Several of the Commonalty, including Chapman, live here with Miller,’ he explained. ‘And Lora Boyner’s brewery is near the stream over there. She claims the secret of her ale is that she uses water that has not yet flowed through the city.’
Bartholomew saw a neat, squat shed at the end of the garden. A horse was hitched to a cart, which was being loaded with barrels, and Lora was issuing orders to a pair of sweating apprentices. One keg was abandoned near the gate, and Lora and her people studiously looked the other way when a gaggle of women approached and began to roll it towards the nearest hovel. The weavers were proud, and Bartholomew was surprised the belligerent Lora should be sympathetic to their sensitivities.
‘Lord!’ said Suttone, gazing at Miller’s home in awe. ‘This is a mansion! Its owner must do very well at his trade – whatever it is. Is he a miller? There is a wheat-sheaf carved on his lintel.’
‘I do not think so,’ said the dean. He frowned. ‘Actually, I am not sure what he does.’
De Wetherset was better informed. ‘He is in the export-import business, although that cannot be easy with the Fossedike silting up. It means he sells things to people. In fact, if you express a desire to purchase anything, Miller is the man to get it for you. He has some very good contacts.’
‘Father Simon?’ asked Cynric innocently. ‘Can you be more specific about Adam Molendinarius’s work?’
Simon scowled. ‘I know nothing about his dealings. Why would I?’
The door was answered before Cynric could reply. A manservant conducted them to a solar, but insisted on remaining with them while a maid went to fetch Miller. It was an odd way to treat guests, but when Bartholomew looked behind him and realised Cynric had disappeared, he supposed Miller was right to be wary of men he did not know. He sincerely hoped the book-bearer would be careful, and refused to dwell on what might happen – to them both – if Cynric were caught snooping.
Within a few moments, Miller and Langar arrived. Both looked tired and pale, and Miller was oddly subdued. His voice was husky when he spoke, as though he had been shouting. Bartholomew looked at the daggers they carried in their belts and tried to ascertain whether they were the ones drawn against him and Michael the night before. There were no obvious signs that they had been used in a fracas, but he suspected that even if there were, Miller and Langar would claim they had resulted from the skirmish in the Swan tavern.
‘Surgeon Bunoun says Chapman will die,’ said Miller, when Suttone had explained why they had come. ‘So he cannot show you his relics.’
‘Does he need a priest?’ asked Simon.
Miller smiled at him, revealing his four teeth. ‘Not yet, although it is good of you to come.’
‘Then perhaps I can help,’ said Bartholomew, when de Wetherset shoved him forward with such force that he staggered. He had been watching the dean inspect a tray on which stood four gold goblets and a matching jug. ‘I have some experience with wounds.’
‘Recent experience,’ added Suttone helpfully. ‘He was at Poitiers, and his book-bearer says he treated many men with terrible injuries. He even managed to save a couple.’
‘Did you?’ asked Langar warily. ‘You did not offer to help when Dalderby was shot.’
‘Your surgeon was already there,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It would have been impolite to interfere.’
‘You are interfering now,’ Langar pointed out, not unreasonably.
‘He is here to provide a second opinion,’ said de Wetherset smoothly. ‘That is not interference.’
Miller regarded Bartholomew appraisingly, then blew his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come upstairs, then. I will take you, and Langar can stay here with the others. We never leave visitors alone, because-’
‘It would be rude,’ finished Langar loudly.
‘Right,’ said Miller with a tired sigh. ‘That is the reason. Not because we have anything to hide in our cellars. They are all empty, and we do not keep any goods of dubious origin in them.’
‘You should rest, Miller,’ said Langar sharply. ‘You were up all night with Chapman, and the lack of sleep has blunted your wits.’
‘Can we look at Chapman’s relics while we wait for Bartholomew?’ asked de Wetherset, while Miller stoically waved his lawyer’s concerns away. ‘Since we are here anyway?’
‘Lora will bring them,’ said Miller. ‘Come with me, physician.’
Bartholomew knew he would be a fool to let Miller separate him from the others, but could think of no way to avoid it without arousing suspicion. He followed him up a narrow staircase to the upper floor, feeling increasingly nervous with each step.
‘Father Simon tells me you and he arrived in Lincoln at the same time,’ he said, to break a silence that was both oppressive and unnerving. ‘About twenty years ago.’
