The Habit of Murder

Chapter 13

The rumbling grew ever louder, and within moments, water swirled over the lip of the pavement and flowed towards them, foaming from the force of the deluge.

‘The steps!’ yelled Michael. ‘Quick! Climb up–’

‘The door is secured from the outside,’ shouted Marishal, and in the flickering lamplight, he was almost as wan as the monk. ‘The stairwell will flood as quickly as the cistern, and no one will hear us shout for help. We will die there for certain.’

‘Thomas,’ said Bartholomew with desperate hope. ‘He knows we are down here – he came to ask you for the key.’

‘I sent him to spread word about the Queen being delayed.’ Marishal staggered as water surged around his knees. ‘He will not know anything is amiss until it is far too late.’

And he might have been the one to open the valves anyway, thought Bartholomew – to rid himself of Lichet, two annoyingly persistent investigators and an unloved father in one fell swoop.

‘But the cistern is a clever piece of engineering,’ he said urgently. ‘Lichet installed the silly device on the door, but the original architects were much more sensible. They will have predicted that someone might be trapped one day and catered for such an eventuality. We just need to find–’

‘Yes!’ Relief blazed in Marishal’s eyes. ‘There is a special chamber. It is almost directly above where Michael was just standing – I remember being shown it as a child. Access is via a ladder, assuming it has not rotted over the years …’

The ladder was still there, although by the time they reached it, water was bubbling around their thighs. Bartholomew went up it first, alarmed when the ancient rungs flexed under his weight, sure they would not take Michael’s. He climbed quickly, the lamp in one hand. Eventually, he reached an irregularly shaped chamber, which he predicted would be above the cistern’s ceiling, so would form an air pocket.

Marishal followed, but Michael was heavy and not particularly agile. Rungs snapped when he trod on them, and twice he fell back into the churning water, saved from being swept away only by the fact that he was strong – and terrified – enough to keep a powerful grip on the uprights. It felt like an age before Bartholomew and Marishal finally managed to pull him to safety.

Then the water rose higher than the opening to their refuge, effectively cutting them off. The sound of rushing water faded to a muted rumble, and the loudest sound was their own breathing.

‘We will not suffocate just yet,’ Bartholomew assured Michael, aware that the monk was trying not to pant. ‘There is air enough to last a while.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ gulped Michael. ‘Of course, we shall starve instead, because it might be weeks before we are found, especially if the cistern is kept full.’

‘I cannot stay here!’ cried Marishal, horrified. ‘The Lady needs me. The Queen may not come today, but she will arrive sooner or later, and I must be there to ensure that all runs smoothly.’

‘While I have a University to manage and a College to close,’ said the monk, and glanced sadly at Bartholomew. ‘We cannot save Michaelhouse now. Even if we do survive this terrible experience, we have not secured enough money to make a difference.’

‘It was not the wind that shut the door,’ said Bartholomew to the steward, his mind running in a different direction entirely. ‘It was the killer. He trapped Michael and Lichet first, then decided to add you and me to his tally of victims – doubtless to ensure that no one is left alive to investigate.’

Marishal regarded him with haunted eyes. ‘Then he must have been very close to hand, given that the door slammed so soon after we began our descent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So think. Who else was nearby?’

‘Someone who hid himself well, because I did not see a soul. Did you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, although he could not escape the conviction that Thomas might have ignored his father’s order to tell everyone about the Queen’s change of plan, and followed him back to the cistern instead.

‘I did not either,’ confessed Michael. ‘All my attention was on Lichet. He said important evidence was down here, and I was so frantic for answers that I rashly believed him.’

While they talked, Bartholomew took the lamp and explored the chamber in the hope of finding something that would allow them to escape. There was nothing, but …

‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked, holding up a white wig and a matching beard.

‘Roos’s,’ replied Marishal. ‘He must have come here to don his disguises.’

‘Lichet said that Roos liked the cistern,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Now we know why – and why Margery suggested it as a place to meet. It is somewhere he felt safe and comfortable.’

Marishal covered his face with his hands. ‘And she did know about this room, because I showed it to her years ago. I had forgotten about it, but clearly she never did, and she shared the secret with him – as a place he could use without fear of discovery. It is my fault that–’

‘What is this?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, leaning down to pluck something from the floor. He grimaced irritably. ‘That is a stupid question! I know what it is – it is Langelee’s letter-opener. What I should ask is: what is it doing here? We know he lost it after a night of drunken debauchery at the priory …’

‘Which was the same night as Margery’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, taking the little implement from him and peering at it in the dim light.

Marishal was looking from one to the other in bemusement. ‘What are you saying? That Langelee is the killer?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Michael irritably. ‘However, he lost his letter-opener that fateful evening, and for it to be here … Is it the murder weapon, Matt?’

‘No – the wounds on both victims were too large to have been made with this.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Nicholas coveted that blade, and I suspected straight away that he was the one who stole it. So what does this tell us? That he is involved somehow?’

‘He is a lout, who had no business taking holy orders,’ said Marishal. ‘Why do you think I chose Heselbech to bury Margery and preside over the rededication ceremony tonight? However, I know for a fact that Nicholas had nothing to do with killing Margery and Roos. He has an alibi.’

‘Yes, in Anne,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But we suspect she was fast asleep in her cell at the salient time.’

‘Of course she was,’ said Marishal impatiently. ‘She would not disturb her precious slumbers for mere holy offices. No, Nicholas’s alibi is Barber Grym and two artists, who were in the church from nocturns to dawn. The work is behind schedule, you see, so they met there to see what could be done to hurry it along. All swear that Nicholas recited his office, then stayed on to pray.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Then why did Grym not mention this to me?’

‘Did you ask him about Nicholas?’

‘Well, no,’ conceded the monk. ‘I have concentrated on witnesses from the castle, because it was here that the crimes were committed.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘So how did the letter-opener end up in this place? I suppose Nicholas might have stolen it later, but Langelee is sure he lost it during the night – around the time when he was helping Heselbech to the chapel.’

‘He must have dropped it, after which someone else picked it up and brought it here,’ said Bartholomew, although his words sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, and he could think of no reason why anyone would do such a thing.

‘He told us that after leaving Heselbech, he went straight back to the priory,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘But it was a lie, because I heard him come in much later. He claimed he had to stop to vomit, but …’

‘So Langelee did kill my wife?’ demanded Marishal, looking from one to the other. ‘Christ God! No wonder you two have failed to solve the crime!’

‘I suspect Heselbech thinks Langelee is the guilty party,’ Bartholomew told Michael unhappily. ‘He came to after Langelee had deposited him on the chapel floor, and while Weste was reciting nocturns on his behalf, he went outside to relieve himself …’

‘Where he saw a “shadow” by the cistern,’ finished Michael. ‘He assured us that it was too dark to allow identification, but we both had a feeling that he knew who it was anyway.’

‘But he would never admit it, because of the vows that the Austins have sworn to protect fellow ex-warriors.’ Bartholomew felt sick, especially when he recalled the Master’s reaction as he realised the letter-opener had gone. It was not the loss of a much-loved possession that had caused his distress, but the knowledge that it might later surface to incriminate him.

‘Langelee has been different since the murders,’ Michael went on shakily. ‘He did not drink as heavily the following night, and he has been uncharacteristically subdued and morose.’

Bartholomew was thinking fast. ‘Margery and Roos: we have assumed that because they were killed with the same weapon, it was wielded by the same hand. But what if it was different?’

‘Go on,’ said Michael warily.

‘Langelee suggested several times that Roos killed Margery, but we dismissed it. What if he is right, and Roos stabbed her in a fit of rage? We know they quarrelled that night, because Lichet just said so, and he had no reason to lie. Langelee is not a man to stand idly by while a woman is harmed …’

‘So he fought Roos, and it is obvious who would win that encounter,’ finished Michael. ‘Roos was knifed, after which he fell in the water to drown. But why did Langelee not–’

‘The water!’ shouted Marishal suddenly. ‘It is going down! Thank God! Someone must have opened the sluices in the kitchen. We are saved!’

He grabbed the ladder, fretting impatiently for the water to subside enough for him to leave. He was down it sooner than was safe, although Bartholomew and Michael were more cautious – partly because of the missing and fragile rungs, but mostly because they were afraid of what would inevitably have to happen once they were outside. Moving with care, as the water was still calf high, the two scholars eased around the ledge.

‘Where is Marishal?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly, when they reached the wider part of the pavement and there was no sign of the steward. ‘I hope his impatience has not seen him swept away. It would be a pity for–’

He faltered when he heard voices coming towards them. One was Thomas’s and the other …

‘Oh Lord,’ gulped Michael. ‘It is Langelee!’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards the stairwell, but what they saw as they approached stopped them dead in their tracks. Marishal lay senseless on the ground at Langelee’s feet, while Thomas hovered uncertainly behind him. Langelee was wet and muddy, and bore the signs of having spent a night in the open. Yet he was rosy-cheeked and his eyes were bright, suggesting that he had recently enjoyed reverting to the warrior he had once been.

‘Marishal lunged at me with a blade,’ he explained, as Bartholomew eased forward cautiously to inspect the fallen man. ‘God knows why. Regardless, I reacted instinctively, and he will wish he had been less belligerent when he wakes up.’

‘He did lunge,’ said Thomas, his face creased with confusion. ‘And it took me by surprise, too. He is not usually given to brawling.’

‘Well?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew. ‘Will he live?’

Bartholomew nodded, and scrambled quickly to his feet, feeling vulnerable on his knees with the Master looming over him.

‘You were lucky,’ Thomas told him and Michael. ‘I happened to hear the roar of water as it was released from the tanks on the roof. Knowing you were down here, I raced to open the kitchen sluices, praying that I was not too late.’

‘You were too late,’ said Michael shortly, while Bartholomew pondered the length of time it had taken, and wondered if Thomas had “raced” or strolled. ‘But we found a refuge. Did you see who went to the roof to open the taps? Or who shut the cistern door behind Matt and your father?’

‘No,’ replied Thomas, ‘because I was busy doing what I was told – spreading the word about the Queen. Everyone is milling around the gatehouse, gossiping about it, and as far as I could tell, the inner bailey was deserted.’

‘It was,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Indeed, I only came up here because I was looking for you two. Heselbech said you were worried about me, so I came to report that I am safe.’

‘Well, clearly someone was about,’ persisted Michael. ‘Someone who wants Matt, Lichet, Marishal and me dead, and who went to considerable trouble to do it. We almost drowned.’

‘Well, thank God you did not,’ said Langelee, and his eyes strayed to Marishal’s prostate form. ‘I wonder why he assaulted me. All I did was come to save his miserable life.’

‘He thinks you know more than you should about Margery’s death,’ explained Michael, and held up the letter-opener.

Langelee stared at it and the blood drained from his face. ‘Where was it?’ he breathed in a strangled whisper. ‘Not in that horrible secret chamber?’

Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly, while Bartholomew’s stomach churned, and all he wanted to do was to run up the steps as fast as he could, to avoid the revelations that were coming.

‘Start at the beginning, Master,’ said Michael in a low, flat voice. ‘We know you left Heselbech in the chapel and went back outside. What happened next?’

There was a moment when it looked as though Langelee would attempt to bluster his way out of his predicament, but one glance at Michael convinced him not to try. He raised his hands in a shrug of resignation, his face ashen, and spoke in a voice that shook.

‘I saw Roos and Margery creep into the cistern, and I was drunk enough to indulge my curiosity. If only I had been sober! Then I would have known to mind my own business.’

‘So you trailed after them,’ surmised Michael.

Langelee nodded. ‘And heard a violent quarrel over the letter she had sent him – the one where she lied about the Lady being dead. I followed their voices to that nasty chamber, and was about to ask what was going on, when Roos whipped out a knife and stabbed her. It was so fast – over before I realised what was happening.’

‘So you killed him in return,’ said Michael hoarsely.

‘Of course not! I tried to go to her, to see if she could be helped, but Roos was insane with rage. He kept flailing at me with his dagger, screeching that it was her own fault for “using” him. He was armed and I was not, but it was easy to keep him at bay even so, by pushing him back.’

‘Which explains the marks on his chest and arms,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘I had to dodge and duck around a bit, which is probably when I lost my letter-opener. I reached Margery, but his antics made it impossible for me to examine her, so I gave him a harder shove to knock him away. I heard him stumble, but all my attention was on Margery …’

‘And?’ demanded Michael. ‘What then?’

‘There was nothing to be done for her, so I turned back to him – at which point, I saw that he had fallen on to his own knife. He was lying on his front, unmoving.’

‘Dead?’

‘I thought so. As they were both beyond earthly help, I decided to carry their bodies to the foot of the stairwell, then summon help to lug them up it. I took Margery first, then went back for Roos. Imagine my horror to discover him gone!’

‘Gone?’

‘He was not where I had left him. I did my utmost to find the wretch, and eventually I spotted him face-down in the water some distance away. He must have regained his wits, tried to stand up, but lost his balance and toppled in to drown. Worse, he had managed to knock Margery into a place where I could not reach her either. I did not know about the sill below the surface then, obviously …’

‘Because if you had, you would have been able to retrieve both bodies, and fetch help to carry them outside, as you had originally planned,’ surmised Bartholomew.

Langelee nodded. ‘But now I had two corpses that I thought were beyond my grasp. So I decided to beat a hasty retreat, and let folk make of the situation what they would.’

Michael was exasperated. ‘Why could you not have told us? We have been chasing our tails for the last five days, searching for a killer who does not exist.’

Langelee winced. ‘I was afraid it would bring Michaelhouse into disrepute, and then we would never win the Lady’s favour. How could I confess – to you or anyone else?’

‘Your secret is safe with me,’ said Thomas softly.

The three scholars turned to look at him. Bartholomew had certainly forgotten the young man was there in the strain of hearing Langelee’s confession, and he suspected the others had, too.

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Langelee sharply. ‘This had better not be a prelude to blackmail or I will–’

‘It is not,’ Thomas assured him quickly. ‘However, I hated Roos for the way he pestered my mother, so I am grateful to you for pushing him on to his own blade. He deserved it, as payment for fourteen years of harassment and then stabbing her in cold blood.’

‘I did not do it on purpose,’ objected Langelee indignantly.

‘It does not matter – the outcome is the same,’ said Thomas. ‘Here. Shake my hand.’

‘No,’ said Michael, stepping forward to prevent it. ‘That is not the way justice works. There must be a proper enquiry.’ He scowled at Langelee. ‘It will be much harder to persuade people that you are innocent now. Staying silent was a foolish decision.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Langelee tiredly. ‘But I was drunk at the time. Have you never made a bad choice when you were silly with ale?’

‘Not on this scale,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘You do realise that you will have to resign as Master? We cannot have a killer at our helm.’

‘It has never bothered you before,’ said Langelee, bemused.

‘Right,’ said Michael, becoming businesslike before Thomas could ask Langelee to explain his intriguing remark. ‘We shall take Marishal to a place where he can recover, then I must tell the Lady what has happened.’

‘I will do it,’ offered Langelee. ‘You might forget to ask for the hundred marks – which we should have, because we can name Margery’s killer.’

‘I hardly think a demand for money will make her favourably disposed to accepting our story,’ said Michael coldly. ‘So you had better wait outside. When we have finished, we shall leave Clare. Assuming she lets us go, of course, and does not order our arrest.’

‘Then be careful,’ warned Langelee. ‘You may have found out what happened to Margery and Roos, but there remains another killer at large – the one who claimed Talmach, Godeston and the others. He has you in his sights and will be deeply disappointed to see you still alive.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Whoever it is must think that we are on the verge of unmasking him, although nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘If we had time, we might be able to identify him by applying logic to all we have learned,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But it is too late. We will tell the Lady what happened to Margery and Roos, and then we must escape this violent little town while we can.’

It was not easy to assist the dazed Marishal up the steep spiral stairs, but they managed eventually. Then they took him to the Constable Tower, where Langelee and Michael stood guard outside while Bartholomew and Thomas settled him in a chair to recover. All three scholars were acutely aware that they were probably being watched by someone who was prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to see them dead.

‘He bears some of the blame for what happened to her,’ said Thomas, regarding his father dispassionately. The steward was regaining his senses fast, and Bartholomew anticipated that it would not be long before he was on his feet again. ‘He knew Roos pestered her, but he did nothing to stop it, because Roos was useful to the Lady.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘A lot of people made poor judgements in this sorry affair.’

Leaving Marishal and Thomas to resolve their differences in private, Bartholomew rejoined Michael and Langelee, and then led the way to the palace. Langelee dragged his heels, desperately trying to think of ways to explain what had happened without it reflecting badly on the College.

‘There is something I forgot to mention in the cistern,’ he said, stopping abruptly for at least the fourth time. ‘Namely the cause of the argument between Margery and Roos.’

‘You did not forget,’ said Michael curtly, continuing to stride on. ‘You told us it was over the letter she sent. Roos objected to being told lies, and I know the feeling.’

‘Wait!’ snapped Langelee, grabbing his arm. ‘Yes, he was angry with her for enticing him here under false pretences, but you have not asked the most important question of all: why she went to such lengths to get him to come.’

‘Well, we know it was not for the pleasure of his company,’ said Bartholomew, his interest piqued, even if Michael was too irked to acknowledge that Langelee might still have something important to contribute. He frowned, his mind working fast. ‘He brought her gifts when he came, and Katrina thought they might be important in understanding why she died. Are they?’

Langelee nodded. ‘I heard her say that her previous pleas for him to visit had gone unheeded, and she was desperate. He snarled that he had been disinclined to make another journey after losing an ear. Then she told him that she had had no choice but to lie, because the situation was urgent.’

‘So what did he give her?’ asked Michael waspishly. ‘Do you know or must we guess?’

‘Medicinal herbs,’ replied Langelee triumphantly. ‘At least, that is what she kept asking him to hand over. He informed her that he had not brought any, but she did not believe him, and accused him of withholding them out of spite.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in understanding. ‘Mistress Starre in Cambridge sells a concoction of tansy and pennyroyal to end unwanted pregnancies. Thomas mentioned that his mother supplied “herbs and practical advice” to women in trouble, while Anne said that Margery had tried to take over where she had left off – not with a hook, but with potions.’

‘But that is illegal,’ said Michael shortly. ‘And dangerous.’

‘Very,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Which is why Margery wanted them brewed by someone who knows what she is doing. But it is not something you can send a servant to buy: Mistress Starre is choosy over customers, as she could hang if someone reported her to the authorities. But she will know Roos. We shall ask her when we get home, but I imagine she sold him some.’

‘Then it will have been for Isabel Morley,’ determined Langelee, ‘as she is with child but Quintone declines to wed her. Poor Margery was just trying to save some hapless girl from ruin.’

‘Perhaps Isabel’s case was urgent, but I suspect these “remedies” are needed on a fairly regular basis,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The squires make promises of marriage that they have no intention of honouring, while Bonde is a rapist.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘But Roos could have sent a pot of the stuff with a messenger. He did not have to deliver it in person.’

‘Would you entrust someone else with that sort of task?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘As you pointed out, it is illegal, and there would have been no end of trouble for everyone concerned if it was intercepted by the wrong people. Besides, I imagine Roos liked the power it gave him over her – knowing he was the only one who could provide what she needed.’

Michael made a moue of distaste. ‘What a vile individual he transpired to be.’ Then he glanced at Langelee, as if the mention of one such person had brought another to mind. ‘You have not told us where you were all last night. We were worried, although we should have known that you can look after yourself.’

‘Weste and I rode further afield than we intended while looking for Jan,’ explained Langelee, ‘and it seemed reckless to continue in the dark, so we camped.’

‘Jan,’ mused Michael bitterly. ‘Now I understand why you so “bravely” offered to hunt for him. It was to find out what he had seen while he crept about the castle in the dark. What will you do if he identifies you as the killer?’

‘That will not be a problem,’ replied Langelee airily, ‘because we did find him, but the only soul he saw that night was Bonde. Incidentally, we found Bonde as well. Unfortunately, you cannot question him, because he is dead.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Michael acidly. ‘By falling on his own dagger, like Roos?’

Langelee shot him a reproachful look. ‘I do not know what happened to him – there are no marks on his body. Jan knows, but refuses to say. Weste and I took him to the priory, in the hope that John can coax the truth out of him. He is there as we speak.’

‘Then go and find out if he has,’ instructed Michael, ‘while Matt and I talk to the Lady. Once you have spoken to John, stay in the priory until we are ready to leave. Do you understand?’

‘Of course,’ replied Langelee stiffly. ‘I am not stupid.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Michael venomously.

‘What a wretched mess,’ spat the monk, once Langelee was striding purposefully towards the gate, although it was clear that he resented being in a position where he was obliged to take orders from one of his Fellows. ‘Damn Langelee and his soldierly ways!’

‘But we would have been curious, if we had seen Margery and Roos sneaking around in the dark together,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We also would have followed them, and tried to help Margery after she had been stabbed. And we might have shoved Roos away if he had attempted to stop us. Do not be too hard on him.’

‘But we would not have lied about it afterwards,’ snapped Michael.

‘He did not lie. He just did not tell the truth.’

‘Sophistry! His misguided antics have done us immeasurable harm. We should never have allowed him to drink with a lot of ex-warriors. Of course, I do not know how we could have stopped him. He has always been a man to follow his own inclinations.’

‘Shall we see the Lady now?’ Bartholomew did not want to discuss it any longer, torn as he was between sympathy for a friend who had made a bad decision, and concern for how it would impact on Michaelhouse. ‘It will not be a pleasant interview, and I want it over.’

But they entered the palace to find it empty, except for one or two servants and Ereswell.

‘She has gone to dine with a friend, who lives to the north of the town,’ the courtier explained. ‘Then she will attend the rededication ceremony in the church. The Queen may not be coming, but my Lady knows where her duty lies.’

‘Lichet is dead,’ Michael informed him shortly. ‘An accident in the cistern. Will you arrange for his body to be retrieved? I am not sure Marishal is well enough to think of it.’

‘Lichet dead?’ breathed Ereswell, before a delighted grin spread across his face. He winked. ‘Then see me before you leave. I always pay for services rendered.’

‘We did not kill him,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘It was–’

‘Of course you did not, Brother,’ interrupted Ereswell with another wink.

‘This is turning into a nightmare,’ grumbled Michael, as they hurried through the gate, which they were able to do as the portcullis had been raised to let the Lady out, and the guards had not yet closed it again. ‘Clare will think that Michaelhouse is full of assassins and – What are they doing?’

A crowd of townsmen was marching towards the castle. They were led by Grym, who was being forced to waddle faster than was comfortable for him, and his plump face was scarlet and sweaty. Paycock was at his side, urging him on. Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him back through the gate, thinking it would be safer than standing outside at the mercy of an unpredictable mob. The moment they were through it, a deafening rattle sounded as the portcullis slammed down behind them.

‘Please ask Marishal to come out,’ called Grym breathlessly to the castle guards who were busily nocking arrows into their bows. ‘He needs to take control of your squires.’

‘They have accused Quintone of theft,’ elaborated Paycock, thrusting forward belligerently. ‘So he claimed sanctuary in the church. But they are threatening to break it.’

‘No one breaks sanctuary,’ called Richard the watchman from the wall-walk above. ‘Not even them. They know that if they do, they will be damned for all eternity.’

‘Then Marishal must come and remind them of it,’ snarled Paycock. ‘Because Quintone has renounced his ties with the castle, and is now one of us. So if those louts lay one finger on him–’

The rest of his sentence was lost in a roar of fury from the crowd – Marishal had appeared, roused by the sound of the portcullis being dropped with such urgency. The steward was pale and unsteady on his feet. Thomas tried to offer a supportive arm, but Marishal knocked it away with a snarl. Thomas shot him a glower of his own, and came to talk to Bartholomew and Michael instead.

‘I told him everything,’ he said softly. ‘About Roos killing my mother and Langelee trying to help her. He believes me, but it has opened a painful wound and he is deeply angry …’

Bartholomew could see it was true: the steward’s rage was apparent in the way he was glaring at the assembled townsfolk – as if he itched to vent his spleen on them for the hurt he had suffered.

‘Disperse,’ he ordered contemptuously. ‘Or I shall order my archers to shoot. Besides, you should be in the church. You will have to stand at the back unless you get there early.’

‘Not so – the ceremony is postponed until your bloody Lady finishes chatting to her friends,’ shouted Paycock. ‘It is outrageous and an insult! It is our church, so what right does she have to keep us hanging about?’

‘That is high-handed,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And foolish, too, given the unsettled mood of the town. It is begging for trouble.’

‘And now her squires threaten a man who has taken refuge in our church,’ Paycock raged on. ‘So what are you going to do about it, steward?’

‘The squires will not break sanctuary laws,’ declared Marishal scornfully. ‘However, I shall fetch them back – not because you tell me I must, but because I choose to do so.’

His scathing tone did nothing to soothe ruffled feathers, and the mob surged forward indignantly. Then the portcullis clanked up and soldiers poured out, Marishal in the vanguard. The crowd’s advance stuttered to a standstill at the sight of so much naked steel, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable and silent impasse. Grym broke it.

‘We shall walk to the church together, Marishal,’ he said, holding out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Side by side. And while we go, I shall explain the nub of the problem. You see, Quintone was wearing a hat that your boys claim is stolen–’

‘Because it is stolen,’ interrupted Thomas, while his father only stared at the proffered hand until Grym lowered it. ‘It belongs to Nuport.’

The barber gave a pained smile. ‘Regardless, he has been inflaming the situation by taunting them with it. They have never learned to rise above an affront, and there will be a brawl unless you take them home.’

‘Quintone thinks that being cleared of murder gives him licence to behave as he likes,’ said Thomas to his father. ‘And I am afraid Grym is right – there will be a spat unless we intervene.’

Marishal began to issue orders to his soldiers. Some were instructed to remain at the castle, while others were told to form a protective phalanx around him. The townsfolk resented arms being toted openly through their streets, so there was a lot of angry muttering as he and his men set off along the road called Nethergate. Grym waddled along at his side, desperately trying to soothe the situation with appeasing remarks, but Marishal’s face was cold and hard, and he gave no indication that he was listening.

‘When trouble does erupt,’ murmured Michael, as he and Bartholomew trailed along behind them, ‘it will be his fault. Grym is trying his best, but Marishal is determined to be truculent.’

‘A fight may be what he wants,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Katrina had told him. ‘It will allow the castle to defeat the town, after which the Lady’s authority can be stamped on Clare once and for all. And Marishal will win – he may have fewer men, but they carry real weapons. Of course, his victory will come at a terrible price. For both sides.’

They arrived to find the church and its environs thronged with people, because the promised presence of the Queen had attracted visitors from the surrounding villages, as well as the town. There was a good deal of disappointment that she would not now be making an appearance, which Paycock and other malcontents were quick to turn into open disgruntlement.

Then there was a terrible scream. The door was ripped open and Quintone stood there, howling in pain and disbelief. Blood streamed down both sides of his face.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, shocked. ‘Someone has chopped off his ears.’