The Tarnished Chalice

‘If you had bothered to read Gynewell’s missive, you would know that the Black Monks’ Priory is a long way to the east of the town,’ argued Suttone. ‘Too far to go tonight. But my Carmelite brethren will not starve two hungry canons-elect and a University physician-’

‘Look,’ said Cynric, pointing to where someone was lighting a lantern outside a substantial gatehouse. The lamp swung in the gathering wind, and would not burn for long. ‘Only a convent would own such a great, thick door. We could ask to stay there.’

‘We could not,’ said Suttone distastefully. ‘According to Gynewell, the first friary encountered from this direction will be Gilbertine.’ He almost spat the name of the only religious Order to be founded in England. ‘And we all know they are inferior to the rest of us.’

‘Then you can find somewhere better tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, spurring his horse forward. The Cambridge Gilbertines were respectable, sober men, and he thought Suttone’s prejudice against their Order was unjustified and ignorant. ‘But tonight we shall stay here. It is too near nightfall to be choosy.’

Suttone opened his mouth to argue, but the temperature was dropping fast as the sun disappeared, and even he saw further travel would be foolish. He set his pony after Bartholomew, with Michael and Cynric at his heels.

The Gilbertine Priory of St Katherine occupied a substantial tract of land about a mile south of the city, tucked between the main road and the broad River Witham. Like many convents that had been built outside a town defences, it looked to its own security, and was protected by a high wall. Unfortunately, the wall was in a poor state of repair, suggesting it had been built in a time of plenty, but the priory within was currently experiencing leaner times. On closer inspection, the gatehouse was similarly afflicted: there was worm in its wooden door and its metal bosses were rusty. The grille that allowed guards to scan visitors before opening the front door was missing, affording anyone outside an unobstructed view of the buildings within. Bartholomew saw several long, tiled roofs, indicating that the Gilbertines owned a sizeable institution, if not a wealthy one.

Opposite the gate, standing so close to the side of the road that carts would surely be obliged to alter course to avoid hitting it, was a tall structure, liberally adorned with pinnacles and a teetering central spire. It stood twice the height of a man, and reminded Bartholomew of a roadside shrine he had seen recently in France.

‘It is probably the Eleanor Cross,’ said Suttone, when he saw his colleagues regarding it curiously. He raised his eyebrows in contrived disbelief when Michael regarded him blankly. ‘Queen Eleanor – wife of the first King Edward.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael, struggling to remember his history before Suttone started to gloat. ‘When she died, Edward was so distressed that he built one of these monuments at every place her body rested on its journey to Westminster Abbey. The cortege started near Lincoln, I recall.’

‘The King left her viscera here, though,’ added Suttone, determined to have the last word.

‘Her what, Father?’ asked Cynric.

‘Viscera – innards,’ explained Suttone. ‘It is a great honour for the cathedral to have them.’

Cynric eyed him in shocked revulsion. ‘You English!’ he muttered, but not quite softly enough to escape Suttone’s sharp ears. ‘Disembowelling queens is not the act of civilised men. You are worse than the French – and that is saying something.’

Suttone’s eyes narrowed. The book-bearer had been taciturn and deferential before Bartholomew had taken him overseas some eighteen months before, but the experience had changed him – and not for the better. He often voiced his own opinions now, and was not afraid to say exactly what he thought, even when it was rude. Bartholomew did not seem to care, and even sought out the fellow’s advice on some matters, which Suttone, a traditional sort of man, found unconscionable. It was true that Cynric’s military skills had saved them several times during the journey, but Suttone disliked saucy servants, and he preferred the old Cynric. He opened his mouth to object to being compared unfavourably to the French, but the party had been spotted by the man kindling the lamp – a small fellow with jug-like ears. Like all male members of the Gilbertine Order, he wore an ankle-length tunic of black, covered by a white cloak and hood.

‘Are you looking for lodgings?’ he asked, coming towards them with open eagerness. ‘My name is John de Whatton. We have plenty of beds and food, even for Benedictines and Carmelites, and especially if they can pay.’

‘Good,’ replied Michael ungraciously. ‘I am starving. So is my horse,’ he added as an afterthought, when Suttone drew breath to comment on his plague-inducing appetite.

‘We have plenty of sweet hay, too,’ said Whatton with a cheerful smile. ‘However, you may find us in disarray this evening. We have had a death, you see, but you should not let it bother you.’