The Habit of Murder

Chapter 3

It was still raining the next morning, although not as hard as it had done during the night. Drizzle swept down in gauzy sheets and wreathed the top of the church tower in white. The three scholars rose before dawn, as was their custom, and went with Nicholas to celebrate Mass, where Michael assisted at the altar, and Bartholomew and Langelee gazed contemplatively at the ceiling, although for different reasons. The physician was admiring the fan vaulting again, while the Master of Michaelhouse was pondering ways to win new benefactors.

The rite was well attended, although it quickly became apparent that the congregants were more interested in staking a claim on ‘their’ piece of the nave than in what was happening in the chancel. Within moments, there was a scuffle near the rood screen – a handsome affair of stone with soaring pinnacles along the top – between a troupe of squires and some young merchants. The squires wore the silly pointed shoes and flowing sleeves currently popular at Court, and strutted about with the arrogance of entitlement. The merchants’ robes were more practical, although every bit as gorgeous, and the supercilious glances they shot their rivals were calculated to provoke.

They might have come to blows had Michael not gone to see what was happening. As Senior Proctor, he was used to dealing with fractious youths, and stilled the brewing spat with a gimlet-eyed glower. None of them knew him, so it said much for the power of his personality that he was able to restore peace with a single scowl.

‘Yes, you behave yourselves,’ came an admonishing voice from the anchorhold. ‘It makes us look bad when you squabble in front of visitors. Do it again and you will answer to me.’

There was no further trouble, and when the ceremony was over, Bartholomew went to pay his respects to Anne. She was wearing a different gown to the one she had donned the previous day, and people had already presented her with gifts of food, as six or seven sweet-smelling parcels sat on a shelf by the window. He was surprised to note that a pie had several bites taken out of it, while one plate contained nothing but crumbs.

‘You do not wait until after Mass before breaking your fast?’ he asked, astonished.

Anne shrugged. ‘Being holy is hungry work. Besides, I worked at the castle for thirty-seven years before taking up a life of religious contemplation, so I think I have earned the right to ignore the rules when I feel like it.’ She sniffed resentfully. ‘I gave my all to that place, although my efforts were never truly appreciated.’

‘What did you do there?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing her need to talk.

‘I was a nurse,’ she replied grandly. ‘I raised a host of children – the sons and daughters of lords and their senior servants – and saw them all safely through to adulthood. My charges include Master Marishal’s twins and the naughty squires you saw just now. But then God called me, so I came here instead.’

‘Was it very difficult to make the transition?’

She waved an airy hand. ‘There were one or two trying weeks at the beginning, but I soon had people trained to bring me what I need. I have been in here for a year and a half now.’

‘You must find it very noisy, with all these builders and artists.’

‘That work began just two months after I took my holy vows. Of course, it was because of me that it happened at all. I told Clare to provide a church worthy of my presence, and the town responded by funding the new roof, while the castle added the south aisle. I am looking forward to the rededication ceremony next week – the culmination of all my labours.’

Bartholomew smothered a smile that she should claim so much credit for the project. ‘It must have been disruptive, though.’

‘At times, but I do not mind. Sitting in here all alone can be tedious, so watching the masons and painters gives me something to do. Of course, I do not like the fan vaulting very much. It is too fussy for my taste, and I would rather have had something simpler. It is a–’

She broke off abruptly and hurried to her other window, where the squires had appeared. Their company was evidently more appealing than Bartholomew’s, as she was soon laughing and joking with them. She demanded the latest gossip, so they obliged by telling her of a scandal involving the baker’s mother. Bartholomew moved away, disinclined to listen, and taking the charitable view that she wanted the information so as to know who to include in her prayers.

He met Nicholas and Langelee by the door. The vicar was begging again for Langelee to sell him the letter-opener, and Langelee was becoming irked by his persistence.

‘I have just been talking to your anchoress,’ interjected Bartholomew before the Master said or did something that would offend, which would be unfortunate after they had just enjoyed Nicholas’s hospitality. ‘She tells me she was a nurse before coming here.’

‘A very good one,’ said Nicholas, accepting the change of subject with obvious regret. ‘And it is a pity that the Lady decided to dispense with her services.’

‘Anne was dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She told me that she was called by God.’

Nicholas became flustered. ‘It was both. She was invited to leave the castle, but when God saw she was available, He decided to claim her for Himself.’ Then it was his turn to change the subject. ‘I cannot wait for Tuesday. In just five days, my church will host the Queen of England and the greatest architect in the world.’

‘I am looking forward to seeing it in its full glory,’ said Bartholomew keenly. ‘But are you sure all the scaffolding will be down by then?’

‘Positive,’ replied Nicholas confidently. ‘Would you like to see the ceiling from the roof space? It is just as impressive, although for a different reason. Come.’

The door to the stairs that led to the roof was in the new south aisle. Nicholas opened it to reveal a spiral staircase built inside one of the thicker piers. It was dark and narrow, lit only by the occasional slit in the stonework. The climb seemed to go on for ever, until Nicholas reached a second door, which he unlocked with a key that he wore around his neck.

He flung it open and stepped aside to reveal the roof space – the area between the ceiling and the outside slates. It was indeed impressive, and comprised an intricate system of horizontal beams and vertical struts with the roof arching overhead. The fan vaulting was apparent in the stone domes that bubbled up through the floor. Interspersed between the domes was more scaffolding, a complex mess of planks and ropes that were larger and stronger than the ones in the church below. Nicholas indicated it proudly.

‘Cambrug installed all that to prevent the fans from collapsing while they were being assembled,’ he explained. ‘Now they are finished, except for the paintwork, the supports are no longer needed. But we shall leave them where they are for now.’

‘Because no one will see them up here anyway,’ surmised Langelee. ‘And you can dismantle them at your leisure, once the Queen and her retinue have gone.’

‘Precisely! It is cheating, I suppose, but needs must. Yet the supports have a beauty of their own, and I shall be sorry to see them go. In some ways, they demonstrate Cambrug’s genius more than the fan vaulting, as there are not many who could have devised so clever a system of braces.’

‘They are clever,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, surveying them with the eye of a man who understood loads and angles. He pointed. ‘I assume those two central posts took most of the weight until the vaults were self-supporting?’

‘Exactly! And what is even more amazing is that we can see everything quite clearly, even though none of us has a lantern. Cambrug left ingenious little gaps, so that the light can filter up from below. Do you know why? So that no one will ever be obliged to come up here with a lamp, thus reducing the risk of fire. He thought of everything.’

‘Is that one of his “ingenious little gaps”?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing again. ‘Only it looks like a crack to me. A rather large one.’

‘Oh, that is a crack,’ acknowledged Nicholas. ‘It happened early on, but Cambrug said it was just the stone settling into its final position, which is quite normal. We shall fill it with glue once the ceremony is over.’

‘Anne said she has been here for a year and a half, and building began some eight weeks after she arrived. That means you have done all this in sixteen months. It is a remarkable achievement.’

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Nicholas, pleased by the praise. Then he grimaced. ‘Of course, our success is no thanks to Roger the mason, who was a dreadful grumbler. I cannot imagine why Cambrug appointed him as his deputy. I am sorry he is dead, of course, but he was such a malcontent.’

‘He did not die in suspicious circumstances, did he?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘Like the others you told us about last night?’

‘There are some who will tell you so, but the truth is that he was struck by falling scaffolding – an accident. Do you want to see his tomb? It was only finished last week. Go down the stairs and wait at the bottom. I shall join you there as soon as I have locked up here.’

‘Why do you need to keep the roof secure?’ asked Langelee, beginning to do as he was told.

‘Lest the castle folk come up here for mischief. I would not have invited you, given that you are strangers, but … well, if I cannot rely on two old soldiers to behave, then who can I trust?’

Bartholomew winced. When he had been in France, searching for Matilde, bad timing had put him near the little town of Poitiers, where a small English force had defeated a much larger French one. He disliked remembering the carnage, but Langelee had run out of stories about his own military achievements the previous night, so had started to invent ones about the physician’s instead, determined to repay the vicar’s hospitality with plenty of gory tales. Now Nicholas laboured under the misapprehension that Bartholomew was a seasoned warrior.

When the vicar joined them at the bottom of the stairs, he led the way to the tomb that the Swinescroft men had used as a seat the previous day. It comprised a plain chest with a marble top, and its location and height meant it was not only a convenient resting place for elderly legs, but also a handy workbench – the artists were currently using it to mix paint.

‘Was Roger unpopular?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if there was a reason why Cambrug’s second-in-command had been buried below such a functional piece of furniture.

‘Very,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He thought the roof should have taken years to build, and refused to admit that he was wrong, right up until the day he died. And he hated the fan vaulting – he considered it too modern.’

‘Why did Cambrug choose such a person as his deputy?’

‘Because he was local, I suppose,’ shrugged Nicholas. ‘The diplomatic option. Yet I wish Roger was alive. It would have been a delight to watch his resentful face as I officiate at the ceremony that will mark the work’s completion.’

Nicholas went to speak to Anne at that point, leaving Bartholomew to recall what Michael had said the night before: that Clare had even more suspicious deaths than Cambridge. Then the monk himself arrived, grumbling about the disgraceful spat during Mass.

‘If they cannot control themselves, they should not have come,’ he said, tight-lipped with righteous indignation. ‘And if they do it during the ceremony next Tuesday they will be sorry – the royals levy fines for that sort of behaviour.’

‘There is Grym,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where the enormous barber-surgeon was standing with the Mayor, both of them gazing up at the ceiling. ‘I want to ask him about using hemlock for amputations.’

‘Not in an accusing way, I hope,’ said Langelee pointedly. ‘He is one of Clare’s richest residents, and thus on my list of potential benefactors.’

‘In a medical way,’ Bartholomew assured him. ‘I am always keen to learn new things.’

‘Well, just watch your tongue,’ warned Langelee. ‘And remember, even if you do find out that he made an end of the folk who Nicholas claimed were poisoned – Wisbech and Skynere, was it? – we do not have the authority to do anything about it.’

Bartholomew did not bother to say that he had no intention of delving into the unsavoury business of murder, and went to the rood screen, where Mayor Godeston and Grym peered up at a part of the ceiling that was relatively free of scaffolding. Michael and Langelee followed, although all three held back politely until the two townsmen had finished their discussion.

‘It is not a crack,’ Grym was saying. He wore a dark green tunic with frills that, combined with his rotund shape, made him look like a cabbage with legs. ‘It is just a smear of paint.’

‘Then someone must go up there and scrub it off,’ declared Godeston irritably, ‘because it spoils the effect. I would do it myself, but I do not think my couch will fit up the steps.’

He was in his litter as he spoke, lying back to squint upwards. He was again clad entirely in purple, although this time it was gold embroidery, rather than silver, that adorned his sleeves. His bearers wore the same clothes as they had the previous day, including their hats, which they had neglected to remove. Bartholomew suspected it was because their hands were full of their employer’s litter, but they were still the subject of scowls from three castle knights, who evidently considered it disrespectful.

‘I do not think I would fit up them either,’ Grym was saying unhappily. ‘So perhaps one of your lads would go instead.’

‘And what happens to me while he messes about up there?’ demanded Godeston testily. ‘Am I to sit on the floor until he comes back?’

‘Am I to sit on the floor until he comes back?’ mimicked Langelee, in a disconcertingly accurate imitation of the Mayor’s high-pitched and rather prissy voice that made Bartholomew and Michael regard him askance. He shrugged. ‘I do not like him. He was rude to me yesterday when I mentioned that Michaelhouse is looking for new benefactors.’

‘Then we must work to win his good opinion,’ determined Michael, ‘because we cannot have him speaking against us to his wealthy cronies. However, we will not succeed if you make fun of him, so you might want to control your parodying urges.’

‘Although you did do it rather well,’ said Bartholomew, winning himself a conspiratorial grin.

‘Good morning, good morning,’ said Grym cheerfully, turning to smile as the three scholars approached. ‘How are you this fine day?’

‘It is not a fine day,’ countered Langelee. ‘It is raining.’

‘Every day is a fine day in Clare,’ averred Grym. ‘How could it be otherwise?’

‘True,’ acknowledged Godeston. ‘There is no better place in the whole wide world.’

‘Nicholas told me that you use hemlock when you amputate,’ said Bartholomew to Grym, launching into a medical debate with an abruptness that made his colleagues wince. ‘Does it work?’

‘It depends what you mean by “work”,’ replied the barber cautiously. ‘It certainly stops the patient from thrashing around, especially when combined with a good dose of poppy juice. Unfortunately, they are usually dead by the time I finish.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure he would be so flippant about what sounded to be a rather high failure rate. ‘How long do these procedures normally take you?’

‘Oh, not long at all. I do not maintain my princely size for my own benefit, you know – I learned years ago that a surgeon needs a bit of meat on his bones for amputations, or he is forced to saw and hack for ever, which patients tend to dislike. Perhaps you would care for a race later?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew primly, startled by the offer, not to mention the problem of acquiring suitable subjects. ‘Speed is not everything.’

‘It is as far as the victim is concerned,’ countered Grym, not unreasonably.

‘I understand you are the town’s investigator,’ said Michael, before he could hear something he might wish he had not – he knew from past experience that Bartholomew could be grisly when conversing with fellow medici. ‘And you have explored several suspicious deaths recently.’

‘He is not an investigator,’ interposed Mayor Godeston. ‘He just offered to inspect the bodies and give us an official cause of death for our records.’

‘Because no one else is qualified,’ explained Grym, and smiled amiably. ‘Although I have something of an aptitude for it, if you want the truth.’ He gestured to the mason’s tomb. ‘Roger was my first. I was able to ascertain that he was killed by a falling plank, but that it was all his own fault for standing in a dangerous place without a proper hat.’

‘So it was an accident?’ probed Michael.

Grym nodded. ‘Next was Talmach from the castle. He was old and frail, but insisted on riding with the hunt to impress his pretty young wife. It was a wet day, so no one was surprised when his horse skidded in mud and threw him. However, it was I who pointed out that he was unlikely to have landed square on his dagger.’

‘In other words, he was murdered,’ said the Mayor. ‘Probably by one of his castle cronies.’

‘Then Charer the coachman drowned,’ Grym went on. ‘He was a sot, who should not have been walking by the river alone and in the dark, but I am fairly sure he should have been able to pull himself out – which means that someone prevented him from doing so.’

‘And Skynere and Wisbech died from swallowing hemlock,’ prompted Bartholomew.

Grym inclined his head. ‘Wisbech was found dead in the castle chapel–’

‘The Lady thinks the town killed him,’ put in Godeston, ‘but she is wrong. One of her minions did, in the hope that the Austins would join their side in the quarrel.’

‘I ascertained that there was hemlock in the meal he had eaten in his vestry the previous evening,’ Grym went on. ‘He died during the night, and was discovered the next day. The same thing happened to Skynere – the poison was in his dinner, and Godeston and I found him the following morning, stone dead and still sitting at his table.’

‘It was horrible.’ Godeston shuddered and his bearers did likewise, forcing him to grip the litter to avoid being pitched out. ‘He was just sitting there, as if he had fallen asleep. Personally, I suspect the squires did it. They are a wild horde.’

‘Hemlock takes time to kill its victims,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did Skynere – or Wisbech, for that matter – not summon help?’

‘Perhaps they tried, but it was night and they were alone,’ replied Grym, essentially repeating what Nicholas had claimed. He turned to Godeston. ‘Yet I do not think the squires were responsible, as poison seems too artful a modus operandi for brutal fellows like them. My money is on Philip de Jevan. I have never liked him.’

‘Who is Philip de Jevan?’ asked Michael.

‘A member of the Lady’s council, who comes from London four times a year to give her the benefit of his wisdom.’ Grym pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is a terrible man.’

But the Mayor was shaking his head. ‘If it is not the squires, then it will be Stephen Bonde, the Lady’s favourite henchman. Now there is a killer if ever I saw one.’

‘A killer, yes, but not a poisoner,’ argued Grym. ‘He is more the kind to use his bare hands. Jevan would use hemlock, though – a sly weapon for a sly man. He reminds me of a rat, slinking about and never stopping to exchange pleasantries.’

‘Jevan is all right,’ said Godeston. ‘I asked him to bring me some nice cloth when he next came up from London, and he gave me this.’ He reached into his scrip and produced a length of purple silk so fine that it seemed to float in the air. ‘I have left instructions that it is to be draped over my coffin, should the unlikely day ever come when I might need one.’

‘Very pretty,’ said Michael, who was also of the opinion that his own death was optional. ‘Although Jevan did not need to go to London for it. Matt’s sister sells that in Cambridge.’

‘Of course, Lichet will be familiar with hemlock,’ mused Godeston, putting the silk away. ‘He calls himself a learned man, but he has the look of the warlock about him. Nicholas calls him the Red Devil, which suits him very well – we all know that red is Lucifer’s favourite colour.’

‘I always understood it was black,’ said Michael.

Godeston raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really believe that St Benedict would insist on his monks wearing black if it made them attractive to Satan? Of course not! Satan loves crimson, which is why you will never see any habits of that colour.’

‘Cardinals wear scarlet,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Quite, and what does that tell you?’ retorted Godeston. ‘However, I know for a fact that Satan loves red, because it is the colour of Christ’s blood – something in which he rejoices.’

‘I am sure he does not, theologically speaking,’ argued Michael. ‘Because it symbolises eternal salvation and the forgiveness of–’

‘Rubbish,’ interrupted Godeston. ‘Lichet is the Devil’s familiar, and if you have any sense, you will stay well away from him and trust nothing he says.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael.

* * *

Clare Castle boasted two huge baileys, both protected by walls, wet ditches and earthworks. The outer one was filled with wooden service buildings – stables, storehouses and quarters for retainers. The inner was marked by four squat towers and a motte with a massive central keep. However, the building that really commanded attention was the handsome palace that stood at the heart of the complex. It had been designed for comfort rather than security, and had large windows to fill it with light and a plethora of fireplaces to keep it warm.

‘Oxford, Maiden, Auditor and Constable,’ said Langelee, gazing approvingly at the fortifications – the living quarters did not interest him. He became aware of the bemused glances of his Fellows. ‘Those are the names of the four towers.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Nicholas told me last night, after you two had retired. After all, only a fool ventures into enemy territory without first learning the lie of the land.’

‘We have come to inveigle money, not lay siege to the place,’ said Michael.

‘It amounts to much the same,’ shrugged Langelee. ‘Both will involve tactics and strategies.’

The castle had several entrances, but the main one was at the end of the road called Nethergate. Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee were about to pass through it when they were hailed. They turned to see their University colleagues hurrying towards them. The Clare Hall Fellows wore academic gowns of exquisite quality, while Pulham had his Book of Hours tucked under one arm, and Donwich carried the regalia used for writing. Clearly, they aimed to present themselves as men of learning and refinement.

By contrast, the Swinescroft trio were scruffy. They had not shaved, their clothes were spattered with mud, and they had not bothered to clean their boots. Roos looked the most disreputable of the three, because he still wore his horrible woollen hat, tugged down so low that Bartholomew wondered how he could see where he was going.

‘You should have waited for us, Langelee,’ said Donwich coldly. ‘Or do you aim to impress the Lady’s executors by arriving first? What time is her funeral, by the way?’

It was Badew who replied, eyes agleam with malice. ‘Mid-morning. Do not worry, Donwich – we have plenty of time before the old witch is dispatched on her journey to Hell.’

‘They still do not know,’ whispered Michael in astonishment, as their colleagues hastened to enter the castle before them. ‘They consider themselves too grand to chat with local folk, so no one has had the chance to enlighten them. That will teach them to be aloof!’

Langelee chuckled. ‘It will be hilarious to watch what happens when they see her alive.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew uneasily.

‘All is fair in war,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘And the future of Michaelhouse depends on the next few days, so we cannot afford to be gentlemanly. Now shut up and follow my lead.’

Donwich and Pulham had contrived to be first up the ramp to the gatehouse, with the three Swinescroft men hot on their heels. They were about to pass under the portcullis when they met some people on their way out. They were the squires who had caused such a rumpus at the church earlier, along with a golden-haired couple in their mid-twenties. At a glance, the pair – who were so alike that they had to be the Marishal twins – appeared angelic, but a closer inspection revealed mischief sparking in the blue eyes. Both were sniggering, and Bartholomew suspected he knew why when he looked at their companions.

Since Mass, the squires had been at their toilet. Their beards had been slicked into two sharp points below their chins, kept in place by a waxy gel. It was an odd fashion, and in combination with their long-toed shoes and flowing sleeves, made them look like travelling magicians.

Bartholomew wanted to laugh, too, but prudently resisted the urge – the clothes were effete, but their wearers were not. All carried swords and had the arrogantly swaggering gait that suggested they would like nothing more than a brawl. Moreover, they were on Mayor Godeston’s list of suspects for killing Skynere, so needed to be approached with care.

‘Scholars!’ exclaimed the male twin. His clothes were fine but sensible, and although Bartholomew could not have said why, he knew that the oiling of the others’ beards had been his idea – a practical joke to make them look silly. ‘Welcome! To what do we owe this honour?’

‘We are not here to talk to the likes of you,’ declared Badew rudely, regarding him with open disdain. ‘We want Marishal the steward.’

‘I am his son, Thomas,’ said the twin pleasantly, although his cronies bristled at Badew’s manners. ‘And this is my sister Elizabeth, although we call her Ella. Perhaps we can help you.’

‘Leave them, Tom – we have better things to do than wait on scholars,’ growled the largest of the squires, a beefy fellow with a big, heavy face. A scar on one cheek suggested he was no stranger to fighting, and his fancy clothes looked more ridiculous on him than the others – akin to a bull wearing lace.

‘There is always time to help men of learning, Nuport,’ said Thomas, although the sly cant in his eyes suggested that any assistance offered should be accepted with caution.

‘Thomas and Ella,’ mused Badew, regarding them closely. ‘You came to University Hall and made a nuisance of yourselves on the day that I was forced to sign that quit-claim.’

Ella inclined her head. ‘But I am afraid I do not recall you, sir. It must be thirteen years ago now, and we were just children at the time.’

‘Fourteen years, one month and eighteen days,’ corrected Badew briskly. ‘It is not an event I shall ever forget.’

‘I remember it, Ella,’ said Thomas. His face was sombre but there was laughter in his eyes. ‘The quit-claim was very nearly signed in blood. Surely that cannot have slipped your mind?’

Badew seemed to inflate with rage at the reminder, and his face turned a worrying shade of puce, but Ella spoke before he could begin a tirade.

‘Perhaps it will come to me later. Meanwhile, we shall call a servant to conduct these men to our father. It is–’

‘Universities are a waste of time,’ interrupted Nuport, and gave a grin that was all bared teeth and menace. ‘Learning to kill is much more fun. We are going to France next week with Sir William Albon, to join the Prince of Wales. The war will be as good as won once we arrive.’

‘It is as good as won now,’ said Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that peace will be declared within the month.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Nuport, while his friends regarded each other in dismay. ‘How can there be peace when our King does not yet wear the French crown?’

Michael shrugged. ‘His Majesty has gained as much as he can realistically expect from the campaign, and he knows when it is time to stop. There will be no more battles, so your task will be to guard the territories he has gained these last few years.’

‘I am not going then,’ declared Nuport sulkily. ‘What would be the point? I want to kill Frenchmen, not defend a lot of fields and hovels.’

‘Oh, come now,’ chided Pulham. ‘It will be an interesting experience regardless, and I am sure your kin will be delighted to know that you are in no danger over there.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ murmured Donwich, glancing around at the stricken faces of those who had heard the monk’s announcement. ‘I have the sense that folk were looking forward to being rid of this lot, and your news has just ruined their day.’

In the end, it was Ella herself who conducted the scholars to her father, while Thomas trailed along behind. The squires retreated to a nearby guardroom to discuss Michael’s alarming news over jugs of ale. They remained blissfully unaware of the amusement their appearance was affording the people of Clare – castle and townsmen alike. However, the grins faded as word spread that the squires might not be going to France after all – Donwich was right to predict that most folk had been looking forward to seeing the back of them.

As they walked, Ella homed in on Michael, regarding him in a way that suggested she liked what she saw. Women were often attracted to the monk, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that he was fat, unfit and not especially handsome. Michael claimed his dynamic personality made him more appealing than ordinary men, and it seemed he was right, as Ella clung to his arm and chatted brightly.

‘We do not see many Benedictines in Clare,’ she gushed. ‘There is a whole priory of them a few miles away, but they rarely come here.’

‘No?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because they do not like the Lady very much, as she refuses to give them donations. But why should she? She already funds several other foundations.’

‘Such as Clare Hall,’ mused Michael. ‘Although they are seculars, and she would do better to invest in a College filled with priests and monks instead. A College such as Michaelhouse. The Masses we recite will lessen her time in Purgatory.’

‘Oh, she will not go to Purgatory,’ laughed Ella. ‘She will fly straight to Heaven. She told me so herself – when she also said that my brother and I would go directly to Hell.’

‘What did you do to earn that sort of censure?’

Ella giggled. ‘We sewed up the sleeves on her ladies’ kirtles. You should have seen them struggling to get dressed while she screeched with increasing impatience for them to hurry.’

‘Very droll,’ said Michael. ‘It is the kind of thing I might have done when I was eight.’

‘You were eight, Brother?’ asked Ella impishly. ‘Good Lord! Did you know Moses?’

She flounced ahead at that point, treating him to a fine view of her jauntily swaying hips.

‘She aims to seduce me, Matt,’ he murmured. He nodded to where Thomas chatted to a girl with raven hair. ‘And there is another man who is irresistible to women. She was scowling a moment ago, but now she simpers like a lovesick calf. It is a gift some of us have.’

But Thomas’s real attention was on his sister, and it was obvious from the sly glances that were exchanged between the pair that more mischief was in the offing. Sure enough, Thomas eased the dark-haired girl into the centre of the path that led across the outer bailey, forcing Badew to step off it to go around her. The old scholar howled his alarm when he disappeared up to his knees in mud.

‘You did that on purpose!’ he screeched, batting away Thomas’s outstretched hand – probably wisely, as it would almost certainly be withdrawn at a critical moment. ‘You vicious little bastard! If I were twenty years younger, I would thrash you.’

‘If you were forty years younger, you could try,’ retorted Thomas. ‘But do not blame me for your clumsiness. You should have watched where you were going.’

Bartholomew and Langelee hurried forward to extricate the furious Badew, although at the expense of getting smeared with muck themselves. Fighting down her amusement, Ella returned to take Michael’s arm again, and began to point out features of interest as they went.

‘That is the Oxford Tower,’ she said, gesturing to the smallest and oldest of the four squat turrets. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It is not very nice inside, and no one wants to live there. When the Queen arrives, we shall put her conceited clerks in it, just for the delight of seeing their horror.’

‘The name alone would render it undesirable,’ drawled Michael.

‘Of course, we are not always so strapped for space when the royals come to visit,’ Ella went on. ‘The problem is that Sir William Albon arrived with his entire retinue two weeks ago. He is one of the Lady’s councillors, and he came to take my brother and the squires to France. He had intended to leave the day after the rededication ceremony, although if peace really is declared …’

Michael was puzzled. ‘If he is one of the Lady’s councillors – not to mention an executor of her will – what will happen to her affairs while he is away?’

Ella lowered her voice. ‘He is not a very useful administrator, to be frank, and my father makes all the important decisions anyway.’ She went back to her tour of the castle. ‘There is the Constable Tower, where I live with my parents and Thomas. It is the steward’s prerogative to have better quarters than anyone else, so we have all five storeys to ourselves.’

‘Impressive,’ said Michael. ‘Will you be obliged to share when the Queen arrives?’

‘Yes, we shall host her steward and his retinue. Over there is the Maiden Tower, where Lichet lives. But we call it the Cistern Tower, because it is as deep as it is tall. Below ground, it forms a great cylindrical well, where we store all our fresh water. As you can imagine, it is full to overflowing at the moment, with all this rain.’

Bartholomew was intrigued, and wondered if there would be time to inspect it, while Langelee murmured approvingly about the value of such a device in the event of a siege.

‘And Lichet lives above it?’ Michael was asking.

‘He has the whole tower to himself – for now, at least; he will have to share it when the Queen comes. Personally, I cannot imagine why he likes it there. I know for a fact that it is damp.’

‘How many people live in the castle?’

‘We are about three hundred souls at the moment, although that will double when the Queen arrives. I am looking forward to it.’

‘I am sure you are,’ murmured Michael. ‘It will provide you and your brother with more victims for your japes. I only hope you are wise enough not to target Her Majesty.’

Ella took the eight scholars to a reception room in the Constable Tower, where she presented them to a black-haired man and a fair-headed woman. Robert Marishal was tending to stoutness, although there was strength and determination in his stern features. He wore the kind of clothes that suggested he was about to go hawking, an activity usually confined to the gentry, indicating that he considered himself a cut above a mere retainer.

His wife Margery had one of the loveliest faces Bartholomew had ever seen, not just for its even features, clear skin and blue eyes, but for its expression of astonishing sweetness. She was simply dressed in a rose-coloured kirtle, and her only items of jewellery were a string of pink pearls and a small onyx ring bearing a tiny carving of a bird.

‘Clare Hall,’ said Marishal in surprise when he saw Donwich and Pulham. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’

Donwich bowed. ‘May I take the opportunity to offer my condolences?’

‘If you like,’ replied Marishal cautiously. ‘Although it is not a death that touches us very deeply, you understand. I shall attend the funeral, of course, but I hope it will not take too long, as I want to go hawking with Albon.’

Michael and Langelee exchanged a smirk when the other scholars blinked their astonishment at the confidence – all except Roos, who was leering at Margery. She blushed uncomfortably, and edged behind her husband, but Roos simply changed positions and ogled her afresh. Unwilling to stand by while a woman was harassed, Bartholomew stepped into his line of sight, causing Roos to scowl his annoyance.

‘I did not expect to find anyone out gallivanting today of all days, Marishal,’ said Donwich with rank disapproval. ‘Do you not consider it disrespectful?’

‘I am not “gallivanting” – I am entertaining a guest.’ Marishal was obviously nettled by the censure, and would have added more, but a servant hurried up. ‘Yes, Quintone? What is it?’

Quintone was a sly-faced man in brown clothes. He strutted with more arrogance than was appropriate for a minion, and there was nothing deferential in his manner.

‘Sir William Albon is about to leave his quarters,’ he reported. ‘You asked me to tell you when he was ready.’

‘Wait here with Ella,’ Marishal instructed the scholars. ‘I shall return as soon as I can, but my Lady’s most important guests must take priority over you. I am sure you understand.’

He strode away without waiting to hear whether they understood or not, leaving his wife to provide a more sincere apology. But she did not linger long either, perhaps because Roos had managed to inch towards her and was standing offensively close. She ordered Ella to fetch wine from the kitchen, before hurrying after her husband.

‘I know why Marishal toadies to Albon,’ said Michael, once the scholars were alone. ‘He is afraid that Albon will refuse to take Thomas and the loutish squires off his hands. Having them at large must interfere with the smooth running of his castle.’

Langelee agreed. ‘There is nothing more dangerous than bored young men who know how to fight, and I should know, because I was one, once upon a time. France is the best place for them. They may be too late to fight enemies, but at least they will not be here.’

‘This is all very peculiar,’ said Pulham, frowning worriedly. ‘The castle goes about its normal business while its Lady lies dead, then her steward reveals that he would rather go hawking than attend her funeral. What are they thinking?’

Bartholomew waited for them to surmise that there had been a misunderstanding, but none of them did, and instead they began a sniping argument about what was suitable behaviour for such an occasion. Acutely uncomfortable with the deception, he went to the window and looked out.

There was a flurry of activity in the yard below as Sir William Albon emerged from the Auditor Tower with his retinue at his heels. He was a glorious man in glorious clothes, and stood for a moment looking around imperiously. He had a head of golden hair, shot through with noble streaks of grey, a fine beard and an imposing physique. He wore a scarlet gipon with a gold cloak, and anyone looking at him might be forgiven for thinking that he was royalty.

Head held high, he raised his hands. No orders were given, but Nuport pressed a cup of wine into the left one, while Thomas slapped a pair of hawking gauntlets into the right. The great man took a sip from the cup, savoured it for a moment, then nodded to say it was of acceptable quality. He passed it back to Nuport and snapped his fingers, which was the signal for Quintone to hurry forward with a horse. Unfortunately, something was wrong with the way it had been saddled, because Nuport kicked the servant, who yelped and hobbled away. It was probably fortunate that no one other than Margery saw the murderous look Quintone shot the belligerent squire, or he might have been kicked a second time. Margery took Quintone’s arm and whispered in his ear; whatever she said coaxed a reluctant smile.

Then all was bustle and shouting as more horses were led from the stables, and Albon and his followers mounted up. They were a bright crowd, all sporting the latest court fashions, although ones that were far less extreme than those favoured by the squires. Dogs scampered everywhere, men arrived with hawks, and servants rushed about with equipment and refreshments.

Michael, Langelee and Bartholomew watched the noisy chaos with interest, although the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft retreated to the furthest corner of the chamber, where they continued to bicker among themselves. Then Ella returned, bringing goblets of wine on a tray.

‘Perhaps you will tell us who all these people are,’ suggested Langelee, aiming to find out which ones might be suitable to approach for a donation.

Ella was happy to oblige. ‘The tall, ginger-headed person is Philip Lichet, who the Lady keeps for intelligent conversation. I think he is a warlock, although he denies it, of course.’

Bartholomew could see why Nicholas had dubbed Lichet the Red Devil. The man wore his auburn hair long, tumbling well past his shoulders, although he did not take good care of it, so it was greasy and unattractive, like his beard. He wore a scarlet cloak, and his great height made him a striking figure, albeit one that was a trifle shabby.

‘And the dangerous-looking man who lounges by the stable?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he have half a nose, or do my eyes deceive me?’

He referred to a man clad completely in black, who seemed to belong to the shadows. Even from a distance, it was possible to see that his eyes were cold, hard and calculating.

‘That is Stephen Bonde,’ replied Ella. ‘And yes, he is missing part of his nose. He lost it to Grisel, whom it is never wise to annoy.’

‘Who is Grisel?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Someone who does not put up with nonsense, and who will have the rest of it if Bonde goes near him again. Bonde is the Lady’s chief henchman. He loves her more than his own mother, and will do anything for her.’

‘Including murder?’ asked Michael, recalling that Bonde was on Godeston’s list of killers, along with the squires and Lichet.

‘Oh, yes. He killed one of our neighbours and should have been hanged, but the Lady is as loyal to him as he is to her – she bribed the judges and got him acquitted.’

‘So we have yet another mysterious death in Clare,’ mused Michael. ‘To go with Roger, Talmach, Charer, Skynere and Wisbech.’

‘It was not in Clare,’ replied Ella. ‘It happened miles away in Wixoe. And there is nothing mysterious about it – Bonde knifed Master Knowl in front of several horrified witnesses.’

And with that, she turned on her heel and flounced away.

It was some time before the hawkers were finally ready to leave. Albon led them out, mounted on a prancing white stallion that was draped with a silver blanket – which seemed inappropriate tackle for what promised to be a muddy excursion. His retinue clattered after him, followed by the dogs and men with birds. When they had gone, the silence seemed deafening. Marishal gazed after them wistfully, clearly wishing he could go too, then began to issue instructions to the castle servants, so that a hot meal would be ready for when the party returned.

Meanwhile, the quarrel between Clare Hall and Swinescroft had escalated, and the participants were on the verge of coming to blows.

‘You came to gloat over her death,’ Donwich was declaring hotly. ‘It is disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourselves. Thank God you are no longer part of our College, because I should be mortified to be associated with you.’

‘Oh, we are not here to gloat,’ countered Badew, eyes flashing. ‘We came to reveal a secret. We have kept it for years, but now the she-devil is dead, it is time to share it with the world.’

‘Tell them she is alive,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael and Langelee, alarmed. ‘Or he may say something to harm the whole University.’

Michael started to step forward, but the Clare Hall men were too intent on Badew to notice.

‘If you damage our chances of an inheritance,’ Donwich was snarling, ‘I will kill you with my bare hands. I swear to God I will!’

‘The secret has nothing to do with you,’ sneered Badew. ‘It is to do with her. And while we are speaking the truth, I have something to tell Marishal about his brats as well.’

Pulham’s expression was murderous. ‘If you say or do anything untoward, we will make it known that you falsified the accounts when you ran “University Hall”.’

Badew blinked his shock. ‘But I never did!’

‘Perhaps not,’ acknowledged Pulham, ‘but can you prove it? No? Then who do you think folk will believe? Two distinguished members of Clare Hall, or a man no one likes? You may have been respected – even loved – once, but your bitterness and rage these last fourteen years mean that no one will baulk at thinking ill of you.’

Badew spluttered his outrage, but the spat was cut short by the return of Marishal.

‘I shall escort you to the Lady now,’ he said. ‘She is in the hall.’

‘Is she?’ blurted Donwich, startled. ‘Good gracious! Is that not a little … public?’

Marishal frowned his bemusement at the question, but he was keen to be finished with business so he could join the hawking. Thus he did not ask for clarification, and instead led the way at a brisk trot to the palace, where he opened the door to the ground-floor hall.

It was a beautiful room. Tapestries adorned the walls, while the ceiling was hung with banners from the Lady’s knights. The floor was made of stone and very clean, and the whole place smelled of herbs and fresh food, as opposed to sweat and wet dog, like the hall in Cambridge Castle. There was a throne-like chair on the dais at the far end, and the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft stopped abruptly when they saw the Lady sitting in it, slumped with her head lolling to one side. Michael and Langelee chuckled at their shocked expressions, especially when she sat up, and fixed them with bright, beady eyes.

‘My Lady of Clare,’ gulped Donwich, the first to regain his composure. ‘May I congratulate you on your radiant good health? We expected to find you … rather less ambulatory.’