‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Michael of Agnes. ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘Tetford,’ said Agnes reluctantly. ‘After he had decided to close his tavern. He gave one to each of his favourite girls, and said we could sell them to keep us from poverty. He said they were the cups St Hugh used for his wild – but generally respectable – parties.’
‘And how did Tetford come by them?’ asked Michael, his face creased in confusion.
‘He did not say. Why? Was he wrong about their value? The others will not be pleased, because they have already made arrangements with some of the city’s convents. Lincoln’s religious foundations are always eager to buy St Hugh’s relics.’
‘How many of these cups are there?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘He gave one each to me, Belle, Jane and Rosanna,’ said Agnes. Her expression was hard and angry. ‘He said there are no others like them anywhere in the world, but now I see he was lying as usual. God rot his filthy soul!’
* * *
It was past eight o’clock by the time Bartholomew, Michael, Suttone, de Wetherset and Cynric started to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory. Michael carried Agnes’s bag, and in it were the four chalices Tetford had given to his ladies, along with the one Cynric had found in Miller’s home.
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice because it was late and people in the houses they passed were asleep. Hard little pellets of snow swirled in all directions. They bounced across the frozen ground, where the wind blew them into dry, shifting heaps. ‘These cups look similar – if not identical – to the one Shirlok was accused of stealing in Cambridge. What is happening?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Someone has obviously been making copies of the real one in an attempt to make his fortune.’
‘If there is a real one,’ said de Wetherset. ‘But regardless, local convents will jump at an opportunity to buy a relic of St Hugh, especially if it is made of silver.’
‘I doubt these are silver,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a spotting on them that suggests they are forged from some base metal.’
‘Well, they look silver to me,’ said de Wetherset, ‘so they will look silver to potential buyers. I was right to be sceptical of Simon’s chalice – the poor man was as deceived as those impertinent women. I always knew he did not possess my abilities.’
‘What abilities?’ asked Suttone sulkily. He had been enjoying himself in Ravenser’s House of Pleasure, and held de Wetherset responsible for bringing a pleasant evening to a premature end.
‘My talent for distinguishing genuine relics from false ones. It is a gift from God.’
Bartholomew was relieved when they reached the Gilbertine Priory, and even more relieved when there was someone waiting to let them in. Prior Roger had not liked the notion that his guests – especially Suttone – might abandon him, and was ready to do all in his power to keep them. He was so determined they should not be obliged to go through his garden a second night, that he had waited in the porter’s lodge himself, to make sure the guard did not fall victim to another flask of drugged wine.
‘There you are,’ he said, leaping to his feet to usher them inside. ‘I was beginning to be worried.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a dangerous-’
‘Well, you are here now, thank the Lord!’ Roger beamed. ‘I hope you had a good evening. Is it snowing yet? I think we shall have a heavy fall before the night is out.’
‘It is just starting again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is Father Simon in the guest-hall?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Hamo saw him with you at Flaxfleete’s funeral. Did you separate afterwards? That was unwise, given the number of villains arriving for Miller’s Market.’
‘Hamo saw us?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had not spotted the wet-lipped Gilbertine, and he disliked the notion that someone had been watching him without his knowledge.
‘Simon has not returned?’ asked Michael, equally unsettled. ‘He left us hours ago, and said he was going to walk straight home. I hope he has not come to any harm.’
Eager to impress them with his level of concern for absent guests, Roger organised a hunt, sending his brethren out to make a thorough search of first the convent’s buildings, and then its grounds. There was no sign of the priest, so Bartholomew offered to walk back to the city, following the route Simon would have taken. Cynric, Michael and three burly lay-brothers accompanied him, but they met with no success.
‘His belongings are here,’ said de Wetherset, when they returned, cold and tired. ‘I have been through them, but there is nothing to suggest he intended to spend the night away. And Suttone and I have spoken to everyone here, and no one has any idea where else he might be.’
‘He is local,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he has gone to stay with friends.’
‘He does not have any friends,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Besides, he likes the Gilbertines’ daily offices, and he is a devout man. He will not miss a mass by sojourning with secular acquaintances.’
