The Tarnished Chalice

Eventually, Michael was ready and they left the priory, ignoring the unhappy strictures of Whatton at the gate, who told them they would miss supper if they took too long. Bartholomew was not hungry, his appetite vanished at the prospect of new information, while in his newly ‘slender’ form, Michael had trained himself to miss the occasional repast. And Cynric was an old soldier, used to eating at irregular times, and was adept at obtaining what he wanted from locked kitchens anyway.

The first obstacle they were obliged to surmount was a tall, narrow structure known as the West Bargate. It straddled a foul-smelling dyke, and comprised a vaulted arch with a stout wooden gate – the heavy bar that secured the gate from inside gave the building its name – and a guard-room above. Smoke issued from the chimney, and a good deal of hammering and shouting was required before the soldier could be persuaded to leave his cosy domain. Once they had his attention, it cost fourpence to be allowed through, and another fourpence to extract the promise that they would be let out again later, to return to their lodgings.

Bartholomew expected to find himself in the city once they had passed under the West Bargate’s dripping portal, and was surprised when the guard said Lincoln was still a mile away: the churches and houses that lined the road ahead comprised the elongated suburb-settlement of Wigford.

The first of Wigford’s dozen churches was a stately affair dedicated to St Botolph. Next was St Margaret’s, once fine, but now showing signs of neglect. Then came Holy Cross, adorned with a handsome steeple, but with its priest’s house a blackened shell at the far end of its churchyard. Some of its parishioners were moving around the ruins with torches, and the rattle of saws and the tap of hammers showed they were rebuilding it, lending their labour once their day’s official work was done. A young priest – no more than a boy – had been given the job of stirring the mortar, but he was unequal to the task, and his parishioners’ complaints rang in the still night air.

Eventually, after a stumbling walk that took twice as long as it would have done in daylight, they reached a river spanned by a bridge of stone. On the other side was a substantial gatehouse. The building appeared to be several hundred years old, and was the kind of crumbling, unstable edifice that did not encourage people to linger underneath. The Michaelhouse men paid another toll and hurried through its cracked arches, relieved when they reached the city on the other side.

They were pleasantly surprised to find Lincoln far more lively than its suburbs. People were in the streets, and shopkeepers operated by the light of lamps. Inns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade, and musicians entertained frozen admirers with pipes, drums, lutes and rebecs. The performer with the largest crowd was a singer who bawled obscene ballads and encouraged his audience

– a scruffy horde with the pinched look of poverty about them – to join in the chorus. They were watched with rank disapproval by several well-dressed merchants. The scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, and Michael bought some to eat as they walked, parting with a few to a boy with a mop of golden curls, who agreed to lead them to the house of the merchant called William de Spayne. Michael was unimpressed when it transpired to be up a very steep incline.

‘Now you see why I prefer the Fens,’ he gasped, as he laboured upwards. ‘There are none of these mountains to ascend. Only heathens live in places where there are hills.’

‘That is Spayne’s home,’ chirped the boy, grinning his amusement at the monk’s discomfort. ‘It is almost opposite the corn market, which always runs late on Wednesdays, as you can see. Spayne’s place is called the Jewes House because it was built by the Jews who crucified St Hugh.’

He snatched the rest of the chestnuts and scampered away before the monk could object, while Cynric regarded Spayne’s abode with serious misgivings.

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ he muttered. ‘Saints murdered by Jews.’

‘He is confusing two stories,’ explained Bartholomew, knowing Cynric could be superstitious and not wanting him to take against the city quite so soon. ‘St Hugh was a Lincoln bishop who died peacefully in his bed, and who was a good man. Little Hugh was a child allegedly crucified by Jews, although since identical stories arose at the same time in Norwich, Bury St Edmunds, York and Gloucester, it makes me wonder whether it was just an excuse.’

‘An excuse for what?’ asked Cynric uneasily.

‘For the expulsion of Jews from England a few years later,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And the confiscation of all their goods. The Crown made a lot of money by passing that particular law.’

‘And whoever managed to lay hands on this building did rather well out of the Jews’ misfortunes,’ said Michael. ‘It is a very fine house, although in desperate need of loving care.’