The Tarnished Chalice by Susanna Gregory

– and a red hat. He was laughing and held a goblet in his hand. Behind him was a hall filled with cheering men.
    ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his humour evaporating when he saw strangers in the darkness outside. ‘I was expecting more claret from the Swan tavern, not visitors.’
    ‘Master Spayne?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping into the light spilling from the house. Despite his finery, the manwas unattractive – no chin at all and eyes that were far too small for his fleshy face – and the physician was not surprised Matilde had rejected his offer of marriage.
    The man flushed with anger. ‘I most certainly am not! My name is Walter Kelby, and you would do well to remember it. Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. There was a strong smell of wine, and Kelby was unsteady on his feet. The physician knew perfectly well that intoxicated men sometimes began fights over nothing, and he did not want trouble. ‘I apologise for the intrusion – we have obviously been directed to the wrong house.’
    ‘You want Spayne?’ Kelby staggered when he tried to lean against the door jamb and missed. ‘Why? Is it about wool? If so, then you would fare better with me, since I offer competitive prices. Come in, and join our revelries. I am Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we are celebrating.’
    ‘Celebrating what?’ asked Bartholomew, since the man was obviously itching to tell him.
    ‘Our good fortune. One of us accidentally committed a crime during the Summer Madness, but obviously he was not in his right wits when he did it, so he should not be held accountable for the consequences. But God made Sheriff Lungspee see reason today, and Flaxfleete was acquitted. He will make reparation at the General Pardon, of course – it only costs sixpence, anyway – but it was good to learn he will not be fined by the secular courts for something that was not his fault.’
    Bartholomew smiled politely. ‘Then we shall leave you to savour your victory.’
    ‘Hurry up, Kelby.’ A short man with sharp, rat-like features came to stand behind the merchant, and Bartholomew had the immediate sense that he was dishonest, despite the fact that his sober clothes suggestedhe had taken holy orders. ‘Where is the wine? Master Quarrel said it would be delivered within the hour, and I would kill for a drink.’
    ‘These fellows want to know if I am Spayne,’ slurred Kelby. He stumbled when his friend flung an arm across his shoulder, and Bartholomew jumped forward to prevent both from toppling into the street. ‘The ground moved! It must have been another earthquake. Is the cathedral still standing? Can you see it, Flaxfleete?’
    ‘It is too dark,’ replied Flaxfleete, after a few moments of intent peering. ‘But I do not think God will tear up the land tonight. Not after my success in the law courts.’
    ‘Earthquake?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘Is Lincoln subject to them, then?’
    ‘We had one during the life of Bishop Hugh, although he died more than a hundred years ago,’ explained Flaxfleete. ‘The minster was shaken to pieces, and he rebuilt it. Our Guild reveres St Hugh, and we try to emulate his actions.’
    ‘By raising cathedrals?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought Lincoln only had one of them.’
    ‘I mean we donate money to worthy causes,’ said Kelby, fortunately too drunk to know the monk was mocking him. ‘Such as providing ourselves with a new guildhall, and buying wine for the cathedral officials. We are good friends with them, unlike some I could mention.’
    ‘Very worthy,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could prolong the conversation with more questions. He started to back away. ‘Good evening to you.’
    ‘Who told you Spayne lived here?’ asked Flaxfleete curiously. ‘One of the choristers – small boys with angelic faces and the Devil’s manners? It is the kind of trick they might play on strangers.’
    ‘Why would they do that?’