‘This snow,’ said Spayne unhappily, glancing up to where the flakes were large grey puffs against the brightness of the sky. ‘It is doing my roof no good at all. If I did not know better, I would say Kelby had asked the bishop to conjure up some foul weather.’
‘But you do know better,’ said Bartholomew. Spayne started to walk down the hill, and the physician fell into step with him, Cynric at his side. ‘Gynewell remains aloof from this feud.’
‘Actually, I meant that Gynewell would never petition the Devil for snow, because he hates the cold. If sweltering heat was afflicting us, I would have no doubt that he had been using his powers.’
‘What powers?’ asked Cynric immediately.
‘I had an unpleasant experience last night,’ said Bartholomew, afraid Spayne might be about to fuel the flames of Cynric’s superstition. ‘Felons attacked Michael and me in the Gilbertines’ orchard.’
‘The orchard?’ asked Spayne, startled. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Trying to reach the guest-hall,’ supplied Cynric, his tone verging on the accusatory. ‘The porter had been drugged, obviously to make sure they were obliged to go round the back, where someone was waiting to dispatch them.’
Bartholomew watched Spayne intently, but the man revealed nothing other than shock that such an incident should have occurred in the first place.
‘It is not the first time decent folk have suffered the depredations of villains recently,’ said Spayne worriedly. ‘Miller’s Market has encouraged some very rough men to visit our town. Last night, an alehouse quarrel ended in violence, and Chapman was badly injured.’
‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Injured where?’
Spayne regarded him oddly. ‘Outside the Angel.’ He pointed to a sign depicting a debauched-looking cherub, which seemed to be the only thing in the city not coated with snow.
‘I mean where on his body?’
Spayne gave a grin that smacked of relief. ‘Of course, you have a professional interest in these matters. He was stabbed in the arm.’
‘The arm,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully.
‘Surgeon Bunoun fears for his life,’ Spayne went on.
‘Then perhaps Miller might appreciate a second opinion,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric nodding eager agreement at his side. ‘It sounds as though you were a witness to this attack.’
‘I was elsewhere when it happened, but I saw folk milling around as I came home – the Angel is between where I was conducting my business and my house. Miller wants revenge, but I think I have convinced him to reflect on the matter before doing anything rash.’
‘Revenge? Was it an attack on the Commonalty, then? You implied it was a tavern brawl.’
‘It was, but Miller still wants someone to pay. Unfortunately, that is the way of things in this city.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’
Spayne grimaced. ‘It is more than sorry – it is tragic. Lincoln is a lovely place, and I hate to see it torn apart by petty rivalries and jealousies. Look around you – indigent weavers who cannot feed their families; the Fossedike full of silt; beautiful buildings crumbling from neglect. If we were to put our energies into solving those problems, Lincoln would be great again.’
‘It does look as though it has fallen on hard times,’ admitted Bartholomew.
‘I am sorry I cannot help you find Matilde,’ said Spayne suddenly. ‘I wish I could, but they are her secrets and it would be improper for me to betray her confidences. If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you herself. I know this is not what you want to hear.’
‘Very well ’
‘Do not be angry. I prayed to St Hugh last night, and asked for his guidance. No great insight came, but then I realised that was his answer: I should not intervene one way or the other.’
‘Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor are preparing me a list,’ said Bartholomew, rather defiantly.
Spayne smiled. ‘Good. I hope they tell you all I know and more. Then you will have what you want, and I shall have a clear conscience. It is the best of all solutions.’
They talked a while longer, and Bartholomew found Spayne hard to dislike. He wondered what it was about him that Michael had taken exception to, and was seriously considering his offer of a cup of wine when Cynric prodded him, to remind him of his duties to the monk and his investigation.
‘Visit me soon, and I shall show you a scroll I bought recently,’ said Spayne, disappointed by the refusal. ‘It is by the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meryonnes, and sheds a good deal of light on the mysteries of Blood Relics, which we discussed on Saturday. I would like your opinion.’
‘I shall look forward to it,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.
‘Do not wait too long,’ said Spayne. ‘The only member of the Commonality with the wits to debate such a subject is Langar, but now his lover, Nicholas Herl, is dead, he has lost his zest for life. But, if you will not debate Blood Relics with me now, I should be about my business.’
‘What business?’ asked Cynric nosily.
‘Mercantile affairs. It is dull stuff, and you would not be interested. Good morning, Doctor.’
