Free The Tarnished Chalice by Susanna Gregory

run all the way to the door, which means the keg wasleaking when it was brought in. If wine was dripping out, then it means something may have been dripped inside, too.’
    ‘You are right,’ said Michael, as he inspected the trail. ‘That does suggest the poison was added when the cask was at the tavern.’
    ‘God’s blood!’ cried Kelby in anguish. ‘Someone will swing for this!’
    ‘I imagine so,’ said Michael calmly. ‘However, I hope you will remember that it had nothing to do with us. We were talking to your neighbour, Ursula de Spayne, when your friend met his end.’
    ‘That witch,’ sneered Kelby. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that she poisoned poor Flaxfleete. She has a knowledge of herbs and potions, and regularly offers them to anyone foolish enough to trust her. She hated Flaxfleete and will delight in his death. She is the culprit!’
    It was a sober supper for the Michaelhouse scholars that night. The meal – provided uncommonly late on account of Bartholomew and Michael going out – was served in the guest-hall’s main chamber. Not everyone had taken to his heels after the recent stabbing, and a handful of men huddled near the meagre fire at the far end of the room. Most were poor, as evidenced by their threadbare clothes and thin boots, and it was clear they simply could not afford to go elsewhere. There were baleful glares when Hamo provided them with day-old bread and a few onions, but brought roasted goose for the more valued party from upstairs.
    Bartholomew barely noticed them. His thoughts had returned to Matilde, and all he could think was that Spayne might be able to tell him where she had gone. He did not feel like eating, and picked listlessly at the slab of fatty meatMichael slapped on to his trencher. The monk made up for his lack of appetite by eating more than was wise, and then complained that his stomach hurt. Cynric was withdrawn and morose, and became more so when Suttone began a defensive monologue about the man he had hired to be his Vicar Choral, claiming that John Aylmer was a paragon of virtue, despite Hamo’s statements to the contrary.
    ‘What is the matter, Cynric?’ Bartholomew asked, pulling himself out of his reverie when he noticed something was bothering his book-bearer. The man had been with him all his adult life, and was more friend than servant. He did not like to see him unhappy.
    ‘I do not like this place,’ said Cynric, waving a hand that encompassed guest-hall, convent and city, all at the same time. He saw Suttone had broken off his tirade and was listening. ‘You should … pay your respects to Spayne, and leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be best.’
    ‘You cannot do that, Matthew!’ cried Suttone in alarm. ‘Michael and I are helpless monastics and need the protection you two provide for our journey home. What is wrong with Lincoln, anyway?’
    ‘It is shabby,’ declared Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘It looks as though it was fine, but has fallen on hard times – just like this priory, in fact. It is also set to be destroyed by an earthquake at any moment, and I am uncomfortable with the notion of murdered saints, queens deprived of their innards, and men poisoned with wine. And Brother Michael was right in what he said: Kelby and his friends may decide to blame us for Flaxfleete’s death, just because we are strangers.’
    ‘We are going to be canons,’ said Suttone indignantly. ‘No one would dare offend us with unfounded accusations.’
    ‘
You
are going to be a canon, Father,’ corrected Cynric morosely. ‘I am a book-bearer.’
    ‘He has a point,’ said Michael to Suttone. His next comment was directed at Bartholomew. ‘But we can avoid trouble if we keep to ourselves, and do not meddle in matters that are not our concern. Lord, my belly aches! Are you sure being near that poisoned wine did me no harm, Matt?’
    ‘When you were out, Hamo told me about a rift that is pulling Lincoln apart,’ said Suttone,