The Tarnished Chalice

Tentatively, Stanmore suggested further investigation, but fell silent when Morice and Deschalers rounded on him – why waste time exploring the claims of a self-confessed criminal? It would mean any thief could accuse whomsoever he liked, just to postpone his execution. Where would it end?

‘Then the verdict is carried,’ said Langar. ‘Shirlok is guilty; the appellees are acquitted.’

Shirlok’s jaw dropped as he listened to Sir John intone a sentence of death by hanging. ‘But I turned approver,’ he breathed, aghast. ‘You cannot kill me!’

‘You misunderstood the law,’ said Langar. ‘It does not matter whether you point fingers at the greatest villains in England – turning approver will not affect your sentence one way or the other. You lodged a plea of guilty, and there is only one possible outcome.’

‘Then I want to change it,’ cried Shirlok, as the sheriff’s men began to drag him away. ‘I am not guilty. I did not take anything after all – it was Chapman, Lora and . . . It was not me!’

‘Next case,’ said Sir John.

Cambridge, June 1355

A cart clattered along the tangled lanes known as the Jewry and headed for the high street. It was still early, and the wispy clouds were not yet tinged with the sun’s golden touch, although the birds were awake and sang loud and shrill along the empty streets. Folk were beginning to stir, and smoke curled lazily skyward as people lit fires to heat ale and breakfast pottage. Bells announced the morning offices, and sleepy monks and friars made their way to their dawn devotions.

Matilde urged her horse to move faster, but the cart was heavy – it was loaded with all her possessions and the beast was not able to move as briskly as she would have liked. When she passed St Michael’s Church, her eyes misted with tears. She glanced down the lane opposite, and saw the Master of Michaelhouse striding towards the High Street, his scholars streaming at his heels as he led the daily procession to the church. Matilde could not see whether the man she loved was there, because her tears were blinding her.

She reached the town gate and passed a coin to the man on duty, knowing he would barely look at her: guards were trained to watch who came into the town, but did not care who left it. He waved his hand to indicate she could go, and she flicked the reins to encourage her nag into a trot, wanting to put as much distance between her and Cambridge as possible, before anyone realised she had gone.

Matilde was leaving because she longed for the respectability she knew she would never have in Cambridge. Folk too readily believed she was the kind of woman to entertain men in her house all night, and she wanted something better. In another county, she could begin a different existence, where she would be staid, decent and respected by all. She would be courted by good men, one of whom she would eventually choose as a husband. She could not afford to waste more of her life on Bartholomew, when it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was never going to ask her to be his wife.

She did not look back as her cart rattled along the road that led to the future. She would not have seen anything if she had, with hot tears scalding her eyes. She did not hear the birdsong of an early summer morning, and she did not care about the clusters of white and pink blossom that adorned the green hedgerows. She wondered whether she would ever take pleasure in such things again.

When the service at St Michael’s had finished, Bartholomew slipped out of the procession to head for the Jewry. He heard the birds singing and saw the delicate clouds in the sky, and his heart was ready to burst with happiness. He was going to see Matilde, and it was the first day of his new life. The joy he felt told him he should have asked her to marry him years before.

He hesitated when he raised his hand to tap on her door, suddenly assailed with the fear that she might not have him – that the love he had for her was not reciprocated, and she might object to being wed to a physician with few rich patients and a negligent attitude towards collecting his fees. But he would not know unless he asked, so he knocked and waited. There was no reply, and he was tempted to postpone the matter, although he knew he was just being cowardly. He rapped again, then jiggled the latch, but the door was locked. He supposed Matilde had gone to the Market Square, to buy bread for breakfast, so he set off in that direction.

But the traders had not seen Matilde that morning, and nor had her friend Yolande. Then the physician was summoned to his sister’s house, where one of Oswald Stanmore’s apprentices had a fever. The illness was a serious one, and it was the following afternoon before he could leave his patient and go in search of Matilde again. He was surprised to find Yolande weeping on the doorstep.

‘She has gone,’ she wept. ‘And it is your fault.’

Bartholomew regarded her blankly. ‘What?’