The Habit of Murder

Chapter 1

April 1360

The acrimony between the scholars began while they were still in Cambridge. The plan had been for all three foundations to leave at dawn, so that the journey to Clare – a distance of roughly twenty-five miles – could be completed in a day. This was particularly important to Michaelhouse, which was short of cash, so a night in an inn was a luxury its members were keen to avoid.

The first trouble came when the Michaelhouse men arrived at the town gate at the appointed hour, mounted and ready to ride out, but those from Clare Hall and Swinescroft Hostel did not.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Master Ralph de Langelee, looking around angrily as time ticked past and there was still no sign of them. ‘They promised not to be late.’

He was a bluff, stocky man, who had been henchman to an archbishop before deciding to try his hand at academia. He was no scholar, but he ran his College fairly and efficiently, while his military bearing and famed skill with weapons meant that tradesmen were disinclined to cheat him.

‘They did,’ agreed Brother Michael, who was not only a Benedictine theologian of some repute, but also the Senior Proctor – a post that had been lowly when he had first taken it, but that he had adjusted to the point where he now ran the entire University. He possessed a very princely figure – tall as well as fat – which he maintained by inveigling plenty of invitations to dine out.

‘I am not surprised, though,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Doctor of Medicine and the last of the three Michaelhouse men who were to travel that day. He had black hair, dark eyes and was considerably slimmer than his companions. ‘Clare Hall men always rise late, while Swinescroft … well, Roos is the youngest of them, and he is well past sixty.’

‘Swinescroft,’ said Michael with a smirk. ‘You know that is not its real name, do you not? It is officially St Thomas’s Hall, but so many vile characters enrol there that it has been Swinescroft ever since it opened its doors fourteen years ago.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I always thought it was because it stands on Swinescroft Row.’

Michael waved an airy hand. ‘I am sure that is what its members believe, but they would be wrong. Of course, with Richard de Badew as its Principal, how could it attract anything other than a lot of disagreeable ancients?’

‘Badew,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I first met him, he was a good man – generous, kind and dedicated. But when his Fellows changed the name of his foundation from University Hall to Clare Hall, he became bitter, angry and vengeful, virtually overnight.’

‘Who can blame him?’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It was a disagreeable business, and revealed them to be ungrateful, dishonourable and sly.’

‘It is a pity he let it turn him sour,’ said Michael, ‘because he makes for unpalatable company these days. And yet he is an angel compared to Saer de Roos, who is quite possibly the least likeable person I have ever met – and that includes all the killers and thieves we have confronted over the years.’

‘Gracious!’ murmured Langelee. ‘And he will be travelling to Clare with us today?’

Michael nodded. ‘Along with Badew himself and their friend Henry Harweden, who is another surly rogue. None are known for congenial conversation.’

‘They had better not be uncongenial with me,’ growled Langelee, patting his sword. ‘Because I will not put up with it. However, their characters – whether sullen or charming – will be irrelevant if they fail to turn up.’

‘Yes – where are they?’ Michael looked around crossly, aware that it was now fully light, and well past the time when they should have left. ‘Perhaps you are right, Matt: they are too old for such an excursion, so they decided to stay in bed. They are not like us – men in our prime.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about the last part. There were several grey hairs among his black ones, while Michael had to use a special glass for reading, and Langelee had recently been forced to retire from his favourite sport – camp-ball – because he could no longer run fast enough to avoid being pummelled by the opposition.

‘We cannot afford to dally,’ determined Langelee. ‘If they do not come soon, we shall have to leave without them. We will be safer in a large group, I know, but a lot is at stake here – Michaelhouse’s coffers are empty, and unless we get our bequest from the Lady of Clare in the next few days, we shall have to declare ourselves bankrupt and close down.’

‘I will not allow that to happen,’ vowed Michael. ‘Not after all we have been through over the past decade to keep the place going.’

‘Then let us hope the Lady has been generous,’ said Langelee, ‘because we will not last another month without a substantial donation. Thank God she died when she did!’

Bartholomew winced, still uncomfortable with the true purpose of their mission – not to attend the Lady’s funeral, as Michael and Langelee told anyone who asked, but to collect what they hoped she had left them in her will.

‘Are you sure we will be among her beneficiaries?’ he asked uneasily. ‘I had no idea she had promised us anything until you mentioned it last night. Did she tell you privately?’

‘Not in so many words,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But she liked us, and I often had the impression that she wished she had taken Michaelhouse under her wing, rather than Clare Hall. She loved being generous to scholars, so I am sure she will have remembered us.’

‘Which is why we must reach Clare in time to pay our respects to her body,’ said Michael. ‘It will look grubby if we just appear for the reading of the will – as if we only want her money.’

‘But we do only want her money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As does Clare Hall. I fail to understand why Swinescroft wants to come, though – they and the Lady hated each other.’

‘Probably to dance on her grave,’ shrugged Michael. ‘I told you: they are despicable characters, and gloating over the death of an enemy is exactly the sort of thing they will enjoy.’

For the next hour or so, they watched the little Fen-edge settlement come to life. Scholars and priests hurried to their daily devotions, while townsfolk emerged yawning and scratching for a day of honest – or dishonest – toil. Carts of all shapes and sizes poured through the gates from the surrounding villages, bringing wares to sell at the market – vegetables, sacks of peas and beans, woven baskets, pottery, wooden cages filled with agitated birds. It was hectic, noisy, and over it all came the sound of bells from at least twenty churches and chapels, ranging from the bass boom of St Mary the Great to the tinny clang of nearby St Botolph’s.

‘Here they are,’ said Langelee eventually, as two horsemen rode towards them with insulting insouciance. ‘Or Clare Hall, at least. Damn! They have sent Donwich and Pulham as their emissaries. I cannot abide that pair. I am the Master of a respectable College, but they still make me feel like a grubby serf.’

It was true that Donwich and Pulham considered themselves to be very superior individuals. Both were in their late thirties, and were smug, conceited and pompous, with reputations built on their contribution to University politics rather than their intellectual achievements. They hailed from noble families, and their travelling clothes were cut from the very finest cloth.

‘We overslept,’ explained Pulham breezily, careless or oblivious of the inconvenience this had caused. ‘But we are here now. Shall we go?’

‘We cannot,’ replied Langelee sourly, ‘because we are still missing Badew, Roos and Harweden. Stay here and do not move. I will find out what is keeping them.’

‘Do not bother,’ drawled Donwich. ‘They will have hired nags from some inn, which will never match ours for speed. We shall make better time without them.’

He smirked, because he and Pulham rode young stallions with glossy coats and bright eyes, whereas Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew had elderly ponies with shaggy manes and lazy natures. To emphasise the point, he performed a series of fancy manoeuvres designed to show off his mount’s pedigree. Michael and Langelee watched with grudging admiration, but Bartholomew, who was not remotely interested in horsemanship, wished Donwich would stop fooling around, because their departure would be delayed even further if he was thrown.

‘So why wait for Swinescroft?’ Donwich went on, to prove he could talk and control his horse at the same time. ‘We should leave now.’

‘There is safety in numbers, and the Clare road has been plagued by robbers of late,’ explained Langelee. ‘Simon Freburn and his sons, who have a penchant for cutting off their victims’ ears.’

‘If we are attacked, we shall just gallop away,’ declared Pulham smugly. ‘No thief will ever catch us or our ears. I only hope that you will be able to follow.’

‘Galloping away is exactly what they want you to do,’ retorted Langelee disdainfully. ‘You will ride directly into an ambush, where two men will be much easier to manage than eight. If you want to reach Clare in one piece, I strongly suggest you remain in the pack.’

The Clare Hall men blanched, as well they might, because it was clear from their clothes that they were worth robbing, and neither carried a weapon. By contrast, Michael had a stout staff, Bartholomew had a selection of surgical blades, while Langelee toted a sword, a crossbow, several very sharp daggers and a cudgel. Donwich gave a short, uneasy laugh.

‘My colleague jests,’ he blustered. ‘Of course we will not abandon you, and you can count on us to be at your side in the event of trouble.’

‘Behind us, more like,’ muttered Langelee venomously. ‘Cowering.’

It was some time later that the door to a nearby tavern opened, and the three scholars from Swinescroft emerged, brushing crumbs from their tabards as they did so. The scent of smoked pork and fried eggs wafted out after them. They strolled unhurriedly to the adjoining yard, where they heaved themselves on to three nags that looked older than their riders.

‘Do not rush,’ called Donwich acidly. ‘We are quite happy to sit here, twiddling our thumbs.’

‘We have no intention of rushing,’ shot back grey-haired Badew, the oldest of the trio. There was ice in his voice. ‘Not on your account.’

He had once been a formidable figure in the University – a chancellor, no less – but that had been before his treacherous Fellows had inflicted the wound from which he had never recovered, and that had turned him sour and twisted with hate. His favourite pastime now was suing other scholars, so that barely a month went by when he was not engaged in one lawsuit or another, ranging from disputes over books and money to accusations of theft, assault and damages.

‘Have you been waiting?’ asked Saer de Roos, the youngest, sweetly. ‘Oh, we do apologise.’

He was still a handsome man, with blue eyes and fair hair, who continued to win admiring glances from women – although the attraction tended to wane once he engaged them in conversation and they discovered that he was sly, lecherous and cruel. That day, he had donned a peculiar brown woollen hat with flaps that came down over his ears. Donwich regarded it askance.

‘I hope you do not intend to wear that to the funeral,’ he remarked. ‘It would be an insult to the Lady.’

Roos smirked. ‘Would it? Good! However, I was not thinking of her when I put it on this morning. I did it because I have earache.’

‘Would you like a tincture?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘I have one in my bag.’

‘I do not want your rubbish, thank you very much,’ retorted Roos unpleasantly. ‘I would sooner endure the pain than be treated by a man who deals with filthy paupers.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘But let me know if it becomes worse. Earache is caused by flesh-eating worms, and you do not want those boring into your brain.’

He was ashamed of the lie when he saw the glance of horror exchanged between Badew and Harweden, although Roos was unconcerned, and merely gave Bartholomew a look of such disdain that the physician felt himself bristle.

‘I trust you had a good breakfast, Doctor,’ he said tauntingly, ‘because only fools embark on long and dangerous journeys on empty stomachs. Does Michaelhouse run to providing real food these days, or are you still subsisting on sawdust and grit?’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to defend his College, but Langelee, ever a man of action, was unwilling to waste time trading insults with colleagues. He nodded to Michael and the two of them began to trot forward. Unfortunately, Donwich thought it was Clare Hall’s prerogative to be first, and tried to overtake, which resulted in his horse stumbling in a pothole, after which it began to limp. Dismayed, Donwich dismounted to fret over the damage. Michael and Langelee watched in contempt, disgusted that Donwich’s self-serving antics should have resulted in harm to such a fine animal.

‘He will have to rest that for at least a week,’ said Michael, regarding the afflicted leg with the eye of a man who knew. ‘You will have to hire one instead.’

Another delay followed, as Donwich declared himself to have high standards where horseflesh was concerned and rejected a dozen animals before accepting one that he considered to be of sufficient quality. By the time he was satisfied, the three Swinescroft men had repaired to the tavern for more food, obliging everyone to wait until they had finished a second time.

Then, just as the party was about to ride through the gate, a panting student arrived from Clare Hall to report that water was dripping through the library ceiling. Horrified, Donwich and Pulham raced home, and refused to go anywhere until they were sure their precious collection was safe. It was noon by the time the travellers assembled again.

‘You go first, Donwich,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘We cannot have you ruining a second horse by attempting to shove past me. We are late enough as it is.’

‘We will make up the lost time,’ shrugged Donwich carelessly. ‘Once we are on the open road, the miles will just melt away. You wait and see.’

‘They will not,’ growled Langelee to his Fellows. ‘Not with our poor nags and the three old men from Swinescroft. We shall be lucky to arrive by midnight.’

As it happened, they did not reach Clare at all that day, because they were plagued by a series of mishaps, all of which resulted in spats that held them up even further. First, Donwich’s new horse threw a shoe, which Michael and Langelee claimed was down to poor handling. Donwich naturally took exception to their remarks, and a furious quarrel ensued.

Then Badew was taken ill with indigestion – no surprise there, thought Bartholomew, as he prepared a soothing remedy – forcing everyone to wait until the pain had subsided. A muttered remark about gluttony by Pulham sparked yet another ill-tempered tiff, this time between Clare Hall and Swinescroft.

And finally, there was a fractious debate when a pack of farmers demanded a substantial and illegal fee for the privilege of riding through their village. Donwich wanted to pay it, on the grounds that a detour would take them too far out of their way, but Langelee refused. He claimed it was on principle, although Bartholomew and Michael knew it was to conserve their scant funds. He capitulated only when an exasperated Donwich offered to pay the whole amount himself.

They rode on, the three Michaelhouse men watching anxiously as daylight began to fade. Dark clouds massed overhead, promising an early dusk and rain before morning. Langelee urged his pony into a trot, but although the others matched his pace, nightfall came when they still had at least another five miles to go. Then they saw lights gleaming in the gloom ahead.

‘That is Kedyngton,’ said Donwich. ‘It would be folly to press on tonight, so we shall stay there and continue in the morning.’

‘But the funeral,’ argued Langelee worriedly. ‘It will–’

‘I cannot see it starting before midday,’ interrupted Roos, ‘so we shall arrive in plenty of time. The White Horse here will accommodate us. I have stayed there before, and it is a lovely place.’

The White Horse was an upmarket establishment that cost considerably more than Langelee was willing to spend. It was busy, and there were only two rooms left, which Clare Hall and Swinescroft quickly bagged for themselves. The landlord was acutely embarrassed that he was unable to accommodate all the scholars from the famous University, and declared himself much relieved when Langelee graciously agreed to accept three straw pallets in the hayloft free of charge.

‘I wish we had come alone,’ said Michael, eyeing the makeshift beds in distaste before choosing the one he thought would be the most comfortable. ‘We would have been there by now.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Langelee, watching a servant bring water, so they could rinse away the dust of travel; it was cold, so Bartholomew was the only one who bothered. ‘Or maybe we would be lying in a ditch without our ears. I sensed eyes on us a mile back – Simon Freburn’s, no doubt. He would have chanced his hand if we had been three rather than eight.’

Bartholomew was astonished to hear it. ‘You think it was our companions who struck fear into the hearts of these hardened robbers? Three elderly men and two prancing monkeys?’

‘Swinescroft and Clare Hall are no warriors,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But neither is Freburn, and he was loath to risk a skirmish in which he would be quite so heavily outnumbered.’

Michael murmured a prayer of thanks for their deliverance. ‘I wish Cynric could have come,’ he said, referring to Bartholomew’s book-bearer, who was almost as formidable a fighter as the Master. ‘It is a pity he is away visiting kin in Wales.’

‘We shall be safe enough if the eight of us stick together,’ averred Langelee. ‘But I shall be glad to be home again, even so.’

‘Yes, we shall attend the funeral, collect our inheritance, and hurry home with it as soon as we can,’ determined Michael. ‘Fortunately, none of our party can dally in Clare, given that term starts next week. We all need to be back.’

‘But we three have the strongest reasons not to linger,’ sighed Langelee. ‘You left our University in the dubious hands of Chancellor Suttone, while I had to appoint Father William as Acting Master. Neither can be trusted alone for long.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And you have a wedding to arrange.’

Bartholomew experienced a familiar stab of unease as he contemplated the changes that were about to occur in his life. The University did not allow scholars to marry, so he would have to resign from Michaelhouse and move into the little house that his betrothed, Matilde, had bought. He would no longer be able to teach, and he knew he would miss the intellectual stimulation of the debating chamber. To take his mind off it, he turned the discussion to Clare.

‘I still do not understand why you think the Lady left us something in her will. Perhaps she did like us, but she also liked other foundations, including several nunneries, her local community of Austin friars and Clare Hall – the place that named itself after her. They are far more likely to be remembered than us.’

‘We should have left him behind,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘His attitude is entirely wrong. We must give the impression that she definitely promised us a legacy, so if it transpires that she did not, we can claim it was an oversight and demand one anyway.’

‘There is no need to explain it to me,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I have been browbeating awkward executors for years. Matt is the one who needs priming.’

‘We must approach–’ began Langelee.

‘I know what to do,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And I shall do my best, although you should have brought someone else. I am not very good at this sort of thing.’

‘Unfortunately, we had no choice,’ replied Langelee. ‘The other Fellows either had duties that kept them in Cambridge, or they would have been even worse at it than you. And do not say Michael and I could have come alone – we had to send a bigger deputation than Clare Hall, so it will look as though we care more about honouring her.’

A series of unwise investments and poor financial decisions meant that Michaelhouse had been teetering on the brink of fiscal ruin for years, but every time the Master and his Fellows managed to remedy the situation, something happened to put them back to square one again. For example, a handsome donation from York had been eaten up by urgent repairs to the roof, while the generous gift of a pier, which should have brought in a steady income, had been lost to fire – not once but twice. The second inferno had been especially disheartening, and Bartholomew was not the only one who was beginning to wonder if they were cursed.

‘We should sleep,’ said Langelee, and snuffed out the candle before his Fellows could demur. ‘All that quarrelling was very tiring, and I am exhausted.’

‘I hope we are mentioned in the will,’ muttered Michael, groping about in the dark for a blanket. ‘It will be much easier than persuading her executors that we should have been.’

‘If only she had chosen to finance us fourteen years ago,’ sighed Langelee. ‘Donwich and Pulham do not have to fret about how much Clare Hall has been left.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ countered Michael. ‘Relations between them have been strained these past few years, because she insisted on meddling in their affairs. She wanted to control every aspect of their lives – who should have which room, how much ale they drink, what entertainment should be provided at Christmas …’

‘Then they are petulant fools,’ declared Langelee. ‘I would have swallowed however much ale she stipulated in return for sixty pounds a year.’

‘Why do you think Swinescroft really wanted to come?’ asked Bartholomew, after a while. ‘I do not believe it is to gloat over her death. Not even they are that spiteful.’

‘Never underestimate the power of malice, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Especially from that trio. I recommend that we watch them very closely while we are in Clare, because we do not want their vindictiveness to turn the executors against all scholarly foundations.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee drowsily. ‘So let us hope they behave themselves, because I am loath to use my sword on such elderly colleagues.’

Bartholomew hoped the Master was speaking metaphorically; Michael knew he was not.

Bartholomew had wanted to visit Clare ever since he had heard a description of it several years earlier, so he had been pleased when Langelee had ordered him to accompany him and Michael, despite his misgivings about hoodwinking the Lady’s executors. But he had not imagined that the journey would be plagued by such a gamut of emotions.

When he had first become intrigued by the place, it was because he had liked the sound of its setting on the River Stour and its wealth of handsome houses. However, he had since learned that Matilde had lived there after the misunderstanding that had caused her to leave him – he had been slow in asking her to be his wife, which she had interpreted as a disinclination to give up teaching for a life of wedded bliss. He had hunted for her for months afterwards, travelling as far afield as France, and had later been stunned to discover that she had been in Clare – virtually on his doorstep – the whole time.

Once she had learned that a future with him was still possible, Matilde had set about earning a fortune in venture capital, aware that Bartholomew would not be able to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed – most of his patients were paupers, who were not only unable to pay for his services, but who needed him to buy their medicines into the bargain. When she felt she had accumulated enough, she had returned to Cambridge and waited for him to renew his courtship.

It had not been easy to accept her back into his life again. Both had changed in the years they had been apart, and while he still loved her deeply, all was not harmonious perfection. They argued more than they had, and neither remembered the other as being quite so stubborn. Or was it simply that they were now thrust together a lot more? One of the reasons Bartholomew had been glad to visit Clare was that it provided them both with an opportunity to step back and reflect on their relationship and decision to marry.

‘I hate Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, breaking into his thoughts, as they rode along side by side the following morning. ‘Every time I step over its borders, it rains. It was sunny in Cambridge.’

The weather had indeed taken a turn for the worse overnight. There was a persistent and drenching downpour that looked set to continue for the rest of the day, the sky was a solid, unbroken grey, and everything dripped. There was new growth in the hedgerows they passed, and celandines and primroses dappled the banks, but their bright colours were dulled by the sullen light.

The rain soon turned the track slick with mud, so progress was both slow and uncomfortable. Thus no one minded very much when Badew declared himself to be too tired to continue, and demanded that they stop at a wayside inn for refreshments. Clare Hall and Swinescroft then proceeded to order themselves handsome repasts of roasted meat and bread, but Langelee shook his head in alarm when Michael started to do the same. The monk, however, was not a man to let a small thing like money stand between him and his stomach.

‘My colleague can cure that painful knee of yours,’ he informed the landlord confidently. ‘Of course, you could never afford the fees of a famous University physician, but I am in a generous mood, so we shall allow you to provide us with a meal instead.’

‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew crossly, once the grateful patient had hobbled away clutching a pot of salve. ‘What would have happened if he had been suffering from something I could not help him with? Would you have returned his food?’

‘I doubt he would want it now,’ retorted Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘But you did heal him, so where lies the problem?’

Bartholomew knew there was no point in arguing. He glanced to the other side of the room, where Donwich, Badew and Roos had embarked on an ill-natured debate over whether Clare was a large village or a small town. It should not have been a subject that provoked high passions, but it was not long before they were screeching at each other. Wincing at the racket, Harweden came to join the Michaelhouse men, and without a by-your-leave, began to pick at their food. Michael and Langelee were naturally indignant, so soon a second spat was under way.

Unwilling to be dragged into it, Bartholomew went to sit with Pulham, who was reading by the fire. To be civil, he politely asked if the book was from Clare Hall’s library, brought on the journey lest the ceiling leaked again.

‘No, it belongs to me,’ Pulham replied, laying an affectionate hand on its exquisitely crafted cover – soft red leather with letters picked out in gold. ‘It is my most cherished possession, and far too valuable to leave in a place where some grubby undergraduate might get hold of it.’

Bartholomew blinked his incomprehension at the sentiment. He was always delighted when a student expressed an interest in reading one of his books, as it meant the lad wanted to know what was inside – and education was the reason they were all there, after all.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘A legal text?’

‘A Book of Hours. It was crafted by John de Weste, who is cofferer at Clare Priory and also one of the country’s finest illustrators. I am sure you have heard of him.’

Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. Books of Hours were devotional tracts, filled with prayers and psalms. He barely had time to study the medical tomes he was obliged to teach, so religious books were a luxury with which he was wholly unfamiliar.

‘It cost a fortune,’ Pulham went on. ‘But the moment I saw it, I knew I had to make it my own. Just look at the pictures – each one is a work of art.’

Bartholomew leaned forward to see an intricate pastoral scene, showing a blue-frocked shepherd tending his flock in attractively rolling countryside. Birds fluttered overhead and the sun shone. Yet darkness lurked, because Satan was watching from behind a tree. The Devil was depicted peculiarly – he had a tail and cloven hoofs, but his head was that of a man with a mane of white hair and snowy whiskers. Something about the face was vaguely familiar, although Bartholomew could not have said why.

‘It is beautiful,’ he acknowledged. ‘But surely you could have left it with a trusted colleague? What happens if it gets rained on? Or lost?’

‘I brought it with me because I have discovered a flaw,’ explained Pulham. ‘In that picture, as a matter of fact. I want Weste to put it right.’

‘What flaw?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the page again. ‘The fact that lambs tend not to be born in high summer, which is what seems to be happening in the left-hand corner?’

‘Is it?’ Pulham peered at it. ‘Lord, so it is! I had not noticed, but I am not a farmer, so it does not matter. No, I refer to Satan, who is far too human-looking for my liking. He should–’

He stopped abruptly when the tome was ripped from his hand by Roos, who peered at the picture briefly, then flung the whole thing into the fire. Pulham gave a shriek of dismay and leapt to rescue it, but Roos grabbed his belt and held him back. Equally appalled – he had never approved of book-burning – Bartholomew darted forward and managed to pluck the volume from the flames. The pastoral illustration was gone, but the other pages were mostly unscathed.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Pulham howled at Roos, snatching the book from Bartholomew and cradling it to his breast. ‘Are you mad?’

‘It is a vile piece of heresy,’ snarled Roos, lunging for it again, ‘and the fire is the only place for it. Give it to me, or I shall tell everyone that you are a warlock.’

‘Roos, stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, thinking this was unacceptable behaviour even by Swinescroft standards. ‘It is a Book of Hours – it contains prayers and psalms. There is nothing untoward about it. Show him, Pulham.’

‘Yes, look at it!’ screeched Pulham, waving the damaged bit at Roos as tears started from his eyes. ‘Look at what you have done to an exquisite piece of art, you damned lunatic!’

Roos peered briefly at it, then turned and stalked away. ‘Just keep it away from me,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he went.

Bartholomew could only suppose that breaking off the altercation so abruptly was Roos’s way of acknowledging that he had made a mistake. Clearly, an apology was not going to be forthcoming.

‘The man is insane,’ sobbed Pulham, hugging the book to him again. ‘I feel like clouting him over the head with it, and continue bashing until his brains fall out.’

Bartholomew started to reply, but was distracted by raised voices from the other side of the room. Badew was ill again, which was small wonder given the amount of food he had just managed to pack away. Unfortunately, he was more inclined to blame his discomfort on someone else rather than admit his greed, and had accused Donwich of poisoning him.

‘You do not want me to go to Clare,’ the old man was declaring, eyes flashing hotly, ‘because you are afraid of what I might tell people there.’

‘I assure you,’ drawled Donwich, with the kind of arrogance that was sure to rankle, ‘nothing you say could matter less to me. You are an irrelevance.’

‘Is that so?’ snarled Badew. ‘Well, you can think again, because I know things – secrets that will put the Lady’s executors in a flutter.’

‘What secrets?’ asked Michael curiously.

Badew smirked tauntingly. ‘You will have to wait and see. Come, Roos, Harweden. The company here has begun to stink, and I can stand it no longer.’

‘Thank God we are nearly there,’ muttered Langelee, as they stepped into the teeming rain for the last leg of their journey. ‘I do not think I can take much more of this bickering – they are worse than fractious children.’

As soon as he saw it, Bartholomew understood exactly why Elizabeth de Burgh had chosen to make Clare her seat of power. It was a jewel of a place, even in the rain with water sluicing down its roofs and tumbling along its gutters. It was dominated by the castle, a vast fortress that occupied a sizeable tract of land, all protected by curtain walls, ditches, ramparts and towers. However, the inner bailey buildings had plenty of large windows, suggesting it was as much a palace as a military garrison. Outside the walls, but still within the encircling moat, were gardens, orchards and vineyards.

The town itself was just as splendid, and Bartholomew looked around with interest as he rode, admiring the decorative plasterwork on the houses of those who had grown rich from Clare’s strategic position on the River Stour and the great castle on its doorstep. There was an atmosphere of conceited well-being among the people he passed, but no indication that the Lady’s death was cause for sorrow. Perhaps they were glad to see the back of her, he thought, recalling her as a domineering woman with firmly held opinions.

They crossed a bridge and had their first glimpse of the parish church. It was unusually large and had been the subject of a recent renovation, as parts of it were still swathed in scaffolding. The top half of the building was new, and so was the south aisle, while the lower half was ancient, dating from the time of the Conqueror.

‘It looks odd,’ declared Langelee, reining in to regard it critically. ‘As if some giant has come along and sliced off one roof in order to replace it with another. The two parts do not fit together properly – they are different colours, for a start.’

‘That will not be so noticeable once the new parts have weathered a bit,’ said Bartholomew, and smiled appreciatively. ‘The nave and chancel are an impressive height, though, so the ceiling must look splendid from within.’

‘Maybe,’ conceded Langelee. ‘But I am unimpressed by that south aisle – it is crafted from cheaper materials than the rest, and is not nearly as handsome.’

‘We should go in,’ declared Michael. Their arrival had attracted attention, and he was keen for his piety to be reported to people who mattered. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’

No one liked to argue, so they dismounted and trooped into the porch. Hoods were pushed back and hats removed, although Roos declined to part with his vile woollen cap.

‘Do you still have earache?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically, wondering if discomfort had been responsible for the unedifying incident with the book in the tavern earlier.

Roos nodded and raised one hand to the side of his head. ‘It throbs like the Devil, and I shall be glad to lie down. Your fat friend knows it, of course, which is why he suggested a prayer – to cause me additional pain by dallying.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to deny it, but Roos had already stamped away. Pushing the surly old man from his mind, he walked into the nave, aware of the clean scents of wet plaster and fresh paint. Then he gazed upwards in astonishment.

The clerestory windows high above allowed light to flood in, even on that dull day, and it illuminated something he had never seen before – a ceiling that soared, so high and delicate that it seemed impossible that it should stay up. At the top of each pillar, stone ribs had been carved in a fan pattern, to intertwine like lace with the ones adjacent to it. Each fan had been given a unique geometric design, executed in a blaze of bright colour. Much was hidden by scaffolding, but enough could be seen through the gaps to show that it was a remarkable achievement.

‘Well,’ said Donwich eventually, the first to find his voice. ‘I knew they had been working to improve the place, but I was not expecting anything so …’

‘Tasteless,’ finished Badew, sniffing his disdain. ‘It is ugly.’

‘It is stunning,’ countered Donwich. ‘As any fool can see. What a pity that the Lady did not live to enjoy it. I imagine it was her money that paid for the project.’

‘Not too much of it, I hope,’ murmured Langelee to his Fellows. ‘I should not like to think she spent so recklessly that there is none left for us.’

Still braying their admiration, Donwich and Pulham went to inspect the murals that covered every wall, prayers forgotten. The Swinescroft men pretended to be indifferent as they perched on a convenient tomb to rest their legs, although even they could not resist surreptitious glances at the glories around them. Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee went to the chancel, where they knelt to say their prayers. As a professional, the monk had more to say to his Maker than the other two, so when they had finished, they withdrew to give him some privacy.

‘I have never seen anything like it,’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing upwards at the ceiling with renewed awe. ‘Not even in France.’

‘It is called “fan vaulting”,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘The only other place you will see it is in Gloucester Abbey, but ours is better.’

They turned to see a vicar. He was an Austin friar of middle years, whose fine robes indicated that he earned a good living from his parish. He had a shock of yellow hair and a physique that was almost as impressive as Langelee’s. He introduced himself as Father Nicholas de Lydgate.

‘Who designed it?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing that the priest wanted to brag.

‘An architect named Thomas de Cambrug. If you are in Clare next Tuesday, you will meet him, because he is coming for the rededication ceremony. He is working on Hereford Cathedral at the moment, but has promised to return for the unveiling.’

‘Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around doubtfully. The scaffolding would take a while to dismantle, and artists were still working feverishly on several bare patches of stone. ‘That is in six days. Will you be ready by then?’

‘We had better be, because the time and date have been set for months,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It will start at seven o’clock in the evening, and will be conducted by torchlight. I made the arrangements myself, and it will be the most beautiful service that anyone has ever seen.’

‘I am sure it will be impressive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Hereford is a long way away. Are you sure Cambrug will make the trek?’

Nicholas smiled serenely. ‘Yes, because the Queen is coming, and no ambitious man wants to miss his work being praised by royalty. He will be here, of that I am certain.’

‘All this beautification must have been expensive,’ fished Langelee. ‘Did the Lady fund it?’

Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘You have hit upon a bitter bone of contention. It was to have been the town’s project, as it is our parish church, but when the Lady saw what was happening, she wanted to be part of it – which caused a lot of bad feeling.’

‘Did it?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘In Cambridge, the town would be delighted if the castle offered to pay for something.’

‘She funded the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, waving at the section in question, ‘which sounded generous until we learned that the townsfolk were expected to stand in it, out of the way, while she and her cronies took over the nave.’

‘The castle does not have a chapel of its own?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, but it is too small to accommodate everyone, so they have to attend Mass in shifts. This place, however, can hold them all, so they aim to steal it from us. They have already started meddling in parish affairs. For example, they want me to leave my current house and move into a smaller one. But where I live is none of their damned business!’

He continued to rail until the latch clanked and two men entered. The older of the pair reclined on a litter carried by a couple of moon-faced boys; all three were clad entirely in purple. The other was so plump that he barely managed to squeeze through the door. Nicholas broke off from his grumbles to say they were Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym.

‘They will tell you about the Lady’s gall,’ he confided, ‘because they were obliged to deal with most of her infractions – I confined myself to the religious issues that arise from this sort of undertaking. It is never wise for a priest to take sides, although it is hard to remain impartial sometimes.’

‘What religious issues?’ asked Langelee, while Bartholomew thought that Nicholas had not remained impartial at all, and clearly sided with his parishioners.

‘Tending our anchoress while her cell was being refurbished, praying for the work to be finished on time, burying our Master Mason, who was tragically killed a few weeks ago – your three friends over there are sitting on him.’

‘You have an anchoress?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, preferring to discuss a holy woman than the fact that his Swinescroft colleagues had made themselves very comfortable on the final resting place of someone who was so recently dead.

Nicholas smiled. ‘Her name is Anne de Lexham, and she is very religious. I shall introduce you to her after you have spoken to Godeston and Grym. Here they come now.’

The Mayor cut a very stately figure in his litter. His lavender robes were made of unusually fine cloth, and there was silver embroidery on his sleeves. His bearers’ clothes were coarser, but they were obviously proud of the way they looked, because they kept glancing at their reflections in the windows.

‘Robbers,’ Godeston said without preamble, staring up at Bartholomew and Langelee through sharp mauve eyes. ‘Did you encounter any on your way here?’

‘Specifically Simon Freburn and his sons,’ elaborated Grym, identifiable as a barber because his enormous girth was encircled by a belt from which dangled implements to cut hair, shave faces and extract teeth. He had twinkling eyes and a ready smile, and was not ‘grim’ at all.

‘No, we were too large a party to tackle,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although I sensed them watching us as we passed. If we had been fewer, I am sure they would have attacked.’

‘Scum!’ spat Godeston. ‘I would give my right arm to see Freburn and his sons hang.’

Grym changed the subject with a smile. ‘We do not see many scholars these days. Why–’

‘We do not see them because of Freburn,’ interrupted Godeston bitterly. ‘People are loath to use the road as long as he haunts it.’ He scowled at Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘Or have you kept your distance these last few years because the College named after our town is tired of us?’

‘I thought Clare Hall was named after the Lady,’ said Langelee, puzzled.

‘I am sure that is what its Fellows told her,’ sniffed Godeston, ‘but everyone knows the real truth, which is that one of them travelled here fourteen years ago, and thought our town so fabulous that he decided to honour us.’

‘And who can blame him?’ shrugged Grym. ‘It is the nicest place in Suffolk. No, let us be honest about this – in the whole world!’

‘I was telling them how the castle insisted on providing us with a new aisle,’ said Nicholas grumpily. ‘Even though we did not want one.’

Godeston’s face hardened. ‘Especially as they think they will shove us in there, out of sight, while they worship in the nave. Well, we are not going anywhere.’ He folded his arms defiantly.

‘But the nave is huge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely there is enough room for everyone?’

‘Not at the front,’ explained Godeston. ‘Which is where we all like to be. We refuse to give way to them, so they bring their weapons and give us a poke.’

‘It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt,’ put in Grym, shaking his head disapprovingly. ‘And do not say that should please a man who stitches wounds – it is not the way I like to win new business.’

‘There was talk of a north aisle as well,’ growled Godeston, ‘but we scuppered that plan by making sure the south one cost the Lady a fortune. There is gold leaf in all its murals, and its floor came from Naples. Of course, the stone in the walls is very inferior …’

‘Well, she is dead now, so you are safe from her unwelcome meddling,’ said Langelee.

‘Dead?’ echoed Nicholas, startled. ‘What are you talking about? The Lady is not dead.’

‘More is the pity,’ put in Godeston acidly.

‘Of course she is,’ countered Langelee. ‘A messenger rode all the way to Cambridge with a letter. Her funeral is today.’

‘Then I am afraid you have been the subject of a practical joke,’ said Grym. ‘Because the Lady is no more dead than I am. I saw her myself, not an hour ago.’

‘And there is no funeral today,’ added Nicholas. ‘There is one tomorrow, but not hers. Grym is right – someone is playing games with you.’