shuffled and sighed their resentment at being forced to spend their precious time listening to unsavoury tales of robbery, burglary and murder. They were supposed to be respectable, up-standing citizens of good character, although Shirlok knew that simply meant they were men who had been unable to think of a good excuse to absent themselves. All were wealthy – they wore fur-lined cloaks and thick boots against the bite of late winter – and none would be sympathetic to the crimes Shirlok was accused of committing, but he was not unduly worried. There was no question of his guilt – he had been caught red-handed with stolen property, and that alone was enough to earn him an appointment with the hangman. But he had a plan. No thief worked alone, and Shirlok intended to walk free from the castle that day.

  ‘I bring John Shirlok before you,’ intoned the sheriff, quelling the babble of conversation that had erupted while the felon was being fetched from the gaol. ‘He stands accused of stealing white pearls, valued at a hundred shillings—’

  ‘Shirlok?’ interrupted Justice Sir John de Cantebrig. He was presiding over the court, making sure the trial and its subsequent conviction – he did not think acquittal was very likely in Shirlok’s case – followed proper protocols. ‘That name is familiar.’

  It was his clerk, a clever lawyer called William Langar, who answered. Langar was tall, thin and had spiky ginger hair; his duties were to advise Sir John on the finer points of the law and to make an accurate record of the proceedings.

  ‘Shirlok was due to appear before you two months ago, Sir John,’ Langar said. ‘But he exercised his right to challenge the jury we assembled. He objected to eleven of them—’

  ‘That was because they were kinsmen of—’ began Shirlok indignantly.

  ‘Silence!’ snapped Langar. He turned back to the Justice. ‘He will make a fuss about any jury if we let him, just to delay his hanging, so I suggest we proceed as planned today. We cannot house thieves in our gaol indefinitely, and he has been enjoying our hospitality for three months already.’

  Sir John nodded. He knew all about the devious ploys felons used in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. He glanced at Shirlok, taking in the sly, foxy expression on the man’s face, and the way his eyes were never still. He did not think he had ever seen such transparent guilt. ‘Very well.’

  The sheriff glanced at the parchment he held. ‘I was listing the items Shirlok stole, some of which were found on his person – such as the white pearls. Next, there was a chalice worth twenty shillings that belonged to the church at Geddynge . . . ’

  A murmur of distaste ran through the hall. Theft from a religious foundation was a serious offence. Shirlok heard it, and his composure slipped a little. ‘I had nothing to do with taking that cup.’

  The sheriff waited for silence, then continued again. The list was extensive – linen cloth, a brass pot valued at two shillings, an expensive rug, a two-coloured coat, a jug he called an urciolum. His monotonous voice droned on and on, and the jurors’ eyes began to glaze as their attention wandered.

  ‘We have recovered some of these items, and they are here for your inspection,’ concluded the sheriff eventually. He turned to rummage in a box he had brought with him. ‘The Geddynge chalice was found in the possession of one Lora Boyner, after Shirlok had sold it to her. She claims she bought it in good faith.’

  He held aloft a goblet, reclaiming the attention of the bored jurors – even Sir John had been lost in a reverie about the sorry state of his winter cabbages. The cup was not very big, and its battered, stained appearance suggested it was old. There was an etching on one side, which was worn and faint, although anyone with keen eyes would see it involved a baby.

  ‘That is worth twenty shillings?’ asked Sir John, trying to make up for his lapse in concentration by showing some interest. He took the vessel from the sheriff and studied it. ‘Is it silver?’

  ‘It is just some old thing,’ said Langar dismissively. ‘The rector of Geddynge maintains he recently bought it from a travelling friar, but when Shirlok stole it—’

  ‘I never took that cup,’ protested Shirlok again. ‘The other stuff, maybe, but not the chalice.’

  ‘He did – and then he had the gall to sell it to me,’ declared Lora Boyner indignantly. She was a squat, mus cular person who made her living by brewing ale; Sir John had often marvelled at the way she co
uld lift a full keg as if it weighed nothing. ‘He said it belonged to his grandmother, and I believed him – poor fool that I am.’

  ‘Poor fool indeed,’ murmured Sir John, thinking what he would have assumed, had a rogue like Shirlok appeared on his doorstep and claimed he had his grandam’s silver for sale.

  ‘And he stole my linen,’ added the young woman at Lora’s side, speaking because Lora had jabbed her in the ribs with a powerful elbow. Mistress Godeknave was a slender, graceful creature with large blue eyes. ‘I am a poor defenceless widow, and cannot afford to lose my few possessions to thieves.’

  ‘How do you plead, Shirlok?’ asked Sir John, watching Langar write down the charges.

  ‘Guilty to some of it,’ replied Shirlok, trying to stand upright. It was difficult with the manacles weighing him down. ‘But I intend to turn approver, and expose the eight men and two women what helped me steal all these years. Deal kindly with me, Your Highness, and I shall give you their names.’

  ‘Speak up, then,’ said Sir John, although his inclination was to sentence Shirlok and move on to the next case. He was weary of criminals bucking against the inevitable.

  ‘He is wasting our time,’ called one of the jurors, equally keen to be finished before more of the day was lost. Oswald Stanmore was ambitious, determined to make his fortune as a clothier, and because it was market day, he was eager to be back among his apprentices. Next to Stanmore was his youthful brother-in-law, enjoying a break from his studies at the University in Oxford, although Sir John knew why he had not been pressed into jury service: Matt Bartholomew had a sharp mind and would ask too many questions. They would probably be perfectly valid ones, but no one wanted to spend all day ironing out details that were irrelevant to the outcome anyway.

  ‘The law compels us to hear what the accused has to say,’ replied Sir John. He saw a ripple of annoyance pass through the twelve men. ‘Is that not so, Langar?’

  Langar was thoughtful. ‘There have been other instances when criminals have turned approver. But their testimony is nearly always dismissed – mostly because felons are dishonest by definition, so they cannot be trusted to tell the truth. Thus, listening to Shirlok’s charges is not mandatory for this court.’

  ‘Not mandatory,’ mused Sir John. He was silent for a moment. ‘But I took an oath to be fair, even to the lowest of villains. Name your associates, Shirlok.’

  There were several weary sighs, and Sir John was irritated to note that one came from Langar, who worked for him and so was supposed to support his decisions.

  ‘First, there is Nicholas Herl,’ said Shirlok. He pointed at a thickset man with black hair, who glowered at him. ‘We robbed the Walmesford mill together, then set it alight.’

  ‘That is a flagrant lie, Sir John,’ snapped Herl. He sounded more annoyed than concerned. ‘I am a silversmith – a professional man. Why would I burgle a mill?’

  ‘Not a very good silversmith,’ Sir John heard Stanmore whisper to his brother-in-law. ‘Did you see those spoons he made for me? Disgraceful workmanship!’

  Shirlok was not a fool, and he could see the jury did not like him. In an effort to make himself sound more creditable, he scoured his memory for the Latin he had learned as a child, hoping it would make them revise their low opinions and give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘Second, Adam Molendinarius received that urciolum I stole. Third, “defenceless” Widow Godeknave and Lora Boyner are no innocents, either. With Walter Chapman and that sly clerk who is Molendinarius’s brother, they—’

  ‘Liar!’ yelled Lora, breaking into the diatribe. She appealed to Sir John, full of righteous fury. ‘He is trying to save himself by befouling the names of decent, law-abiding people.’

  Shirlok pointed at a man who stood some distance from the others he was naming. The fellow wore sombre clothes and carried himself in a way that made Sir John suspect he had once been in holy orders. The country was full of fallen priests, and it was not unusual for them to turn to crime to support themselves.

  ‘Next, John Aylmer took the white pearls I gave him, knowing they were stolen,’ declared Shirlok. ‘It was probably him what stole the chalice, too! He has a liking for such things, because he is a—’

  ‘You are full of deceit, Shirlok,’ interrupted Aylmer dismissively. Although he was young, there was an air of dissipation about Aylmer, evident in his ale-paunch and bloodshot eyes. Sir John wondered if loose living had seen him defrocked. ‘I am no thief.’

  Shirlok continued his malicious tirade, naming others he claimed had helped him burgle houses or who had offered to sell the goods he had dishonestly acquired – ten in total. Predictably, all were outraged, and the hall was soon full of clamouring voices. Sir John quelled them by hammering on Langar’s writing desk with his fist. He was used to tempers running high in such situations – although everyone on Shirlok’s list had been told exactly why they were obliged to appear at the castle that morning, few folk ever stood quietly when accused of crimes that could see them hanged.

  ‘Everyone indicted by Shirlok is present today, Sir John,’ said the sheriff, when it was quiet again.

  ‘And they all assert their innocence,’ added Langar, writing furiously.

  ‘It is pure spite,’ declared Chapman, an undersized fellow whose only outstanding feature was his penchant for startlingly gaudy scarlet hose. ‘There is no truth in these allegations. Shirlok knows he will hang, so he wants others to die with him.’

  Sir John studied the ten appellees, noting the expressions on their faces. Herl and Adam Molendinarius appeared to be bored, and kept glancing at the hour candle in a way that suggested they resented their time being wasted. Chapman, the other Molendinarius brother and Widow Godeknave were anxious and flustered, aware that Shirlok’s accusations – even if unproven – might see them strung up in the castle bailey. The debauched Aylmer continued to stand apart from the rest, and Sir John wondered whether Shirlok had included him as an afterthought – the others knew each other, but Aylmer was obviously an outsider. Hefty Lora Boyner and the remaining three were sullen, angry that they had not been permitted to assert their innocence at greater length.

  ‘Did these people know you were a thief, and that the goods you sold them were stolen?’ asked Sir John of Shirlok, nodding at Langar to make a note that the question had been put.

  ‘Yes,’ stated Shirlok, his firm voice cutting through a new chorus of denials. ‘You cannot blame me for stealing when there are folk ready to buy cheap supplies, Your Majesty. I am human, so there is only so much temptation I can bear. These are the rascals who should be hanged, not the poor thief.’

  ‘The rest of us manage to resist the seduction of easy wealth,’ declared a juror called Stephen Morice, whose reputation for dishonesty – although nothing had ever been proved – and greed was legendary. Sir John tried not to gape at him. ‘I do not see why you should be any different.’

  ‘Morice is right,’ said Stanmore. ‘Men come to me all the time, offering to sell illegally imported cloth at low prices, but I say no. A man is responsible for himself, and should accept the consequences of the actions he chooses to take.’

  ‘Well put, Stanmore,’ said Morice. ‘But we have wasted enough time on Shirlok, and we must hear another two cases before we go home. My verdict is that Shirlok is guilty and these others are innocent. It is clear he named them out of malice.’

  ‘But most of these ten have been thieving and receiving stolen goods from me for a decade, and I have just exposed their sins, like the good citizen I am,’ cried Shirlok, alarmed by the statement. He appealed to the Justice. ‘Let me go, Your Worship, and I promise never to rob in your county again.’

  ‘What say you?’ asked Sir John, turning to the rest of the jury. ‘Does Morice speak for you all?’

  ‘He certainly speaks for me,’ said Thomas Deschalers the grocer, glancing impatiently at the hour candle. A consignment of dried fruit was due to arrive by barge at noon, and it was imperative he was there to check
it himself – last time, the contents of one sack had been exchanged for wood-shavings. ‘He has admitted he cannot resist easy pickings, and I do not think he can be trusted to live an honest life. He should hang.’

  ‘I agree,’ said a portly scholar named Richard de Wetherset. There was an election at his Hostel that day, and he still needed to persuade two more Fellows to vote for him, so he was also eager to be on his way. ‘The law is quite clear about what to do with self-confessed thieves.’

  ‘And the others?’ asked Sir John. ‘These ten he accuses of helping him?’

  ‘No stolen goods were found in their possession,’ said Deschalers.

  ‘What about the chalice?’ asked Stanmore. Sir John saw the clothier’s young brother-in-law had prompted him to put the question. ‘The sheriff said that was recovered from Lora Boyner.’

  ‘But she received it in good faith,’ said Langar, consulting his notes. ‘And there is no evidence to suggest otherwise. All the other goods were recovered from Shirlok’s house.’

  ‘Shirlok has nothing to support his allegations,’ said Deschalers, pretending not to hear Bartholomew urging his brother-in-law to enquire whether the appellees’ homes had actually been searched. ‘I say we dismiss his testimony.’

  Tentatively, Stanmore suggested further investigation, but fell silent when Morice and Deschalers rounded on him – why waste time exploring the claims of a self-confessed criminal? It would mean any thief could accuse whomsoever he liked, just to postpone his execution. Where would it end?

  ‘Then the verdict is carried,’ said Langar. ‘Shirlok is guilty; the appellees are acquitted.’

  Shirlok’s jaw dropped as he listened to Sir John intone a sentence of death by hanging. ‘But I turned approver,’ he breathed, aghast. ‘You cannot kill me!’

  ‘You misunderstood the law,’ said Langar. ‘It does not matter whether you point fingers at the greatest villains in England – turning approver will not affect your sentence one way or the other. You lodged a plea of guilty, and there is only one possible outcome.’