discuss terms.’
‘It is not wool business,’ said Michael. ‘Although I understand wool is what made Lincoln rich.’
‘It did,’ acknowledged Flaxfleete. ‘But times have changed, and we are all suffering from cheap foreign imports – except Spayne, who has trading rights in the upstart port of Boston. Damn him – and damn them, too! Boston is killing Lincoln, and he encourages it.’
‘You should go sparingly with that,’ advised Michael, pointing at the keg. ‘My friend here visited France this year, and he says the grape harvest was poor. That claret might make you sick.’
Kelby tried to focus on the barrel, screwing up his face as he did so. ‘Well, I have had more than enough for today, so perhaps I will abstain.’
‘I have not,’ said Flaxfleete, clapping a comradely hand on his shoulder. ‘I intend to make this a night to remember – my acquittal and the other good news.’
‘What other good news?’ asked Kelby, trying to focus on him.
Flaxfleete grinned. ‘I am saving that to announce later, but you will be delighted, I assure you. We shall be celebrating all night, and I mean to drink until I can no longer stand.’
‘My students do that,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘But they are sixteen. An excess of wine leads the black bile to—’
‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘Or it really will be too late to call on Spayne.’
‘He lives next door,’ said Flaxfleete, jerking his thumb at the handsome house that stood uphill from his own.
‘And you can tell him from me that if there is any Summer Madness next year, he might find more of his storerooms burned to the ground.’
In the darkness of the street, Bartholomew heard a roar of delight as the barrel was presented to the company within. It was loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring house, and he wondered what Spayne thought of the celebration. From what he had been told by the Gilbertines – and what he knew of the disease called Holy Fire – Flaxfleete’s claim that his illness had made him incinerate Spayne’s buildings was bogus, and Sheriff Lungspee had been wrong to acquit him.
‘This is a godless city,’ grumbled Cynric, as they walked towards the house Flaxfleete had indicated. ‘Disembowelled queens, warring merchants, crucified children. It is not what I expected.’
‘Flaxfleete was right: that boy did play a trick on us,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, ignoring the book-bearer’s unhappy mutters. He grinned. ‘If he is a chorister, he will have a shock when he realises he has just started a feud with one of the new canons.’
‘It sounds as though Lincoln has enough feuds already,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘The city feels uneasy, and you should avoid disputes, even with choirboys.’
They reached the house, and the physician stood hesitantly outside a second door that evening. He gazed at it, wondering whether the narrow alley that separated Spayne’s home from Kelby’s provided enough of a barrier between what sounded to be very determined foes.
Spayne was wealthy, judging from his house, which had new shutters on its windows and a highly polished front door. Snow was piled on the roof in a way that suggested it might slough off at any moment and flatten someone, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Spayne might hope it would, and that its victim would be a neighbour. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer, so he knocked again.
Michael was about to suggest they return in the morning, when they heard a bar being removed and the door was opened by a woman in a long green robe. Beyond her was a handsome hall with fine wall-paintings and polished floorboards. Unfortunately, the chamber’s elegant proportions were spoiled by the presence of a crude wooden brace near the hearth, suggesting the ceiling was unstable and needed to be shored up.
‘The answer is no,’ said the woman coldly. ‘The sound of your revelry is not disturbing us. You can
‘It is not wool business,’ said Michael. ‘Although I understand wool is what made Lincoln rich.’
‘It did,’ acknowledged Flaxfleete. ‘But times have changed, and we are all suffering from cheap foreign imports – except Spayne, who has trading rights in the upstart port of Boston. Damn him – and damn them, too! Boston is killing Lincoln, and he encourages it.’
‘You should go sparingly with that,’ advised Michael, pointing at the keg. ‘My friend here visited France this year, and he says the grape harvest was poor. That claret might make you sick.’
Kelby tried to focus on the barrel, screwing up his face as he did so. ‘Well, I have had more than enough for today, so perhaps I will abstain.’
‘I have not,’ said Flaxfleete, clapping a comradely hand on his shoulder. ‘I intend to make this a night to remember – my acquittal and the other good news.’
‘What other good news?’ asked Kelby, trying to focus on him.
Flaxfleete grinned. ‘I am saving that to announce later, but you will be delighted, I assure you. We shall be celebrating all night, and I mean to drink until I can no longer stand.’
‘My students do that,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘But they are sixteen. An excess of wine leads the black bile to—’
‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘Or it really will be too late to call on Spayne.’
‘He lives next door,’ said Flaxfleete, jerking his thumb at the handsome house that stood uphill from his own.
‘And you can tell him from me that if there is any Summer Madness next year, he might find more of his storerooms burned to the ground.’
In the darkness of the street, Bartholomew heard a roar of delight as the barrel was presented to the company within. It was loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring house, and he wondered what Spayne thought of the celebration. From what he had been told by the Gilbertines – and what he knew of the disease called Holy Fire – Flaxfleete’s claim that his illness had made him incinerate Spayne’s buildings was bogus, and Sheriff Lungspee had been wrong to acquit him.
‘This is a godless city,’ grumbled Cynric, as they walked towards the house Flaxfleete had indicated. ‘Disembowelled queens, warring merchants, crucified children. It is not what I expected.’
‘Flaxfleete was right: that boy did play a trick on us,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, ignoring the book-bearer’s unhappy mutters. He grinned. ‘If he is a chorister, he will have a shock when he realises he has just started a feud with one of the new canons.’
‘It sounds as though Lincoln has enough feuds already,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘The city feels uneasy, and you should avoid disputes, even with choirboys.’
They reached the house, and the physician stood hesitantly outside a second door that evening. He gazed at it, wondering whether the narrow alley that separated Spayne’s home from Kelby’s provided enough of a barrier between what sounded to be very determined foes.
Spayne was wealthy, judging from his house, which had new shutters on its windows and a highly polished front door. Snow was piled on the roof in a way that suggested it might slough off at any moment and flatten someone, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Spayne might hope it would, and that its victim would be a neighbour. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer, so he knocked again.
Michael was about to suggest they return in the morning, when they heard a bar being removed and the door was opened by a woman in a long green robe. Beyond her was a handsome hall with fine wall-paintings and polished floorboards. Unfortunately, the chamber’s elegant proportions were spoiled by the presence of a crude wooden brace near the hearth, suggesting the ceiling was unstable and needed to be shored up.
‘The answer is no,’ said the woman coldly. ‘The sound of your revelry is not disturbing us. You can
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