The Tarnished Chalice by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page B

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 alltheir 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.’
    ‘Just like everything else around here, then,’ said Cynric, looking around disparagingly.
    ‘Are you going to knock?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did no more than stare at Spayne’s front door. That part of Lincoln was full of stone houses, although Spayne’s and the building next door were by far the best. Both were pure Norman, with round-headed doors and windows, and the stocky sense of permanence always associated with that particular style of architecture. The monk was right when he said Spayne’s home needed money spent on repairs, though, because the mouldings were beginning to weather, and the window shutters were rotting under cheap paint. The house next to it was in a far better state, although the lamps from the nearby corn market showed scorch marks that suggested it had been in a recent fire.
    When Bartholomew continued to hesitate, Cynric knocked for him. The book-bearer jumped back quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword, when it was hauled open by a man wearing a purple cote-hardie – a tight-fitting tunic with flaring knee-length skirts