Hugh shuffled his feet. ‘He said he would give me two pennies. And Father Simon had already given me one, which made three! That is enough to buy seven arrows for the butts.’
‘Who offered you twopence?’ asked Gynewell. ‘Speak up, Hugh. This is important.’
‘Master Langar,’ said Hugh reluctantly. ‘But it was not my fault! He refused to let me see Chapman, so I had no choice. He promised to pass the message to Chapman, and said I had fulfilled my duty in bringing the note to the house. Then he gave me a marchpane, too.’
‘Did you eat it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Hugh grinned. ‘Yes, and it was a good one – from the best baker in the city.’
He scampered away, and Bartholomew watched him dart to Christiana’s side. She smiled at him, but did not stop her prayers.
‘I will go and drag him away from the poor lady,’ said Gynewell with a sigh. ‘She will have no peace if he is hovering like a fly. What will you do now? Go to see Langar?’
‘We have no choice,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘It is the only way forward.’
‘Well, there is your Welshman with his sword,’ said Gynewell, nodding to where Cynric was waiting. ‘I strongly advise you to take him with you.’
‘We should give Gynewell that poison we found,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked along the South Choir Aisle. ‘He can dispose of it, because we cannot leave it here another day.’
Michael agreed, and watched as Bartholomew knelt by the Shrine of Little Hugh and pushed his arm through the gap at the back. He frowned when the physician drew his dagger and used it to fish about, lying full length on the floor to extend his reach. ‘Hurry up, Matt. We do not have all day, and I want to get this interview with Langar over with as soon as possible.’
‘I knew we should have taken the time to deal with the flask yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, standing empty-handed, covered in dust and thoroughly alarmed. ‘Because now it is no longer here. Someone has taken it.’
Bartholomew and Michael left the Close and walked to Miller’s fine house in Newport. Remembering what he had seen the last time he had been there, Bartholomew was grateful Cynric was with them. As they moved farther north, an increasing number of weavers and their families thronged the streets. They spoke in low voices, and there was a distinct aura of fear and uncertainty. Miller’s house and enclosure was like a castle under siege. Armed guards lurked outside, and there were even archers on the roof, training their weapons on passers-by. The grinning Thoresby patrolled the grounds with a black dog that snarled at anyone who came too close.
‘I do not like this,’ whispered Michael. ‘Miller has helped the weavers over the years, and it looks as though they are going to show their appreciation by massing against the Guild.’
‘And the Guild is ready to resist,’ said Cynric. ‘The two sides are fairly evenly matched.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘The Commonalty’s supporters outnumber the Guild by at least five to one – there are far more poor in Lincoln than merchants.’
‘The guildsmen have better weapons, though,’ argued Cynric. ‘And they have horses and hired mercenaries. I would not risk a single penny by betting on the winner: the outcome is too uncertain.’
He led the way across Miller’s yard, ignoring the way the dog slathered at him, although Bartholomew made sure Michael was between him and the creature; it did not look as if Thoresby had it fully under control. No one spoke as they approached the door, although dozens of eyes watched. Cynric rapped with his dagger, and when it was whipped open, Miller’s face was as black as thunder.
‘I told you not to come back, physician,’ he snarled, ‘or have you come to gloat over sending Chapman a few steps nearer the grave?’
‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. A fever was often the outcome with dirty wounds – and then there was the poultice of henbane. Perhaps he had not cleaned it all out.
‘Bunoun said Chapman would have recovered by now, had you not meddled,’ said Miller furiously. ‘We sent for you at dawn, when he became sicker, but the Gilbertines said you were not to be disturbed, so we summoned Bunoun instead. Thank God we did.’
‘Is there a suppuration?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is always a danger with-’
‘Do not blame it on the wound,’ snapped Miller, hand dropping to the dagger in his belt. ‘Bunoun said you poisoned him. You are lucky I do not run you through!’
Cynric drew his hunting knife, daring him to try, while Bartholomew’s hand slipped into his medical bag and the various implements it contained. He had forgotten his sword again.
‘Young Hugh brought a message last night,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could embark on a complex explanation of wounds and their consequences that Miller would not understand. And Cynric had been right: the looming riot would bring an abrupt end to his investigation, and time was short. ‘It was for Chapman, and asked him to meet Simon in the Church of the Holy Cross.’
