‘It might be your only chance,’ argued Michael. ‘And it is not unethical – I am merely using the wits God gave me to extract information that a decent man would have parted with willingly. Time is short, Matt; we do not have the luxury of tiptoeing around the man.’
‘If you were not going to be installed next Sunday, I would recommend we leave Lincoln tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I have never felt so vulnerable or so alone, not even at Poitiers. At least I could recognise the enemy there.’
‘I recognise them here,’ said Michael grimly. ‘The problem is that there are so many of them.’
Being installed as a canon was not just a case of donning new robes and reciting oaths of obedience during a grand ceremony. There were administrative matters that needed to be resolved, too, and Michael found himself trapped at a desk in the scriptorium under a growing mound of parchment. Bartholomew helped him, afraid that if it was not completed, it would delay their departure the following Monday. They worked until the light began to fade, and left when Michael confided that he did not want to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory after dark.
They met Bishop Gynewell near the market called the Pultria. He was hopping up the hill like a mountain goat, Dean Bresley labouring at his side. He carried the equipment needed for Extreme Unction, and Bresley said they had been summoned to Robert Dalderby, who had suffered a grave wound at the butts. Surgeon Bunoun professed himself in fear for his patient’s life.
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘Does he lose many victims with minor wounds, then?’
‘No more than any other leech,’ replied Gynewell. ‘He often recommends last rites to his patients, and when they recover, he demands a higher fee for snatching them from the jaws of death.’
‘His tactics have made him extremely rich,’ said Bresley. His expression was wistful. ‘He owns some lovely gold spoons. I have had them in my hands on several occasions. I often meet him when Miller invites me to dine, although he has an unpleasant habit of talking about diseases while we eat.’
‘I know someone else who does that,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a ploy to put us off our food, so there will be more for themselves.’
Gynewell frowned uneasily. ‘I hope you are not planning to walk to the Gilbertine Priory alone.’
‘It is only just four o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hardly late. And it is not even dark.’
‘It will be soon,’ said Gynewell, passing his sacred vessels to Bresley. ‘I shall escort you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, not wanting the bishop’s company once night had fallen. The visit to the palace had unsettled him, and although he knew he should not allow Cynric’s suspicions to interfere with his reason, he felt the prelate had too many odd habits to be ignored.
‘They do not need such cosseting, My Lord,’ said Bresley impatiently. ‘No one will harm them. They are friends of the Suttone clan.’
‘Why are the Suttones so revered?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘They do not live in Lincoln, and nor have they taken sides in the city’s quarrels.’
‘And there you have your answer,’ replied Gynewell. ‘If they did reside in the city, people would see their faults, and the veneration would fade. But they are far enough distant that they can do no wrong. Also, the fact that they stand aloof from the dispute is important: both sides hope they might be recruited, which would tip the balance permanently. However, the family know what will happen if they declare an allegiance, and they have no wish for bloodshed.’
‘They are good men,’ said Bresley. He shifted the bishop’s accoutrements in his arms, and a silver brooch dropped from somewhere inside his robes to clatter to the ground. Gynewell pounced on it, and Bartholomew was bemused when he slipped it in his own purse. Bresley did not seem to notice.
‘I think I will come with you, Brother,’ determined the bishop. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘People know he is a friend of the Suttones,’ insisted Bresley. ‘He will be quite safe. And what happens when you reach the convent. Will he walk back with you, so you are not alone?’
‘Cynric is waiting near the High Bridge,’ lied Michael. ‘We do not need any other guard.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew, when Gynewell and Bresley had gone. ‘There was a good deal of ill-feeling at the butts, and folk see you as an addition to the cathedral’s ranks.’
‘They would not have noticed me at all, if Gynewell had not ordered me to investigate a murder. I would have been with Suttone, being feted as the friend of a man who hails from such a well-loved family. He is not obliged to interview criminals who call themselves Vicars Choral, and nor is he obliged to sit with a demon and eat cakes that sear the inside of his mouth. It still hurts.’
‘Gynewell unnerves me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sounds sensible and decent, but his appearance and habits are hard to overlook.’
