‘He will send you somewhere dangerous,’ said Cynric, who had not appreciated being shut out. ‘He cannot be trusted. Did he try to harm you while you were in there?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He kept his distance, and-’
He glanced up at an odd scraping sound above his head. Cynric suddenly leapt forward to shove Michael to one side. Then there was an almighty crash.
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, looking at the shattered rooftile that lay on the ground. ‘That might have killed me! It is heavy, and it came plummeting down like a … Dalderby!’
Bartholomew sighed when he understood what had happened. ‘Dalderby was “attacked” right here, killed by a blow to the skull from a stone. Sheriff Lungspee said he managed to reel to Kelby’s house, but died without speaking, and there were no witnesses. Kelby lives next door.’
‘Is that too far for an injured man to stagger?’ asked Cynric.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘We saw Sir Josquin de Mons lurch twice that distance at Poitiers, and there was an axe embedded in his pate. So, we can explain Dalderby’s death, at least. The weight of snow on a roof already damaged by fire has caused the tiles to slip. No one killed Dalderby. It was an accident.’
‘You could say Flaxfleete was responsible,’ said Michael, still looking at the broken stone. ‘It was his inferno, after all.’
As they left Spayne’s abode, Bartholomew became aware that the situation had changed since they had gone in. There were a number of men loitering outside Kelby’s home and, judging from the buzz of voices, there were a lot more inside. Further down the street, people stood in small, uneasy groups next to shops and houses. Most were well dressed, and Bartholomew was puzzled.
‘Is there a Guild meeting today?’ he asked. ‘There are a lot of trader-types in this part of the city, but there is not an unemployed weaver in sight.’
‘It looks as if the Guild has claimed the area around the Pultria,’ said Cynric. ‘The Commonalty must be gathering near Miller’s house. In Cambridge, men assemble in clans like this when there is a riot in the offing.’
‘Lord, you are right!’ muttered Michael. ‘Will you warn the sheriff while we speak to Hugh?’
The book-bearer nodded. ‘You may not have another opportunity to wander where you like, if the city turns violent, Brother, so make the most of your time. I have a feeling we might be spending the next few days in the Gilbertine Priory, hoping the fight does not spill across the city walls.’
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the cathedral, Gynewell was waiting to tell them that Hugh was at choir practice. The boys’ voices soared along the vaulted ceiling, although Michael pointed out that the lower parts were under-represented – a number of Vicars Choral and Poor Clerks were missing. Bartholomew saw why when they passed the Head Shrine: Christiana was there, and several men who should have been singing hovered around her. Ravenser was polishing a brass cross, Claypole and John were pretending to read psalters, and Bautre was inspecting the offerings left by pilgrims. When Christiana raised her head and said something, all four scurried to a nearby cupboard, and there was a good deal of elbowing as each tried to grab the candles she had requested. Her smile suggested she expected no less.
‘Hugh is a rascal,’ said Gynewell. ‘When I heard a kinsman of his had been appointed to the Stall of Decem Librarum, I was afraid your Suttone might be an adult version of him. He seems a decent man, though – more like John.’
‘He is all right,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘Although rather preoccupied with the plague.’
‘Who is not?’ asked Gynewell. ‘I lost two-thirds of my clergy, and all but two of my canons. I was afraid the balance of power would tip so far that Lincoln would be ruled by Miller, but the Commonalty also lost men, and the equilibrium was maintained.’
‘It is a pity these factions exist,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A pity for Lincoln.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Gynewell. ‘When the balance is in effect, it is a good system, because one side holds the other in check. I have heard your University has amassed a lot of power in Cambridge, to the detriment of the merchants. That is not good, either.’
‘The merchants do not think so,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I am more than content.’
‘Moderate yourself, Brother. You will find it pays in the long term.’ Gynewell cocked his head. ‘I hear this Gloria coming to an end, so you should nab Hugh before he escapes to do something else.’
He was right, and Michael was hard-pressed to waylay the boy before he could disappear with his friends. Hugh looked particularly angelic in his white alb, although mischief winked in his eyes.
‘Father Simon gave you a letter to deliver last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘It was for Master Chapman,’ piped Hugh.
‘Yes,’ said Michael patiently, ‘but to whom did you take it? Chapman is unwell, so I doubt you would have been allowed to give it to him personally.’
