The houses on the high street were mostly handsome, but when Bartholomew glanced along some of the alleys that radiated off it, he saw Lincoln’s grandeur was superficial. Groups of men slouched aimlessly against cracked, crumbling walls, and their eyes were dull and flat, as though they were resigned to the hopelessness of their situation. He assumed most were weavers, whose forebears had flocked to Lincoln half a century earlier, when there were fortunes to be made in the wool trade.
‘I do not understand,’ said Cynric, regarding them with pity. ‘This is a rich city, with its great minster and fine Norman houses. So why are its people poor?’
‘Apparently, it is because the Fossedike is clogged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It means the weavers cannot send their finished cloth for export, and they are losing out to those who live in more easily accessible ports. I read that royal parliaments were once held in Lincoln, but I do not think His Majesty would be very impressed by what is here now. I have never seen streets more choked with filth, not even in Cambridge.’
‘Not even in France,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And that is a terrible place.’
They passed through the gate that divided the lower part of the town from the plateau known as the Bail. Then they turned left, towards a fortress that transpired to be as dilapidated as the rest of the city. Unimpressed, Cynric announced that to storm it would take no more than a good, hard shove at one of its teetering walls.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist in a pinch that hurt. Before the physician could look around, he found himself hauled backwards and pressed into a doorway. ‘It is Bishop Gynewell! We do not want him to see us.’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘He seems a pleasant man.’
Cynric regarded him in disbelief. ‘He is a demon, boy! You only have to look at him to see he is one of Satan’s imps – he makes no effort to disguise his horns. And if that is not obvious enough for you, then bear in mind that he likes roaring fires and food made with powerful spices. Ask anyone.’
Bartholomew studied him warily, wondering if it was a jest to take his mind off Matilde, but could tell by the earnest expression that his book-bearer was perfectly serious. ‘Gynewell is not a demon.’
Cynric’s amazement intensified. ‘But he is! And you should remember it when you visit him – it might save your life. Or better yet, do not enter his domain at all. He might spear you with his pitchfork or rip you to pieces with his claws.’
Bartholomew was about to argue further when Gynewell started to walk in their direction. With a grim face, Cynric gripped Bartholomew’s sleeve in one hand, his sword in the other and shot through the door to someone’s house. He slammed it behind him and made for the back entrance, ignoring the astonished gaze of the family that was sitting around their kitchen table. Bartholomew grinned sheepishly as he was hauled past them, unable to break free of Cynric’s iron grip.
‘Hello,’ he said, feeling he should make some effort at conversation. ‘It is cold today.’
‘It is indeed,’ stammered the man at the head of the table, while his wife and children sat with mouths agape. ‘We shall have more snow soon.’
And then Bartholomew was in their private garden, where Cynric marched down a path and ushered him through the rear gate and into a lane.
‘There,’ said the book-bearer, closing it firmly. ‘We have escaped. The castle is up here, I believe.’
Leaving Bartholomew at a loss for words, Cynric strode towards the barbican’s ancient metal-studded door. When he knocked, Bartholomew noticed the wood was so rotten that his fist left indentations. On closer inspection, he saw he could probably hack his way inside with one of his little surgical knives, and knew its neglected defences would present no obstacle at all to a serious invader.
‘Mayor Spayne,’ repeated the guard who came to ask what they wanted. ‘Let me see my list.’
He was a slovenly fellow, with bad teeth and a festering boil on his neck that he kept rubbing with grime-coated fingers. He made a great show of consulting a piece of parchment, which Bartholomew saw was a well-thumbed gaol-delivery record. He was puzzled, wondering why Spayne should be on a register of felons, but then saw the document was held upside down, and realised the ‘list’ was the guard’s way of impressing illiterate visitors with a show of administration.
‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually, rolling up the warrant in a businesslike manner. ‘He left several hours ago.’
‘Do you know where he went?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed.
The guard shook his head. ‘But Sheriff Lungspee might. Sheriff! Sir! Over here!’
