The Habit of Murder

Chapter 14

The townsfolk were outraged. Not only had the squires committed an act of violence against a man who had renounced his ties to the castle and declared himself to be one of them, but they had broken one of the country’s oldest and most inviolate laws. Paycock led the way in demanding that they answer for the crime at once, overriding Grym’s meek suggestion that they wait until tempers had cooled.

‘There they are!’ screeched Paycock, stabbing his finger towards the opposite end of the churchyard, where the squires could be seen climbing over the wall. ‘After them!’

Nuport released a jeering laugh as he and his cronies bounded away. One or two of his fellows paused just long enough to make obscene gestures to their pursuers, then they all disappeared across the nearby fields. Their obvious high spirits suggested that they had no idea of the seriousness of the situation they were in. Bartholomew wondered why, and then realised that the answer lay with the wineskins each was clutching.

‘They are drunk,’ he said in disgust. ‘That is why they have thrown good sense to the wind.’

‘It is Anne’s fault,’ said Grym, who had come to stand next to him. ‘Many of the visitors from the villages brought her gifts of food and wine today, and she had so much that she offered to share. I think she was overly generous to the squires …’

‘Then let us hope they are not too inebriated to run fast,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because I doubt they will survive if they are caught.’

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, suddenly aware that the young man was on the receiving end of some very venomous glares. He had not been involved in violating Quintone’s sanctuary, but the townsfolk were unlikely to make such a distinction, and there would be a fight for certain if he was attacked – his father might not think much of him, but the castle guards would not overlook an assault on their steward’s heir.

Michael strode towards the twin. ‘Go and fetch the Austins. Tell them they are needed here.’

‘I cannot,’ replied Thomas, either careless or oblivious of the danger he was in. ‘Most of them rode off to search for Langelee and Weste, and they have not come back yet. The few who remain will not abandon their priory, lest it is sacked by–’

‘Heselbech and Weste are there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Tell them what is happening, and urge them to bring as many friars as they can spare. Go! Hurry!’

But Thomas ambled away with such insouciance that Bartholomew knew he was going to be of scant help in the brewing crisis. Michael turned to Marishal next.

‘Send your men to find the squires before the townsfolk tear them to pieces. Tell them to box Nuport’s ears while they do it – that may appease the mob. For now, at least.’

Marishal inclined his head and went to issue a series of low-voiced commands to his men. They saluted and left, although, like Thomas, not very fast. Bartholomew watched them go with some concern. Had Marishal told them to take their time in the hope that the squires would be caught by the townsmen, giving him a pretext to attack in revenge? The steward had scant regard for the young men, so might well consider them expendable. Or had his orders been unintentionally half-hearted, because he was still groggy from Langelee’s punch?

‘Take Quintone inside the church, Matt,’ Michael was saying, ‘and give him something to stop that howling – it is making the situation worse. I expected Grym to do it, but he is just standing there like a great lump of lard.’

Bartholomew fumbled for the poppy juice he carried in his bag. ‘I can help him, but not inside the church – the door is shut again.’

‘Nicholas?’ bellowed Michael authoritatively. ‘Open up.’

‘Never!’ came the priest’s indignant voice. ‘I did it once for Quintone, who promptly claimed sanctuary and all the trouble that entails. Then I let the squires in to pray, and they repaid my kindness by committing a terrible crime. Well, I have had enough. My church stays closed until the Queen arrives.’

‘She is not coming,’ called Grym. ‘Have you not heard? Please let us in, Nicholas. Quintone needs to lie down, and it cannot be out here in all this dirt. And do not suggest taking him home, because he does not have one – he has not yet had time to secure lodgings in the town.’

There was an indecisive pause. ‘Let me consult with Anne. She will know what to do.’

Bartholomew was glad so many of the mob had hared off in pursuit of the squires, because he felt exposed and vulnerable crouching next to Quintone. He was relieved when there was a clank a few moments later, and the church door opened.

‘Anne says a few of you may come in, as long as you behave,’ said Nicholas. ‘No pushing, no swearing and no fighting. Oh, and wipe your feet, please. I spent all night cleaning the floor, and I will not have it marred with filthy boot prints.’

Together, Bartholomew and Grym carried the swooning Quintone inside, and laid him on Roger’s tomb. Bartholomew sewed up the gaping wound where Quinstone’s ears had been, while Grym swabbed away the blood, although the physician could not help glancing up from time to time. Now all the scaffolding was down, the ceiling was revealed in its full glory. It was magnificent, and he hoped there would be a moment to admire it properly before he left.

Yet even the fan vaulting could not distract him from the growing conviction that Clare was about to suffer a calamity that would change it for ever, and which he was powerless to prevent. The streets would run with blood, and the murders that had gone before would be a mere drop in the ocean compared to the carnage that would follow. He felt his stomach churn as he desperately tried to think of a way to stop it.

‘Fasten his ears back on,’ came a voice from the anchorhold, and Bartholomew turned to see beady eyes watching with unabashed interest. ‘I would.’

‘They would fester,’ replied Grym. ‘And we do not have them anyway.’

‘Nuport probably ate them,’ declared Anne, loud enough to be heard by the crowd that milled around outside her other window; they gave a collective growl of anger and revulsion. ‘He can be a dreadful brute on occasion.’

Bartholomew moved to block her view of what he was doing in the hope of avoiding more such remarks, and while he stitched, he listened to the discussion taking place between the others who had managed to slip inside when Nicholas had opened the door. They included Michael, Marishal, a handful of courtiers and several town worthies, the ubiquitous Paycock among them.

‘I understand why you let Quintone in,’ Marishal was saying irritably to the vicar, ‘but why did you then admit the squires? It was a stupid–’

‘Oh, so it is my fault, is it?’ interrupted Nicholas archly. ‘The castle louts come here and commit a dreadful sin, but I am to blame?’

‘Yes, in part,’ Marishal snapped back. ‘Anyone can see they are drunk, so will be more asinine than usual.’

‘They told me they wanted to pray,’ said Nicholas defensively. ‘I assumed they were sincere.’

‘Then you are a fool, too,’ spat Marishal in disgust. ‘Pray indeed!’

‘They had better not show their faces in my town again,’ declared Paycock, bristling with indignation. ‘Because if they do, I shall smash them in – personally.’

He waved his fist to show that he meant it. Then there was an imperious hammering at the door, followed by an angry order for it to be opened at once.

‘It is Cambrug!’ exclaimed Nicholas in startled delight, irritation evaporating like mist in the sun. He beamed happily and ran to let the famous architect in, ushering him over the threshold with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.

Cambrug was of middle height with squat, ugly features, travel-stained clothes and a sulky scowl. He ignored the vicar’s gushing welcome, and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up at his creation with professional detachment. Grym was among the many – townsfolk and castle men – who immediately hurried to fawn over him, so there was an unseemly scrum that resulted in him being very roughly jostled.

‘Get away!’ he snarled, and glowered at Nicholas. ‘I have just been informed by some peasant outside that the Queen is not coming. Could you not have written to tell me? I have ridden all the way from Hereford for nothing.’

‘Hardly nothing,’ objected Nicholas, stung. ‘We still have a lovely evening planned.’

‘Besides, we only had word ourselves this morning,’ added Marishal. ‘By which time it was too late to inform anyone. But we shall make your stay a memorable one, never fear. We have prepared a nice suite of rooms in the castle with–’

‘No, he will stay with me,’ stated Paycock firmly. ‘My house is a lot more comfortable. The company will be better, too.’

‘We took all the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas unctuously, before Cambrug could accept either offer. ‘As you can see. Her Majesty will miss the rededication ceremony, but that is her loss, and at least her haughty priests will not try to make unnecessary adjustments to it.’

‘So you will preside, Nicholas?’ asked Paycock. ‘Good! The castle can piss off home then, because now the Queen is not coming, neither will they. It will be our ceremony and ours alone.’

‘We certainly will attend,’ countered Marishal sharply. ‘The Lady is looking forward to it, and she will be here as soon as she has completed her business in the north of the town.’

‘Her business?’ echoed Paycock scathingly. ‘Her gossiping with friends, you mean. Well, she can stand in the south aisle, because we paid for the nave, and it is our right to use it.’

‘But the ceiling is not yet finished,’ objected Cambrug, who had continued to peer upwards critically. ‘There are several unpainted sections that–’

‘Nonsense,’ stated Grym, and lowered his voice. ‘It is either a ceremony or a battle, Cambrug. You choose – but remember that any blood spilled will be on your hands.’

Cambrug sniffed. ‘I suppose the finishing touches can be added later.’

Grym nodded to Paycock and his cronies, and anything else the architect might have said was lost as the townsfolk hurried away to begin their preparations. Lamps were lit, candles set out, and flower displays lifted on to windowsills. But Marishal and his courtiers had their own opinions about what should be done to beautify the church, and arguments soon broke out. Anne listened from her cell, and Bartholomew was unimpressed that every time she spoke, she invariably made matters worse.

‘Not long now,’ said Nicholas, nodding approvingly as an elaborate arrangement of dried flowers was plonked on the font. ‘Then my ceremony will begin. Heselbech may steal the leading role, but everyone will know that he recites the words I wrote.’

‘Well, I shall not stay for it,’ declared Cambrug unpleasantly. ‘You dragged me here with the promise of a royal audience, but now you–’

‘Go back to Hereford, then,’ called Anne crossly. ‘We are tired of your bleating. If you cannot be genteel, then there is no place for you in Clare.’

Cambrug blinked his astonishment that anyone should dare address him with such brazen disrespect. ‘I am not–’

‘We do not want you here anyway,’ she forged on, getting into her stride. ‘You are a vile old misery – even worse than Roger, and he could not open his mouth without moaning. The ceremony will be much nicer without you.’

‘And it will take place today, because our holy anchoress says that is when the stars are most favourable for it,’ put in Nicholas. ‘Her opinion is good enough for me.’

‘Your holy anchoress is not an architect,’ flashed Cambrug, bristling with outrage at the insults that had been heaped upon him. ‘So do not blame me if the place tumbles about your ears in the middle of your stupid celebrations. You should have let me examine the roof before you ripped the scaffolding down. You did promise that you would wait.’

‘What is this?’ cried Marishal, listening to the exchange in alarm. ‘Are you saying that it is unsafe? That the roof might fall on the Lady?’

Cambrug eyed him loftily. ‘I cannot answer that until I inspect the quality of the work that was done after I left. However, I decline to do it now you have offended me. Not unless you beg.’

‘Please, dear Cambrug, will you kindly help us to–’ began Grym obligingly.

‘No!’ barked Marishal. ‘There will be no begging here. Cambrug will do the job for which he was paid, and inspect the roof with good grace.’

‘Shan’t,’ said Cambrug, folding his arms and putting his nose in the air.

‘Because he knows there is nothing wrong with it,’ called Anne provocatively. ‘And he cannot stand the fact that we have achieved so much without him. It is jealousy speaking.’

The architect bristled anew. ‘I am not staying here to be abused. I am going back to Hereford this very moment – and I wish a plague on Clare and everyone in it!’

When Quintone had been sewn up, bandaged and carried to Grym’s house to recover – much to the barber’s obvious reluctance – Bartholomew gave the fan vaulting his full attention, although it was difficult to see it in detail, as dusk was falling. He wondered why Nicholas had elected to hold the ceremony at night, when even a thousand lamps would be unequal to showing it at its best. Then he reconsidered. Or had the vicar actually been rather wise, as the dark would hide any small imperfections?

‘Perhaps Cambrug was right to say that the scaffolding should not have come down until he had inspected the work,’ he said to Michael. ‘Because those unpainted sections have lots of small cracks, and it will be difficult to fill them with glue now they cannot be reached so easily.’

Michael glanced around uncomfortably. ‘I have a bad feeling about this ceremony. Why must it still go ahead, even though the Queen will not be here, and it will throw together a lot of people who hate each other? There is something not quite right about the whole affair.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have been thinking the same. All the murders – not just Margery and Roos, but Roger, Skynere, Albon and the others – have resulted in one thing: widening the rift between town and castle.’

Michael agreed. ‘The deaths of Roos, Margery and Charer were random events, with no malice aforethought, but someone has been quick to make folk believe otherwise. Something unpleasant is in the offing, and I sense it will happen tonight.’

‘Do you think the ceremony should be cancelled?’

‘Of course, but that will never happen. Nicholas will refuse, and if the Lady or Marishal try to insist, we shall have a riot for certain. The best course of action is to let it proceed, and hope there are enough Austins to prevent too much bloodshed. But who would want the town in an uproar? Paycock? He loves discord.’

Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him to the south aisle, a place shunned by both town and castle, and so somewhere he and the monk could confer without being overheard.

‘Not Paycock, but someone who has a grievance against both sides and wants revenge. Someone who exacerbates the feud with bad advice and loud opinions. Someone who gave wine to the squires, knowing it would prompt them to reckless behaviour. Someone who provided a valued service to troubled girls for years, but was punished for it by being walled up in a cell. Someone–’

‘You are insane, Matt!’ cried Michael, shocked. He lowered his voice when Marishal glanced towards them. ‘I know Anne is no more holy than we are, but she is still a–’

‘Someone who insists that tonight’s ceremony goes ahead, because “the stars are auspicious”,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Someone who told Nicholas to let the squires into the church, even though it was obviously the wrong thing to do. Perhaps she even encouraged them to violate sanctuary – she would have seen what was happening through her squint, and I am sure she did not stay silent.’

‘You are wrong,’ hissed Michael. ‘Anne cannot possibly have known what really happened to Roos and Margery, but the culprit used their–’

‘She did not need to know the truth – she just had to twist it to suit herself.’ Bartholomew grew more certain with every word he spoke. ‘But let us consider each death in turn, Brother – the logical analysis that we both know will provide answers.’

‘We do not have time,’ objected Michael agitatedly. ‘We have to tell the Lady what happened down in the cistern, and then–’

‘We must make time. First, Roger. He died here, in the church where Anne lives.’

‘But she is walled in. She cannot have–’

‘Next, Talmach, the unwanted husband of Ella, who loves Anne like a mother. How convenient! Anne did not kill Charer, because Lichet told us what happened to him, but she certainly accused the castle of the crime.’

‘Well, someone from the castle was involved in–’

‘Wisbech was killed next, clearly as a ploy to drag the Austins into the feud, although John declined to be manipulated. Wisbech, Skynere and Godeston were poisoned with hemlock, a herb familiar to all those who dabble in dubious medicine – which Anne does.’

‘And non-dubious medicine,’ Michael pointed out. ‘You and Grym use it as well.’

That was true, but Bartholomew ignored it. ‘And when Godeston died, Anne was quick to claim that he was poisoned by a townsman in revenge for Margery.’

‘You read too much into her idle musings, Matt. She also accused the Austins at one point.’

‘Exactly! Which is evidence that she wants them involved in the dispute, so there will be no peace-keepers. Her remarks are not idle musings, but carefully contrived rumour-mongering. Think about what she has said in the last hour alone – a claim that Nuport ate Quintone’s ears, and comments that set town and castle against each other as they prepared the church for the ceremony.’

‘You argue your case well,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there is one big problem: Anne is walled inside her anchorhold and cannot get out. Or are you suggesting that she persuaded someone else to kill on her behalf?’

‘Why not? Nicholas does everything she wants, and you heard him call her “sweetest love”. She is obviously popular with people from both sides of the feud, as her cell is always full of gifts. Perhaps some of them repay her in other ways – not food and wine, but deeds.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I cannot see–’

‘The Lady said Anne is clever and resourceful. And I am not sure she is walled in anyway.’

‘Of course she is,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The only openings are the two windows, which are far too small for anyone to squeeze through.’

‘She keeps one section of her cell covered by a screen–’

‘Yes, and the wall beyond it is solid stone. I checked it myself.’

‘Then what about the floor? It is always covered in straw, so how do you know there is not a trapdoor beneath? For a start, how did she get all that nice furniture in there?’

‘Put in as the cell was built, probably – which was fairly recently, as Nicholas told us that Cambrug designed it specially for her.’

But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have seen anchorholds before. They reek, because their occupants never get out. But Anne’s always smells clean and fresh.’

Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘Perhaps she is just more particular about hygiene.’

‘Do you remember Margery telling Lichet about a dream she had – of Anne and Nicholas walking hand in hand in the bailey? What if it was not a dream? What if she actually saw them?’

Michael opened his mouth to tell the physician that he had lost his grip on reality when he saw someone hurrying towards them. ‘Oh, Lord! Here comes Langelee. Now what?’

The Master had changed his muddy clothes at the priory, but as he had no spare cloak, he had borrowed the one that Albon had given Bartholomew. Aware that it might be recognised by someone who would take umbrage, he had turned it inside out, so that the black silk was on the outside and the red wool was on the inside. He was sombre-faced, subdued and pale – the revelations in the cistern had taken their toll on his customary jauntiness.

‘I know you ordered me to stay put,’ he began before Michael could berate him, ‘but I have important information. When I arrived at the friary, Jan was demanding to return to his hermitage. Weste asked me to escort him there, because he could spare no one else. I did not like to refuse, not when the Austins have been so hospitable …’

‘Too hospitable,’ muttered Michael tartly. ‘If they had been less free with their ale …’

Langelee went on hurriedly. ‘It was the first time that I had been alone with Jan, and I found him eager to talk. He confided that he had dared not speak while Weste was with me, because of the oaths of loyalty the friars have sworn to each other.’

Michael regarded him anxiously. ‘Are you about to tell us that one of them is the killer?’

‘He is,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘And it will be Nicholas – Anne’s good friend.’

Langelee gaped at him. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Later,’ said Michael tersely, before Bartholomew could embark on a lengthy explanation. ‘What else did Jan tell you?’

‘That the reason he left Clare in such terror was because he had watched Anne poison Mayor Godeston – her and Nicholas together. They are lovers, apparently.’

‘So we were both right,’ said Michael, acknowledging Bartholomew’s look of triumph with a nod. ‘I thought from the start that there was something amiss with that vicar, although neither of you believed me. But is Jan sure about what he saw?’

Langelee nodded. ‘He also spotted Anne and Nicholas out on the nights that Wisbech and Skynere were poisoned, as well as shortly before Talmach and Albon came to grief. They had no idea he was watching them then, but they saw him when Godeston died – hence his abrupt flight.’

‘He could not have confided in someone first?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘To protect the town that feeds him? He might have saved lives if he had. So much for the selfless holy man!’

‘He did not think anyone would believe him. Anne is supposed to be walled up, and the whole town is convinced of her sanctity.’

‘Suzanne de Nekton saw Jan trail Bonde to the Cistern Tower on the night that Roos and Margery were murdered,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Did he tell you about that?’

Langelee nodded again. ‘But he assured me that it was just coincidence – neither of them saw or heard anything pertaining to the murders. However, Bonde’s first interviews with Michael and Lichet convinced him that he might be blamed anyway, so he decided to disappear until the fuss had died down – at Anne’s instigation, of course.’

‘But he did not go far,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just to the woods …’

‘Where Jan watched Anne feed him hemlock,’ finished Langelee. ‘Afterwards, Nicholas hid the body, although not very well, as Weste and I unearthed it without too much trouble.’

‘But why would she kill Bonde?’ asked Michael, still sceptical. ‘He liked her well enough to wish he had married her.’

‘He ran all manner of errands for her apparently, including tampering with saddle straps. As he lay dying, she calmly informed him that his death was to ensure that he did not interfere with the plan that will swing into action tonight.’

‘What plan?’ gulped Michael in alarm.

‘Jan did not hear that bit. However, remember that Bonde’s first loyalty was to the Lady, which means he would have baulked at any plot to harm her–’

At that moment, Grym waddled up, his plump face creased in agitation. ‘Quintone has just informed me that Anne told the squires to cut off his ears,’ he announced. ‘Pain must have driven him out of his wits, because no anchoress would do such a terrible thing. Do you have any medicine to calm him, Matthew? I dare not dose him with hemlock, as–’

He stopped at the sound of angry footsteps, and turned to see who was coming. It was Cambrug, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The architect addressed him with sneering contempt.

‘Nicholas does not have the good manners to spare me a moment of his time before I leave, so I am forced to deal with you, Acting Mayor. The cracks in the ceiling are ugly. Roger should have reported them to me, so I could tell him how to mend them. Where is he?’

‘Dead,’ replied Grym, and raised his eyebrows at Cambrug’s start of surprise. ‘You did not know? Nicholas promised to write and tell you. Roger was killed by a piece of falling scaffolding back in April.’

Cambrug regarded him in disgust. ‘Then of course there will be unsightly gaps in the stone. Only experienced masons – like Roger – know how to join blocks seamlessly. You should have–’

‘The anchorhold,’ interjected Bartholomew urgently. ‘You built it for Anne. Were you given any particular instructions?’

Cambrug scowled his indignation at being interrupted. ‘Just to make it comfortable,’ he replied shortly. ‘Which I did not need to be told, given that someone will spend the rest of her life in it. I included a stone floor for hygiene, two windows with–’

‘Did you include an emergency exit?’

‘I did, as a matter of fact, and it is a very sensible precaution. Churches catch fire, condemning their anchorites to terrible deaths. So I installed a tunnel that leads to the vicarage. It is a very clever solution on my part: Anne can escape in the event of a disaster, but only her priest can open the trapdoor. It means she cannot abandon her vocation for paltry reasons.’

‘No wonder Nicholas does not want to move house,’ muttered Michael.

The church was now dark and full of shadows, as the lamps had been very cleverly placed so that most of their light shone upwards. Their beams were not strong enough to reveal the cracks or unpainted sections, but they certainly illuminated the intricate stone lace of the fan vaulting. Once Cambrug had stamped away, full of hubris and foul temper, Michael turned to Grym.

‘There will be trouble for certain if the ceremony goes ahead tonight. As Acting Mayor, do you have the authority to cancel it and impose a curfew?’

‘Yes, in theory,’ replied Grym unhappily. ‘But no one will obey it. Go and look out of the window, and you will see why the situation has gone well beyond my control.’

The three scholars did as he suggested, and saw that an enormous crowd had gathered in the churchyard, lit by dozens of flickering torches. It comprised not just the residents of Clare, but folk from the surrounding villages as well. And its mood was ugly. Most were armed with sticks or knives, and were yelling abuse at a contingent of soldiers from the castle, all of whom had drawn their swords and were bawling back.

‘They are quarrelling over Quintone’s ears,’ explained Grym. ‘And there are twice as many of them now as there were when I came in, with more flocking to join them as we speak.’

‘Then do your duty and order them to disperse,’ said Michael curtly. ‘They are your people.’

‘They are not! I do not know most of them, so why would they listen to me? Look – you can see Paycock over by the gate, and even he senses the situation is out of control. You can tell by the anguished expression on his face.’

It was true. The feisty bailiff was watching the howling crowd with an expression of open horror, and it was clear that he had not anticipated such a vigorous reaction to his rabble-rousing.

‘It is very convenient for Anne that Paycock has been agitating,’ mused Michael. ‘And making sure that no slight to the town is overlooked. Are they friends?’

‘Not friends exactly,’ replied Grym, ‘but she saved his daughter from an embarrassing pregnancy, so he has always been in her debt.’

At that moment, there was an especially angry roar from the crowd, which made the barber turn a sickly green colour. He turned abruptly and aimed for the back door.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Langelee, moving to block him.

‘Kedyngton,’ replied Grym shortly. ‘Clare is too dangerous for a man who is not very quick on his feet, and I shall be an obvious target if the castle attacks. You must excuse me.’

‘You will stay and shoulder your responsibilities,’ countered Langelee sternly. ‘Or your town will be ablaze before the night is out. You cannot abandon it now.’

‘Oh, yes, I can,’ declared Grym, lowering his head and charging for the door again; his bulk was such that even Langelee was unequal to preventing his escape. He called over his shoulder as he went, ‘It is every man for himself tonight. I shall return when all this nonsense is over.’

‘In that case, we should leave, too,’ determined Langelee, staggering in the barber’s wake. ‘I do not see why we should risk our lives when Clare’s leaders are unwilling to do so. I have seen some serious disturbances in my time, but none involving quite so many people.’

‘But the castle will win,’ predicted Michael. ‘Its warriors have proper weapons.’

‘They do,’ acknowledged Langelee, ‘but the town has the benefit of reinforcements from the villages. I should not like to hazard a guess as to who will emerge the victor. Neither, probably – both will have lost too much.’

‘Anne,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘She started all this, so she can stop it. People listen to her. If we can force her to tell everyone to desist …’

He hurried to her cell and peered through the squint. He could not see her, but the screen covered the far side of the chamber. A carefully aimed stone thrown by Langelee knocked it over. Behind it was a very comfortable bed, but no one was in it. The cell was empty.

‘Do you see what lies on her pillow?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘A length of purple silk.’

‘Mayor Godeston’s,’ breathed Michael, watching Langelee hook it towards them with a broom. ‘Discovered missing when his body was found. Give it to me. It will serve as evidence against her – assuming we live to produce it, of course.’ He shoved the filmy material into his scrip.

‘You will not need it,’ predicted Bartholomew, ‘because she will not be here. You can see for yourself that most of her things have gone, and she was quite open about the fact that she sells all the gifts she cannot use. She has plenty of money to start a new life somewhere else, once her evil work here is done.’

‘With Nicholas,’ surmised Michael. ‘Or without him, depending on whether her affection for him is sincere. I know we have no authority to meddle here, but I could not live with myself if I did not at least try to prevent a massacre. Will you help me?’

‘I will,’ said Langelee keenly. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Fetch the Austins. Thomas was supposed to do it, but I have a bad feeling that he is under Anne’s influence, too, and the message may not have reached them. I know some of the friars are still out looking for you and Weste, but bring as many as you can.’

‘Very well.’ Langelee raised the hood on Albon’s cloak to hide his face. ‘What will you do?’

‘Find Anne and Nicholas,’ replied Michael grimly, ‘and see if we can put an end to what they have ignited. Nicholas’s house is as good a place as any to begin our search.’

The atmosphere outside was poisonous, and a steadily strengthening wind did nothing to help. It made the trees roar, and it whistled through the gravestones, an agitated, unsettling sound that made the crowd more jittery. Bartholomew and Michael were jostled and shoved mercilessly as they hurried to the vicarage, careful to keep their heads down lest even a wrong look should encourage someone to swing a punch. When they arrived at the vicarage, Marishal was just coming out.

‘If you want Nicholas, you are out of luck,’ he reported tersely. ‘He has abandoned us, taking most of his belongings and all the church’s silver with him. I suppose he is offended, because Heselbech was chosen to take tonight’s ceremony.’

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Michael. ‘You are meant to be looking for the squires.’

‘We found them – they are safely back inside the castle. And I am here because Ereswell could not find the church silver in the vestry, and it is needed for tonight’s ceremony. I came to ask Nicholas where he had stored it.’

Bartholomew pushed past him and gazed around the handsome room in which he and his colleagues had been entertained only a few nights before. It had been stripped of anything portable, and because the floor was devoid of rugs, he saw the trapdoor near the hearth. He pulled it up to reveal the tunnel. A closer inspection revealed fresh boot prints – Anne had donned footwear suitable for travel. He hurried back outside, where Michael was trying to reason with the steward.

‘Take your people home. You may lose the confrontation that–’

‘Why should we withdraw?’ demanded Marishal angrily. ‘Anne is right: it is time the townsfolk learned their place, and if I do not teach them, no one will.’

‘Anne?’ groaned Michael. ‘You have been listening to her? Can you not see what she is doing? She wants you to tear each other apart. And you are playing right into her hands.’

‘She would never hurt us,’ stated Marishal stubbornly. ‘She raised my children and she was born in the town. The Lady treated her harshly it is true, but–’

‘The Lady,’ interrupted Michael urgently. ‘Where is she? She will listen to sense, even if you are too obstinate to–’

‘It is too late,’ gulped Bartholomew. ‘Look!’

Near the church’s north porch, several hundred townsfolk were facing a thin line of heavily armed guards. The soldiers would almost certainly be killed, but not before giving a good account of themselves with their wickedly honed blades. With sickening inevitability, the two sides began to close in on each other amid a frenzy of howled insults and abuse.

‘For God’s sake, Marishal!’ cried Michael. ‘Stop it!’

But Marishal could only stand in open-mouthed shock at the scale of the trouble, and then the opportunity to intervene was gone. The two factions clashed. Horrified, Bartholomew watched as several men fell and were trampled. He raced towards the mêlée, and managed to drag one to safety before he was crushed to death. It was Paycock.

‘Christ God!’ the bailiff gulped. ‘Anne said the castle would never dare fight us if we turned out in force. If I had known that we would come to actual blows, I would never have …’

Bartholomew ducked into the fray a second time, and managed to retrieve a second casualty. It was someone small and light, although it was not until Michael appeared with a lamp that he was able to recognise the victim as Badew. The elderly scholar was dying, bleeding from a dozen wounds, all in his back – he had been trying to run away when he had been cut down.

‘I only went out for a moment … to see what was happening,’ Badew whispered, white with shock. ‘But I was caught by the mob … swept forward …’

Bartholomew did what he could, but to no avail. Badew’s last words were characteristic of the man he had become since losing University Hall.

‘The Lady … a whore,’ he whispered, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist with hard, bony fingers. ‘Her name cannot … be associated … with a College … it must be … Badew Hall.’

‘Hush,’ chided Bartholomew in distaste. ‘This is not the time to–’

‘She is … a harlot.’ Badew’s grip tightened. ‘I hid in her chamber … saw her relieved of … an unwanted child … with my own eyes …’

Bartholomew struggled to mask his revulsion for the old man’s malevolence. ‘Enough! If you really did witness such an incident, you would have made it public years ago, so do not–’

‘She would have … denied it.’ Badew’s fingers were like hooks in Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Or sent … Bonde to kill … had to wait … until her tongue … stilled by death. My tale is true … swear on my soul.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hurrying forward a few moments later with the accoutrements needed to give last rites, although he would be anointing a corpse with his chrism.

‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was best to let such poisonous words die with their speaker. ‘Where is Langelee? He should have fetched the Austins by now.’

‘I hope he has come to no harm,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘He was wearing – Matt!’

The last was delivered in a gulp of alarm. The skirmish had expanded quickly, as more people had raced to join in, and it was now converging on them from two different directions. The combatants were so intent on trouncing each other that they cared nothing for the scholars caught in between. Michael hauled Bartholomew roughly to his feet.

‘Stand tall, Matt. If we are to die tonight, then we shall do it with dignity.’