‘Here is Bresley,’ said Michael, as the door opened and the dean walked in. Several men’s hands dropped to their purses, and Ravenser went to a pot, where coins had been left for the women, and locked it in a cupboard. ‘He will have something to say about all this racket.’
Instead of bringing the carousing to an end, Bresley strolled to a bench and sat, snapping his fingers at Hugh to bring him some wine. Agnes went to stand behind him, but he made no effort to move away when she flopped an arm across his shoulder. He rummaged under his robes and his hand emerged with something gold. His actions were odd enough to encourage Bartholomew to watch him.
Michael tried to peer around Jane, who was intent on crawling into his lap; the monk seemed powerless to resist her relentless advance. ‘Can you see what he is doing?’ ‘He has just put something under Agnes’s skirts,’ replied Bartholomew. He laughed when Michael blushed modestly. ‘Something metal.’ ‘We should leave,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘Simon was right: we should not be here. And I am surprised the dean dares show his face, given that he wants the place closed down. He is-’
‘Madam!’ shrieked de Wetherset suddenly, leaping to his feet. His face had flushed scarlet, and he was shaking. ‘Madam!’
‘What?’ demanded Belle irritably.
‘Your hand! It wandered a second time! The first I understand was an error, but to do it twice … !’
Belle frowned, puzzled. ‘Rosanna told me to make sure you were happy.’
‘I was happy,’ yelled de Wetherset, ‘until you … I shall not stay here to be molested. I am leaving!’
‘What about my payment?’ demanded Belle. Other women began to mutter ominously.
‘Payment for what?’ asked de Wetherset, amazed. ‘Ravenser said the food and ale was from him.’
‘We should all be going home,’ said Michael hastily, pressing a coin into Belle’s hand.
Bartholomew led the still-spluttering de Wetherset outside to where Cynric was waiting, his face a cool mask of disapproval.
‘You lingered a long time,’ he said, accusingly. ‘I expected you to follow my example sooner.’
‘She … she touched me,’ stammered de Wetherset, outraged. ‘And I am absolutely certain it was deliberate. She must have been trying to seduce me!’
‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to lovely women, then?’ asked Suttone sullenly. He had not been touched and seduced enough.
‘Of course I am!’ snapped de Wetherset. ‘Powerful men are irresistible to people of either sex, but that is no excuse for her to make herself familiar with my person. We are in the sacred confines of a Cathedral Close! I certainly shall not visit that den of iniquity again.’
Agnes had followed them outside. ‘Ravenser said you forgot this,’ she said, passing the cloak de Wetherset had abandoned in his agitation. ‘It is cold, and you will not want to walk home without it.’
Ungraciously, de Wetherset snatched it from her hand and strode away, Suttone hurrying after him when he saw him head in entirely the wrong direction in his agitation. While the monk watched Suttone herd the ex-Chancellor towards the right gate, Bartholomew made a grab for the folds of Agnes’s unfashionably voluminous skirts. She started to screech, but stopped abruptly when he located a linen bag hidden among the pleats. It was suspended by a ribbon, and clanked in a way that suggested several items were contained within.
‘That is mine,’ snapped Agnes, trying to wriggle away from him. ‘The men here sometimes do not have coins, so they pay with other items instead.’
Bartholomew tugged the bag, breaking the ribbon. Agnes hastened to snatch it back, but he fended her off with one hand and emptied its contents on to the ground with the other.
‘This,’ he said, grabbing a gold cup to wave at her, ‘belongs to Adam Miller. It is one of a set of four, although the dean has ensured that Miller is now the perplexed owner of a set of three.’
‘I will give it to the bishop tomorrow,’ she said sulkily. ‘There is a special box for anything from the dean, and Gynewell always makes sure it gets to its rightful owner. It is part of the arrangement of working here: anything from Bresley goes to the bishop, and the rest we can keep.’
‘How odd,’ said Michael, bemused.
‘Bresley is ill,’ explained Agnes. ‘He does not know what he is doing. The bishop says he is a good dean, and does not want to find a replacement, although it means he is obliged to spend an hour of each morning returning borrowed property. That cup will be back with Miller by noon tomorrow.’
‘And what is this?’ asked Cynric, picking up another item. ‘Did the dean give you this, too?’
Michael gazed at it in shock. ‘That is the Hugh Chalice!’
‘So is this,’ said Cynric, producing the one he had taken from Miller’s house.
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, placing them side by side and inspecting them in the dim light of the lamp that burned above the tavern’s door. ‘They are identical. Which is the real one?’
‘The one in the Gilbertine Priory presumably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless all three are fakes.’
