Gynewell had finished helping his bruised canon, and heard the monk’s remark. ‘I can do that, Brother. Her virtue will be safe with me. I have no interest in women. Except for their souls.’
Cynric gaped at him, then jabbed Bartholomew with his elbow, to ensure such a sinister remark did not go unnoticed.
‘It is for the best,’ said Christiana, seeing Michael’s disappointment and seeming to share it.
‘You had better appreciate this, Matt,’ grumbled Michael, as they made their way to the mayor’s house. ‘I am fond of you, but you are a poor second to Lady Christiana.’
‘Go with her, then. You can retrieve that poison from the shrine at the same time. Besides, Spayne may employ prostitutes, but he is no killer. And Cynric is here.’
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, I will stay. If you still cannot see the real Spayne under his amiable façade, then you are not in a position to defend yourself. I cannot leave you.’
Spayne had seen them coming back, and was standing by his door, ready to usher them in. He had gone from pale to flushed, and Bartholomew saw he was acutely embarrassed.
‘It is only occasionally,’ he murmured, as they stepped across the threshold and stamped their feet to get rid of the snow that adhered to them. ‘Belle, I mean.’
‘Your vices are not our concern,’ said Michael coolly.
‘I do not want you to think badly of me,’ Spayne continued uncomfortably. ‘Since Matilde left, things have been difficult and… but you are right, my problems are not your concern. Please see what you can do to help my sister. Your book-bearer can take some refreshment in the kitchen with the servants while you are occupied.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Cynric, immediately suspicious. ‘I do not want anything.’
Spayne gave a tight smile. ‘Then you can wait outside. I do not allow men from the lower classes into my hall.’
He slammed the door in the startled Welshman’s face, and led Bartholomew and Michael to the main chamber, where Ursula reclined on a cushioned bench. A bucket stood on the floor nearby, but Bartholomew saw it was placed to catch drips from the ceiling, not for the patient. A cold, heavy droplet landed on Michael’s tonsure with a sharp click, and he glowered at the mayor, as though he had made it happen deliberately. Ursula was white-faced and frightened, and it was obvious she was more unwell than her brother had led them to believe. Bartholomew knelt next to her and began to ask questions. She had eaten nothing different, and had barely left the house, because of the cold.
‘I had a little milk yesterday,’ she said, clutching her stomach. ‘I suppose that was unusual.’
‘You do not normally drink milk?’
‘I love milk, but Surgeon Bunoun says it is responsible for blockages, so I only have it as a treat. I had some yesterday, though, to celebrate Dalderby’s funeral.’
‘Ursula!’ exclaimed her brother. ‘That is a terrible thing to say.’
‘Well, it is true,’ she said, unrepentant. ‘I am pleased he is dead. It will weaken Kelby, and that is a good thing for us. Miller knows I like milk, and he left it for me.’
‘Left it?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Left it where?’
‘On the doorstep. It was good milk, too. Full of cream.’
‘Do you still have the jug?’ asked Bartholomew.
She gazed at him. ‘It is in the parlour. Why? You do not think… ?’
Frowning, Spayne left the hall, and returned a few moments later holding a pitcher. There was not much of an odour, but fishy poison was in it nonetheless. Bartholomew mixed Ursula a tonic containing charcoal, thinking that the fact that she had not noticed what was a very distinctive odour suggested she was not as competent an apothecary as she liked people to believe.
‘You have not ingested much,’ he said. ‘And if you drank it yesterday, you are already over the worst. Do you not know it is unwise to consume gifts left on doorsteps, no matter who you think they are from?’
‘Especially in a city that boils with hatred,’ added Michael.
‘I have learned my lesson,’ said Ursula bitterly, lying back against the pillows. ‘The burning is passing now, and I feel better. Thank you for your kindness.’
‘Would you be prepared to reciprocate?’ asked Michael. ‘With a little information about Matilde?’
‘I cannot,’ said Spayne before she could reply. ‘And I have explained why.’
‘Oh, tell them, Will,’ snapped Ursula. ‘Share whatever it is you are hiding. Matilde may welcome enquiries after her well-being from these scholars, and you owe her nothing, not after all these years.’
Spayne appeared to be in an agony of indecision. ‘All right. Let me think it over. I shall ask St Hugh’s advice. If he does not make his displeasure felt, I shall tell you what I know.’
‘That is good news, Matt,’ said Michael, when Spayne had closed the door behind them and they were out in the street again. ‘If he was going to ask for a positive sign, I would say you can forget about having his help, but he said he would share his knowledge if St Hugh does not object. Signs at Hugh’s shrine are rare, and you may be in luck at last. The man’s resolve is weakening.’
