The Habit of Murder

Chapter 4

A short while later, seven of the eight scholars waited in a pleasant antechamber, where the Lady had agreed to grant them a private audience, away from the hundred or so courtiers who clustered around her. Roos had disappeared, which annoyed Badew and Harweden, who muttered darkly about needing his support in the light of the recent unwelcome developments. Both were trembling with anger and disappointment.

‘So what of your secret, Badew?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Will you still reveal it today?’

Badew scowled. ‘It will have to keep for a little longer. However, I still have something to say to Steward Marishal. I shall never forget the vile behaviour of his brats when I was forced to sign that quit-claim, and it is time for revenge.’

‘Badew, please,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It was a long time ago and they were children–’

‘It feels like yesterday to me,’ flashed Badew. ‘And fourteen years is not a long time ago. Not when you are my age.’

Donwich and Pulham did not care about Badew and his secrets. They were more concerned about their benefactress finding out that they had travelled to Clare in the expectation of attending her funeral.

‘It must be kept from her at all costs,’ Pulham said worriedly. ‘We cannot afford to annoy her – she is old, and there may not be enough time to regain her good graces before she really does die. Our College will not survive without the handsome legacy she promised.’

‘Do not fret – I have a plan,’ said Donwich soothingly. ‘No one will accuse you and me of circling like vultures, Pulham, I promise. What about you, Langelee? Do you have a convincing excuse to explain your presence here?’

‘I shall tell her the truth,’ hissed Badew, before the Master could reply. ‘And that will be the end of so-called Clare Hall.’

‘Then it will be the end of you as well,’ countered Pulham warningly. ‘Because if you hurt us, I shall ensure that you are forever remembered as a thief. Your contributions as Chancellor will be forgotten, and when you die, scholars will spit on your grave.’

‘You would not dare,’ snarled Badew, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘It would be a lie.’

‘I would dare,’ Pulham flashed back, ‘so think very carefully before you open your mouth. In fact, why not cut your losses and leave now, before the Lady sees you? You will not be dancing on her grave today, so there is no reason for you to linger.’

‘We cannot go home on our own,’ said Harweden indignantly. ‘Not with ear-loving robbers at large. Much as your company sickens us, we have no choice but to wait for you.’

‘Besides, I still have things to say to Marishal,’ said Badew, so venomously that Bartholomew was repelled by the malice that blazed from the old man’s face. Clearly, the passage of time had inflamed rather than soothed the wound that Clare Hall had inflicted when its Master and Fellows had invited the Lady to take his place.

‘Here she comes,’ whispered Langelee, cocking his head at the clatter of approaching footsteps. ‘Best behaviour now, everyone. We do not want her to denounce us all as greedy opportunists with long-standing grudges.’

The Lady had visited Cambridge fairly regularly when she had first agreed to finance Clare Hall, but her appearances had decreased over the past two or three years. Bartholomew understood why when she entered the antechamber. She had aged since he had last seen her – her gait was stiff, her skin was papery, and there was a pallor about her that was indicative of a recent illness.

She was followed in by Marishal and Lichet, with Bonde bringing up the rear, toting enough weapons to supply a small army and looking as though he would dearly love to try them out. Donwich and Pulham swept forward to make a gushing obeisance, effecting courtly bows and remarking again on their benefactress’s radiant good health.

‘Then you are not very observant,’ the Lady retorted, ‘because I have been unwell. However, I am better now, thanks to Master Lichet. He tended me day and night until I recovered.’

‘He is a medical man?’ asked Donwich with polite interest.

‘A learned man,’ corrected Lichet in a voice that had a peculiarly booming quality. He stroked his red beard importantly. ‘Which means my knowledge extends far beyond a single discipline. I have studied medicine, of course, but I also know philosophy, theology, geometry, music, the law and art.’

‘But not modesty,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, who struggled not to laugh.

‘It is always interesting to meet a fellow intellectual,’ said Pulham, inclining his head courteously. ‘Where did you earn your degrees? Oxford? Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances.’

‘I did not insult myself by studying in England,’ declared Lichet, his voice dripping contempt at the very notion of it. ‘I attended the great university at Bordeaux.’

‘Bordeaux?’ echoed Michael suspiciously. ‘I did not know it had one.’

‘Then you are an ignoramus,’ stated Lichet. ‘Because it is by far the best studium generale in the world. Of course, only the top minds are accepted to study there – the rest have to make do with Paris, Oxford and Cambridge. We shall have no mutual friends, Pulham, of that I am sure.’

‘So am I,’ muttered Michael in distaste, ‘because he is a charlatan. Maybe he is a warlock who has bewitched his host – the Lady is no fool, and should be able to see through such transparent mendacity.’

‘Then let us hope he does not bewitch us as well,’ Langelee whispered back, ‘or we might find that he has inveigled us into making him a Fellow, and we do not want a man like him offering to teach medicine when Bartholomew leaves.’

Michael raised his voice. ‘Perhaps you will show us dim-witted Cambridge men how to debate properly, Master Lichet,’ he said, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘So how about a public disputation? I am sure the Lady will agree, as there is no entertainment quite like it. Then you can demonstrate Bordeaux’s superiority to us dullards.’

‘I do not have time for that sort of nonsense,’ declared Lichet pompously, although not before alarm had flared in his eyes. ‘I am too busy with the paroquets.’

‘Paroquets?’ queried Michael. ‘What are those?’

‘Exotic birds,’ explained Lichet, and smirked. ‘Perhaps you can debate with them instead. Then you might stand a chance of winning.’

The Lady chuckled, so Marishal and Bonde did likewise. Bartholomew held his breath – scholars were sensitive to insults about their intelligence – but Michaelhouse and Clare Hall needed the Lady’s money, and dared not risk offending her by exposing Lichet as a dolt, while Swinescroft was under threat of blackmail. There were pained smiles or glares, but no reckless rejoinders.

‘So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ asked the Lady eventually. ‘I am sure it can have nothing to do with money, as I am already generous to Clare Hall, while Michaelhouse must wait until I die to learn if it features in my will. And I have nothing to say to Swinescroft.’

Donwich effected another of his fancy bows, at the same time snatching the Book of Hours from Pulham’s hands.

‘Your grateful Fellows bring you a gift, My Lady,’ he announced grandly, while his colleague’s face filled with horror. ‘This lovely tome was illustrated by John de Weste, the cofferer from Clare Priory. As it is so valuable, Pulham and I decided to deliver it directly to your hands.’

‘Of course, you may not want it, given that you have so many books already,’ added Pulham in a strangled voice. ‘We shall not be offended – we will just put it in our own library.’

‘He jests,’ said Donwich smoothly, shooting him a warning glare. ‘It was commissioned especially for you, My Lady, and we hope that you will derive much pleasure from it.’

He handed it over before Pulham could stop him. The Lady accepted it without much enthusiasm, and leafed through it in a desultory manner. But not for long.

‘It is damaged!’ she declared indignantly. ‘One page is burned beyond all recognition, while several others are badly singed.’

‘We have Roos to thank for that,’ said Pulham tightly. ‘But I am sure Weste can repair it.’

Bartholomew glanced around for Roos, thinking it would be unfortunate if the curmudgeonly old scholar ripped it from the Lady’s hands and tossed it in the fire. But he was still nowhere to be seen, so Bartholomew supposed he was making a nuisance of himself with some hapless female.

‘Well, the rest of it is very nice,’ conceded the Lady, and passed it to Marishal to put away. Pulham watched it disappear with open dismay. ‘Now tell me what you want in return.’

‘Nothing,’ replied Donwich greasily. ‘It is enough to know that we have pleased you.’

The Lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Truly? You are not here to demand some boon?’

‘We merely wish to express our appreciation for your past generosity, and to offer our assistance in your preparations for this royal visit.’

‘Then you may report to the kitchens,’ said the Lady. ‘There are pots that need scouring.’

‘Oh,’ said Donwich, taken aback. ‘I see. Well …’

‘I jest,’ said the Lady with a smile that was rather malicious. ‘Go and wait in my steward’s quarters. He will find some task that is commensurate with your status.’

‘Then we shall go with them,’ determined Badew. ‘Our business is with Marishal, not you.’

‘No,’ countered the Lady, her harsh tone stopping the old man dead in his tracks. ‘You will state your purpose here and now, Badew. What do you want with my steward?’

‘It concerns information that came to me via Roos,’ replied Badew haughtily. ‘And Marishal will want to hear the news in private, as it is of a personal nature.’

‘Roos?’ asked Marishal, looking around. ‘I saw him talking to my wife earlier. Where is he? Why does he not give us this “information” himself?’

‘Perhaps he could not bring himself to be in the same room as you,’ sniffed Badew. ‘And my news concerns your offspring, who are just as sly now as they were when they were children.’

‘Thomas and Ella are not for you to–’ began Marishal uncomfortably.

‘What news?’ demanded the Lady. She sighed crossly when Badew pursed his lips and indicated that Marishal was to precede him through the door. ‘No! You will tell us what you have heard now, or I shall direct Bonde to throw you out of my castle by the scruff of your neck. Well? Why do you hesitate still?’

Badew turned to the uneasy steward. ‘Very well, then. You forced Ella to marry Sir William Talmach – an old man, but a rich one. Yes?’

Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee blinked their surprise – no one had mentioned this before. Warily, Marishal inclined his head to acknowledge it was true. Harweden took up the tale.

‘She was desperately unhappy with the arrangement, and who can blame her? To avoid years of suffering his unwelcome advances, she and her brother conspired to dispatch him.’

‘He did not fall off his horse and on to his dagger by accident that fatal day,’ said Badew, eyes bright with malice. ‘He fell because they sawed through one of his saddle straps.’

‘You claim Roos told you all this,’ said the Lady contemptuously, although it was clear from Marishal’s stricken face that his heirs’ involvement in the knight’s death was a possibility he had already considered. ‘How would he know? Did he witness it personally?’

‘No, but one of your grooms visited Cambridge a couple of weeks ago and he gossiped about it to him,’ replied Badew triumphantly. ‘In other words, the twins murdered Talmach and the whole castle knows it.’

‘Leave,’ ordered the Lady, pointing an imperious finger at the door. ‘I will hear no more slanderous lies from you. Go on, get out!’

‘With pleasure,’ declared Badew. ‘Come, Harweden. We sully ourselves in this filthy place.’

They stalked out, heads held high. Several servants stood near the door, hovering lest their mistress should need them. None seemed surprised by the allegations, and Bartholomew even saw one or two nod agreement as the surly pair pushed past. He was thoughtful. He had seen for himself that the twins loved practical jokes – perhaps they had hacked through the strap for fun, not appreciating that the consequences might be serious. Or had they guessed exactly what would happen when an elderly husband went riding on an unstable perch in the wet?

‘Ignore him, Robert,’ instructed the Lady, when Badew and Harweden had gone. ‘He is a snake, who will say or do anything to hurt me. Besides, he heard the gossip from Roos, who had it from a groom, who happened to be in Cambridge. How likely is that? It is malicious nonsense and any fool can see it. Now – Michaelhouse.’ She turned to Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Do you come bearing gifts, too?’

‘We heard you were ill,’ lied Michael, and indicated Bartholomew, ‘so we brought the University’s Senior Physician to tend you. However, we are delighted to learn that his services will not now be required.’

‘A physician,’ mused the Lady, eyeing Bartholomew appraisingly before turning to Lichet. ‘You have been itching to resume your travels for weeks now. If this man agrees to replace you, you will be free to leave.’

Bartholomew regarded her in alarm. He had wanted to visit Clare, not live there permanently!

‘I shall only allow it if he is worthy of filling my shoes,’ said Lichet quickly, and Bartholomew was greatly relieved to see that the Red Devil had no intention of abandoning the comfortable niche he had carved for himself in Clare, and that the threat to depart had almost certainly been made to secure himself a better deal. ‘I could not, in all conscience, leave you in the hands of an inferior practitioner.’

‘Then let us hope he continues to judge himself to be the better man,’ murmured Langelee under his breath. ‘Because Matilde will never forgive me if I arrive home without her husband-to-be. That was a reckless offer, Brother – even if it did have the desired effect of making us look solicitous without costing any money.’

‘You are kind, Lichet,’ smiled the Lady, patting the Red Devil’s hand. ‘So let us put our visiting medicus’s skills to another use instead – he can cure my paroquets. But first, he and his Michaelhouse friends must dine with me, and tell me all the latest news from Cambridge.’

Bartholomew was irked that Michael should have made free with his services yet again, and none too pleased about being ordered to cure birds either, about which he knew very little. Nor did he want to join the Lady for what might transpire to be a lengthy meal when there was a whole new town to discover. He trailed after her resentfully, noting that she leaned heavily on Marishal’s arm, and was not as hale and hearty as she would have everyone believe.

With a train of servants in their wake, they processed through a series of rooms, each one grander than the last. He was startled to see Roos and Margery sitting in one, talking in low voices. They shot to their feet when the Lady and her retinue trooped past, although neither she nor Marishal appeared to notice them, absorbed as they were in their own private discussion.

‘Where have you been, Roos?’ asked Langelee, pausing to chat, so that everyone behind him had to stop, too; oblivious, the Lady and Marishal continued alone. ‘Badew is vexed with you for disappearing. And what are you doing in the Lady’s private apartments anyway?’

‘Badew is always vexed about something,’ said Roos sourly. ‘And if you must know, Mistress Marishal and I were discussing the recent rains. Not that it is any of your business.’

‘I was telling him how our cistern is nearly full for the first time in months,’ elaborated Margery, raising one hand to the pink pearls at her throat; they went perfectly with her rose-coloured kirtle. ‘And how I am worried that it might overflow and flood the bailey.’

‘It will not flood,’ declared Lichet confidently. ‘The improvements I made to the original design will prevent it. And a good water supply is essential for any fortress – it will stand us in good stead if we ever come under siege.’

‘Under siege?’ echoed Bonde. He had a deep, gravelly voice, which dripped hostility. His mangled nose had healed badly, accentuating his coarse, battle-scarred demeanour. ‘What nonsense you speak! Who would want to attack the Lady?’

‘You have obviously not been in the town of late,’ Lichet flashed back. ‘They hate her for foisting the new south aisle on their church.’ His thin, sharp face turned vicious as he jabbed an accusing finger. ‘They hate you as well, because you are a killer.’

‘They hate you more, Red Devil.’ Bonde fingered his dagger in a way that made all the hair stand up on the back of Bartholomew’s neck. ‘They think you are a warlock, who has bewitched her.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Margery softly, coming to lay a soothing hand on the arm of each. ‘No sparring, I beg you. There is no need for enmity, as I have told you both before.’

Surprisingly, much of the bristling menace promptly drained out of Bonde, and he mumbled a sheepish apology. Lichet was less easily appeased – he effected a stiff bow, then turned to hurry after the Lady and Marishal.

‘I am sorry, mistress,’ mumbled Bonde. He sounded sincere. ‘But he aggravated me. He knows exactly how to do it, and it works every time.’

‘I know, Stephen,’ said Margery gently. ‘But you must learn to resist or it will see you in trouble. Now, will you do something for me?’

‘Anything,’ declared Bonde, and gave a shy smile that transformed his cold, brutal features into something almost pleasant.

‘Good,’ said Margery, patting his hand affectionately. ‘Then take Anne a basket of food with my compliments. I have put it ready in the kitchen.’

Bonde nodded, clearly desperate to win her approval. He even attempted a bit of genial chatter, although it sounded forced and he was obviously uncomfortable with small talk.

‘I am astonished that there is anything left, given what those greedy paroquets put away. They ate all the marchpanes again yesterday. It is a wonder they can still fly.’

‘I do not think Anne needs supplies,’ put in Michael. ‘From what I can gather, she receives so many gifts that she is obliged to hawk most of them, making herself a fortune in the process.’

‘She sells it to the poor – at a much lower price than they can get at the market,’ explained Margery. ‘Go now, Stephen. Ask Quintone to help if the basket is too heavy for you.’

Bartholomew instinctively liked Margery Marishal, both for her compassion and for her sensitive intervention in the burgeoning row. He hoped there would be an opportunity to talk to her later, as she was by far the nicest person he had met in Clare so far.

A short while later, the three Michaelhouse scholars were seated at a table with the Lady, Marishal, Margery and Lichet. Bonde stood guard at the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that the courtiers who hovered sycophantically in the adjoining chamber were careful to go nowhere near him.

Michael’s eyes gleamed as the food arrived. There was soft white bread, dried fruit, wine imported from Spain, a variety of meats and cheeses, and pats of yellow butter. The Lady asked him to say grace, then indicated that her guests should eat. Michael did not need to be told twice.

‘I am ravenous,’ he declared, helping himself to a generous portion of roasted venison and then placing the platter so it would be difficult for anyone else to reach. ‘The quality of the fare on our journey was very poor.’

‘Probably because of Simon Freburn,’ said the Lady. ‘No one wants to trade with remote villages as long as he is at large, waiting to pounce. Bonde is doing his best to hunt him down, but the fellow is tiresomely elusive.’

‘Bonde!’ spat Lichet, although not so loudly that his voice would carry to the man in question. ‘He is an imbecile, and I do not know why you keep him. He should be dismissed, and someone more efficient – and more personable – appointed in his place.’

‘He has a good heart,’ countered Margery. ‘He just needs a little patience and understanding.’

Lichet sniffed in a way that suggested Bonde would not be getting them from him. ‘When will Jevan next come to Clare? Soon?’

‘For the next Quarter Day council meeting, I imagine,’ replied Margery, frowning her puzzlement at the abrupt change of subject. ‘Which will be eight weeks hence. Why?’

‘Because he brought Godeston a lovely piece of purple silk from London the last time he came, and I want him to do the same for me – only in scarlet,’ explained Lichet. ‘Although it will be galling to beg a favour from such a person. I cannot abide the man.’

‘He has his virtues, too,’ said Margery, evidently one of those people who saw the good in even the most undeserving of specimens. Then it was her turn to skip to a different topic of conversation. ‘I had the strangest dream last night, Master Lichet. Perhaps you can tell me what it means. I dreamt that Anne and Vicar Nicholas were strolling arm in arm across the bailey.’

Lichet stroked his beard, delighted by the invitation to pontificate. ‘It means you had a holy vision, as anchoresses and priests are God’s chosen. Clearly, their wandering souls came to this castle because it is blessed by the presence of one of the Almighty’s favourite people.’

He inclined his head to the Lady, lest she had not understood that he was paying her a compliment. Bartholomew winced at the clumsy flattery.

‘I disagree,’ said Michael, reaching for the roasted pork. ‘It means that Anne is on your mind because you care for her welfare, while Nicholas must figure large in the arrangements for the royal visit. You merely dreamed of events that occupied you during the day.’

Lichet shot him a furious glance, and before the monk could say more, began to hold forth on a variety of subjects, although when anyone challenged him on one, he deftly segued to another. So when Michael questioned his understanding of Apostolic Poverty, Lichet simply moved to camp-ball, assuming himself to be on safer ground. He was wrong.

‘That would be an illegal move,’ declared Langelee, who loved that particular game more than life itself. ‘You would be disqualified.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Lichet, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I am an expert at curing unsightly rashes. I order them smeared with honey and–’

‘You cannot do it,’ interrupted Langelee, not about to let such an important matter go. ‘And if you did, then you won this fabled victory by cheating. Camp-ball does not have many rules, but not moving the goal lines once the game has started is certainly one of them.’

‘Well, I did,’ stated Lichet shortly. ‘It was–’

‘Then you are a scoundrel of the first order,’ interrupted Langelee sharply. ‘And I hope you never try to play in Cambridge, because you will not be welcome.’

‘I am sure an accommodation could be reached,’ said Margery hastily, and began to talk about the weather with such sweet charm that even Langelee felt compelled to let the burning issue of goal-moving drop.

She contrived to chat amiably about nothing until the Lady, whose attention until then had been focused on her victuals, pushed her empty plate away and leaned back in her chair.

‘So you are a physician,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘I think I recall you from my visits to Cambridge, although my memory is not what it was. I remember you, though, Brother. Such a princely figure is difficult to forget. Your remit is to keep the peace in that rough little town.’

‘It is not as rough as Clare,’ countered Langelee indignantly. ‘Ever since we arrived, we have been regaled with tales of murder, and there is a bitter feud between the castle and the town.’

‘The feud is a passing phase, sparked by the church’s restoration,’ said the Lady dismissively. ‘It will soon blow over. And as for the murders, well, these things happen from time to time.’

‘They were accidents, not murder,’ announced Lichet with authority. ‘Our townsfolk live dull lives, and love to excite themselves by pretending that perfectly natural deaths are examples of unlawful killing. However, this is not a suitable discussion for the table of a great lady, so instead, would you like to hear about the time when I saved an entire town from the plague?’

That did not sound like a very genteel topic of conversation either, but Lichet forged on before anyone could stop him. The Lady appeared to hang on his every word, making Bartholomew wonder if Lichet had bewitched her, because the tale was poorly told and patently self-serving. While it was going on, he happened to glance at Marishal. The steward’s expression was distant, and Bartholomew was under the impression that he was mulling over the accusation that Badew had levelled against his unruly offspring.

It felt like an age before the Lady stood to leave for her post-prandial nap, and Bartholomew was dismayed when she indicated that she wanted him to assist her to her chambers. He had hoped to escape – to explore Clare before any more of the day was lost, or even to help Langelee and Michael recruit wealthy benefactors. Anything other than wasting more time indoors.

‘Have you visited the church yet?’ she asked, as he helped her to lie on a bed that was heaped with furs. She indicated that he was to remove her shoes, while Margery hovered solicitously, ready to intervene if he proved unequal to the task. ‘Those improvements cost a fortune.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But worth the expense – the fan vaulting is astounding.’

‘Our anchorite would disagree – poor Anne does not like it at all. She worked here once, you know, nurse to the children of my servants and knights. She tended Margery’s pair.’

‘They are still as meek as lambs with her,’ said Margery ruefully. ‘Far better behaved than they ever were with me.’

The Lady rolled her eyes. ‘Because you are too gentle. We are lucky that Anne knew how to handle the rascals, or their mischief would have been the end of us. She even cowed Nuport, who rarely listens to anyone. Well, other than Albon, of course.’

‘Albon,’ said Margery with a fond smile. ‘He is a fine man, and I am delighted that he will soon take my son away to France. Thomas will flourish under his manly guidance.’

‘I imagine Anne told you that she was called to her cell by God,’ said the Lady, turning back to Bartholomew. ‘But the truth is that I dismissed her. She tried to rid Suzanne de Nekton of an unwanted child, you see, and the process almost killed the girl. So she was offered a choice: trial by her peers or a life dedicated to God. She picked the latter.’

‘She does not seem suited to such an existence,’ said Bartholomew carefully, thinking that the Lady’s tale explained a lot. ‘She is too worldly by half.’

‘Perhaps the sentence can be commuted in time,’ said Margery, glancing hopefully at her mistress. ‘I would not mind buying her a cottage somewhere, so she can live out her days in quiet contentment. It would be the least we could do for such a faithful servant.’

‘She is not going anywhere until she expresses some remorse,’ said the Lady coolly. ‘As things stand, she believes we are wrong to condemn what she did.’

‘What do you do when desperate and frightened girls say they are with child, Doctor Bartholomew?’ asked Margery conversationally. ‘How do you deal with unwanted pregnancies?’

Bartholomew was not about to share his views on such a contentious matter with two people he did not know. ‘I live in a community of male scholars,’ he hedged. ‘It is not a problem I encounter very often.’

‘You will encounter it if you stay here,’ sighed Margery. ‘The squires are relentless in their pursuit of pretty lasses, who are so eager to win rich and handsome husbands that they will do anything to get one. Mishaps are distressingly frequent.’

Even more reason to go home quickly then, thought Bartholomew.

The physician was glad to leave the Lady in Margery’s solicitous hands. He hurried out of the palace, and began to hunt for Michael and Langelee. He tracked them down to the outer bailey, where they were talking to Marishal.

‘Normally, we would be happy to accommodate you,’ the steward was saying. ‘But Albon brought a sizeable retinue with him, while whole swathes of the castle have been put ready for the Queen, so are currently off limits to guests. We have no room for unexpected visitors.’

‘It does not matter,’ lied Michael. ‘We have had several other offers, all from folk who are frantic to win an association with Michaelhouse – for the fabulous benefits it will bring them.’

‘Then you will be far more comfortable than your friends from Clare Hall,’ said Marishal slyly. ‘When they saw how cramped we are, they wanted to room at the Swan, but how can I put them to work for the Lady if they are away in the town? I insisted that they stay in the Oxford Tower instead. Unfortunately, no one likes it there, as the paroquets occupy the top floor, and they can be very noisy.’

As if on cue, there was a raucous screech that made the three scholars jump.

‘The ones I am expected to cure,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with them?’

‘Who knows,’ shrugged Marishal. ‘However, I would keep your distance if I were you, for two reasons. First, they can be dangerous. And second, Lichet considers them to be his responsibility, and you do not want to make an enemy of the Red Devil.’

‘Then that is too bad, because Bartholomew will see them today,’ determined Langelee, who cared nothing for danger, so tended to assume that others did not either. ‘The Lady told him to cure them, and we cannot afford … I mean we have no wish to annoy her by ignoring a direct order.’

Marishal’s expression turned crafty. ‘Then ask Lichet’s permission. He will refuse, and when the Lady asks why Bartholomew has disobeyed her, you can report that Lichet declined to accommodate him. It is high time she was irked with the rogue.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not see why we should be the agents of it – not if he is the kind of man we do not want as an enemy.’

Marishal smiled thinly. ‘It would be worth your while. He is unpopular here, and any number of courtiers would love to see him fall from grace. Indeed, they might be so pleased that they would make generous donations to your College.’

‘Then we shall do as you suggest,’ said Langelee, capitulating promptly. ‘There he is now. Hey, you! Red Devil! Come over here.’

Langelee possessed a voice that carried, and it was clear that Lichet was indeed disliked, as several courtiers broke into delighted grins at the disrespectful summons. Lichet scowled indignantly and started to walk pointedly in the opposite direction, but quickly reconsidered this strategy when Langelee bellowed at him a second time, louder than the first, so even more people heard and exchanged looks of amusement.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded testily, stamping up to the Master. ‘I am busy.’

‘So are we,’ retorted Langelee. ‘However, we have been asked to cure the Lady’s paroquets of a malady – one that is beyond your meagre skills. So take us to them at once.’

Bartholomew was impressed by the Master’s uncharacteristic guile: Lichet could not possibly accede to such a ‘request’ without losing face, so a refusal was inevitable.

The Red Devil spoke between gritted teeth. ‘She entrusted them to me, and I do not let amateurs anywhere near them. And for future reference, you will address me as Master Lichet.’

‘Will I indeed?’ said Langelee softly, fingering his enormous sword.

Lichet took a nervous step away. ‘Just stay away from my birds,’ he ordered, before turning on his heel and stalking away, head held high.

He was so keen to escape that he walked too fast, and almost fell when he skidded in mud. There was a gale of laughter from the watching courtiers – louder and longer than was really warranted. Then one came to clap Langelee appreciatively on the shoulder. He was a short but elegant man with a huge moustache, who introduced himself as Peter de Ereswell.

‘For that display, I shall give you a pig,’ he promised. ‘I cannot abide Lichet.’

‘We prefer money,’ said Langelee bluntly. ‘It is easier to transport than livestock.’

‘Then I shall give you the equivalent amount in cash,’ said Ereswell, eyes twinkling with amusement, ‘just for being audacious enough to demand it. Will you see what else you can do to annoy the Red Devil? You will find that baiting the bastard can be very lucrative.’

‘You see?’ asked Marishal, smiling. ‘You could leave here wealthy men.’

But the moment he and Ereswell had gone, Langelee’s bullishness faded. ‘I wish we had never come,’ he said gloomily. ‘The venture has been a disaster from the start. The Lady dead indeed! She is fitter than the rest of us put together.’

‘She is not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Her health is fragile, and she feels old and tired. But look over by the gate. Is that the messenger who delivered the letter about her so-called demise?’

‘It is,’ said Michael, eyes narrowing. ‘And he has some explaining to do.’

The messenger was named Justin, a pimply youth with an eager smile and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. He raised his hands defensively when he saw the Michaelhouse men bearing down on him, and began to gabble an explanation.

‘It is not my fault! I knew nothing of what was in that letter until it was opened and read in Cambridge. I am as stunned as you are to learn it was a lie. Please do not tell anyone it was me who took you the news. Marishal will never use me again, and I love riding.’

Langelee nodded to the stained dressing. ‘But are you any good at it? Or did you fall off your horse, and that explains why we seem to have reached Clare before you, even though we dallied for a day before setting out?’

Justin was indignant. ‘Of course I did not fall off! I was almost home when Freburn appeared out of nowhere and tried to lay hold of me. I was able to escape, but it meant a lengthy detour. I only arrived back an hour ago – to learn that someone has used me to play tricks on you.’ He raised one hand to his head and winced. ‘The Red Devil insisted on binding me up, but now it hurts.’

Bartholomew was not surprised that Justin was in pain when he saw how tightly the filthy, stinking bandage had been tied. He unwrapped it to discover a bruise but no broken skin, which meant the blood belonged to someone else – Lichet had reused the material without washing it first. It was shoddy practice, and one Bartholomew deplored.

‘Who gave you the letter?’ asked Michael. ‘Someone who does not like you, and wants to see you fall prey to Freburn? Or in trouble with Marishal?’

‘Everyone likes me,’ declared Justin confidently. ‘And the letter was just waiting for me on Sunday morning – four days ago now – with a note saying that I was to take it to Water Lane in Cambridge with all possible haste. I rode like the wind, but when I got there, I was not sure which house to knock at …’

‘Whose name was on this missive?’ asked Langelee.

‘No one’s.’ Justin looked sheepish. ‘Unfortunately, it and the accompanying note had been left in a place that my horse can reach, and he loves the taste of parchment. We were lucky that there was anything left for me to deliver at all.’

‘Not really,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would have been better for everyone concerned if he had scoffed the lot with no one any the wiser.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Justin ruefully, and resumed his tale. ‘Anyway, as I was not sure where in Water Lane to go, I waylaid that bad-tempered scholar – Roos. He said it was for him, so I handed it over.’ He shrugged defensively. ‘I had no reason to think he was lying.’

‘Chancellor Tynkell used to live on Water Lane,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps whoever sent the letter does not know that he is dead and his successor now resides in Michaelhouse. Still, these details do not matter, because the prank worked – the lie about the Lady has spread all over Cambridge.’

‘Even so, I am astonished that Roos had the audacity to open it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have been obvious that the intended recipient was the current Chancellor.’

‘Of course it was obvious,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But how could he resist? A message from the lair of an ancient enemy to the University’s highest-ranking scholar? Of course he would seize the opportunity to pry.’

‘He never hesitated for a moment,’ put in Justin. ‘He just broke the seal and read what was written. Then he laughed.’

‘I bet he did,’ muttered Langelee.

Michael became businesslike. ‘There is a way you can make amends for this debacle, Justin. You can ride straight back to Cambridge and inform Chancellor Suttone that we have been the victims of a cruel hoax. Then you can take the news to Clare Hall, who will pay you for your trouble. Go now – unless you want to confess what you did to Marishal.’

Justin hurried to do as he was told, and was galloping through the gate in record time.

‘Roos has no right to open messages intended for the Chancellor – any Chancellor,’ said Langelee indignantly, when the lad had gone. ‘What a rogue!’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael crossly. ‘And I shall fine him when we get home. But first, he will hand it over so that we can identify the jester who sent it. We shall confront him as soon as we are settled into our new lodgings.’

‘What new lodgings?’ asked Langelee sourly. ‘We do not have any.’

‘We shall stay in the Austin Priory for the rest of our visit,’ determined Michael. ‘It is one of the wealthiest foundations in the county and can afford to keep us for a few days.’

‘But the hermit advised us against it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, they will also be preparing for the royal invasion, and I cannot see them inconveniencing themselves for you – a man from a rival Order.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael serenely.

The Austins had chosen an idyllic spot for their community. It was just south-west of the castle, on what was effectively an island with two arms of the River Stour sweeping around it. It boasted a range of impressive new buildings, along with gardens, fishponds and an orchard, although it was its church that most caught the eye. This was a lovely creation of soft grey stone, with tiers of large windows to let in the light.

The priory was centred around its cloisters, which allowed the friars to move between church, dormitory and refectory without being subject to the vagaries of the weather. Stone seats were provided for restful repose during summer, while a tinkling fountain offered not only clean water for washing, but an attractive centrepiece. Its founders were aware that relations between it and the town would not always be peaceful, so there was only one way to reach it: over a small bridge that had its own gatehouse. One of the brothers stood sentry there, ready to repel unwanted visitors.

‘A Benedictine,’ he said, eyeing Michael’s black habit. ‘We do not allow those in here.’

He looked like another old soldier – he carried himself ramrod straight, there was a large knife in his belt, and he wore his habit like a uniform. It was not uncommon for military men to become nervous about the amount of killing they had done in their lives, and large numbers did elect to make amends by taking holy orders in their autumn years, but it seemed to Bartholomew that Clare possessed an unusually high percentage of them.

‘We have important business with your Prior,’ declared Michael, all haughty dignity. ‘He will want to see us, I assure you, so step aside at once.’

At that moment, a bell chimed to announce a meal in the refectory, and friars began to emerge from the surrounding buildings. When they saw their sentry preparing to repel invaders, several came to see if he needed help. Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that all carried daggers, while a few stopped en route to grab pikes and cudgels from what were evidently caches of arms.

‘Is this a convent or a refuge for retired warriors?’ he asked the guard.

‘Or both,’ muttered Langelee. ‘I wager every one has been in France or the Holy Land.’

‘You have a keen eye,’ said the guard approvingly. ‘Prior John was once a captain in the King’s army, and most of his former comrades have asked to serve under him here. Hah! He is coming towards us now – to ask why a Benedictine is trying to infiltrate our sacred confines.’

‘I was a soldier once, too,’ said Langelee, rather more wistfully than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to scholarship. ‘In York and its environs.’

‘So was Prior John,’ said the guard, pleased. ‘Perhaps you will know each other.’

Prior John was a stocky man with a savage scar on one side of his shaven head. He walked with brisk precision, and carried his Bible in a way that made it look like a weapon. His friars were cast in the same mould, and sported an impressive array of battle wounds. Among them was Cofferer Weste, who was snapping his black eyepatch into place over an empty socket.

‘Do not worry about these three fellows,’ Weste informed the guard amiably. ‘They are just some of the scholars from Cambridge. I told you about them last night.’

‘Do they include the one who has your Book of Hours?’ asked the guard. ‘If so, we should buy it back. It is a lovely piece – far too good for academics, who always have inky fingers.’

He tried to see if that was true of the ones whose way he still barred. Bartholomew, by far the cleanest member of Michaelhouse, presented his own for inspection. The guard nodded approval at what he saw, although Michael and Langelee wisely kept theirs tucked inside their sleeves.

‘My word!’ breathed Prior John as he approached. ‘If it is not Ralph de Langelee! What are you doing here, old friend? I thought we had seen the last of each other when I left York.’

Langelee blinked. ‘John? I did not recognise you! Where are all your fine yellow locks? And what happened to that handsome beard you were so proud of?’

‘The years stole my hair,’ replied John ruefully, then rubbed his bare chin. ‘And the whiskers had to go when I took holy orders – my Prior General said they made me look like a pirate.’

‘You took holy orders?’ blurted Langelee. ‘God’s blood! That must have annoyed the Devil – yours was a soul he must have felt was his for certain. When did this happen?’

‘A decade ago, although I have only been Prior here for the last twelve months. Coming to Clare was a good decision, because it is a lovely place. Would you like to join us? There is always room for another old warrior, and it is never too soon to consider one’s immortal soul. You have more atoning to do than most, so I would not leave it too long if I were you. I say this as a friend.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. They had always known that Langelee had done some disreputable things before he had decided to pursue a career in academia, but it was never comfortable to be reminded of it.

‘It is a tempting offer,’ lied Langelee, ‘but I am Master of Michaelhouse now, which is a very prestigious post. At the University in Cambridge.’

‘Really?’ blurted John. ‘How in God’s name did you convince them to take you?’

‘Easy – I impressed them with my intellect,’ explained Langelee. ‘I am a philosopher.’

Neither claim was true. None of Langelee’s colleagues would ever consider him a thinker, and while he did run a basic course in his chosen subject, all he did was read aloud the set texts that his students were obliged to hear.

‘Are you? Goodness! Who would have thought it? Ralph de Langelee, a famous academic!’

‘And you a priest,’ said Langelee, clapping him on the back with genuine affection. ‘When we were lads, you always dismissed friars as a lot of–’

‘That was a long time ago,’ interrupted John quickly, while his brethren exchanged amused glances behind his back. ‘When death felt like something that happened to other people. Now Judgement Day looms, and I find myself wanting to make amends. You are younger, but it will come sooner than you think. I urge you again – do not leave it too late.’

‘I will not,’ promised Langelee, but with the kind of airy insouciance that suggested he set scant store by such concerns. ‘You must have impressed someone important, John, because such appointments are not handed out to just anybody. Brother Michael here has been angling for an abbacy or a bishopric for years, and he is very talented.’

‘No one else wanted it,’ explained John, who apparently knew Langelee well enough not to be offended by the insult implicit in the remark. ‘There is trouble brewing, you see. The last Prior saw it coming and resigned as soon as he could put pen to parchment. I was the only one willing to take his place.’

‘What trouble?’ asked Langelee warily.

‘Unrest – which started when the town began to rebuild its church, and the castle insisted on interfering. My remit is to keep the peace, while simultaneously ensuring that we Austins are not drawn into the spat.’

‘Is that why you are armed to the teeth?’ asked Langelee, gesturing to the listening flock.

John grinned impishly. ‘You will know when we are “armed to the teeth”, believe me. What you see is us relaxing. Taking up arms is not something we expected to do again, but our Prior General gave us permission to defend ourselves as we execute our duties. We are obedient men, ready to obey his commands to the letter.’

Langelee beamed back. ‘You and I have much to talk about, old comrade, so we shall stay with you for the next week. I am sure you can find us a corner somewhere.’

‘If it were anyone else, I would refuse, given that we shall be overrun with royal retainers in a few days. But seeing as it is you …’

A short while later, Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the Prior’s House, each holding a cup of unusually fine claret. They were being entertained by John and three other Austins. One was Weste, whose post as cofferer meant he was entitled to be there; one was Nicholas, who had come to borrow a Psalter but had decided to linger when he saw a party in the making; and the last was John de Heselbech, the castle’s current chaplain, appointed after Wisbech’s death. All four were much of an ilk – brawny men with missing teeth, although each had one feature that made him distinctive: John was bald, Nicholas was huge, Weste had his eyepatch and Heselbech’s teeth had been filed into points, which made him seem an odd choice to serve a high-ranking noblewoman.

‘The Lady does not find your sharpened fangs alarming?’ asked Langelee, more inclined to speak his mind than Bartholomew and Michael, although both were thinking the same thing.

Heselbech grinned, revealing his imposing incisors in all their glory. ‘If she does, she is too polite to mention it.’

‘I was worried about appointing a second friar to the castle after what happened to Wisbech,’ confided John. ‘But the town has Nicholas, and I did not want to be accused of favouritism …’

‘And I am much better at looking after myself than poor old Wisbech was,’ put in Heselbech. ‘You will not catch me swallowing hemlock.’

‘Good,’ said John fervently. ‘You should be especially wary of anything that comes from the squires. They have grown wild of late – terrorising servants, bullying townsfolk and generally acting like despots. Thank God Albon will soon take them to France.’

‘If you think they poisoned a priest, you should inform the Bishop,’ declared Michael. ‘We cannot let that sort of thing pass unremarked. It sets a bad precedent.’

‘And how would we prove such an accusation?’ asked John quietly. ‘There were no witnesses, and no clues left to lead us to the perpetrators.’

‘How do you know there were no clues?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did you investigate Wisbech’s death yourselves? Or did you rely on Grym? I understand he is Clare’s official investigator.’

John winced. ‘Poor Grym! He knows nothing of such matters, but dares not refuse Godeston – not if he wants to be Mayor when the old man retires. But of course I did not entrust such an important matter to a barber. Obviously, I examined the scene of the crime myself.’

‘You are qualified to do such a thing?’

‘More qualified than Grym. But there was nothing to find. Wisbech was in the chapel, lying on his side. To be frank, I thought he had suffered an apoplexy brought on by strain – night offices can be hard on older folk – until Grym mooted the possibility of hemlock in his supper. I saw no evidence of it, but I am willing to accept his professional opinion on that at least.’

‘And we did inform the Bishop,’ put in Heselbech. ‘But letters take a long time to reach Avignon, which is where he has lived ever since falling out with the King. We discussed it with the Lady, too, but she merely informed us that her squires would never stoop to poison.’

‘Having met them, I am inclined to agree,’ said Langelee. ‘They strike me as lads who would opt for a sword or a dagger. Hemlock is too subtle a mode of killing for them.’

‘Nuport is a dimwit, but do not tar the others with the same brush,’ warned John. ‘Thomas is very clever – and sly. But their days with us are numbered, thank the good Lord, and if they survive their experiences in France, they may return as better men.’

‘Oh, they will survive,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Michael says peace is about to break out.’

‘Even with a truce, there will still be skirmishes,’ said John with certainty. ‘His Majesty will not disband his army just yet. Of course, Albon will be of scant use over there. He may be an excellent jouster, but he has never seen real warfare, and I would not trust him with my back.’

‘True,’ agreed Langelee. ‘You can tell just by looking that he is all fuss and feathers.’

‘So have you two known each other long?’ asked Nicholas, taking a huge gulp of wine and settling down in the way old soldiers do when a good tale is in the offing.

‘Years,’ replied John. ‘Not only were we warriors together as boys and men, but we both helped the Archbishop of York with some of his more delicate problems. Of course, it was those that compelled me to take the cowl, so I cannot look back on them with pleasure.’

‘I can,’ countered Langelee with a grin. ‘They were the best days of my life, and I was much happier doing his work than battling debt at Michaelhouse. Being Master is fraught with petty worries, and I have considered resigning more than once of late.’

Bartholomew was sorry to hear it. Langelee might be lacking in academic skills, but he was a good Master – conscientious, fair and able to keep the peace among a large, disparate and argumentative body of men.

‘You will always have a place here,’ said John quietly. ‘We have sworn oaths to help each other make our peace with God, and we will happily include you.’

‘The hermit mentioned those vows,’ said Langelee. ‘Although he made them sound sinister.’

‘Because he does not understand the depth of our desire to save each other’s souls,’ explained Nicholas earnestly. ‘And he is jealous of a camaraderie that he will never share.’

The subject was a dull one as far as Langelee was concerned – he was not an overtly religious man – so he began to entertain Nicholas, Weste and Heselbech with tales of his military past. While he did so, Michael and Bartholomew took the opportunity to chat to Prior John. After all, if they were to be in Clare for the next few days, it was wise to learn more about the feud between the town and the castle, so they would know how to avoid being drawn into it.

‘One of the scholars from Swinescroft has accused Ella and Thomas of murdering Sir William Talmach,’ began the monk. ‘Is it possible? Or was he just prompted by malicious gossip?’

John ran a hand across his shiny pate. ‘One of Talmach’s saddle straps was badly frayed, but there was nothing to say it was done deliberately. And a belt is a very silly place to carry a blade. It sliced through the great vein in his groin, and he bled to death before anyone could help him.’

‘And was Ella pleased to be rid of an unwanted elderly husband?’ asked Michael.

John shrugged. ‘All I can say is that I urged her to think of her immortal soul when she next attended Confession. Perhaps she did, but as her priest was Wisbech, we shall never know.’

‘Was she nearby when Talmach fell?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or was Thomas?’

John nodded. ‘Both were very quickly on the scene once the alarm was raised, but there is nothing suspicious about that. They were his kin, and families often hunt together.’

‘But what do you think?’ pressed Michael.

‘It is not for me to speculate, Brother. All I hope is that if they did harm Talmach, they do penance for it before their sins are weighed on Judgement Day.’

‘I cannot say I took to Thomas,’ mused Michael. ‘He struck me as arrogant, calculating and untrustworthy.’

‘Most women would disagree,’ said John. ‘They are always giving him presents. It must be his golden curls. I had a mop just like it as a youth, and it did bring the lasses flocking.’

‘What about the others who died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Roger, Charer and Skynere?’

‘Roger’s death was an accident: he was brained by falling scaffolding. At first, we thought Charer was an accident as well – he was a drunkard, so we assumed that he had lost his footing in the dark. However, he had been weaving his way home along that stretch of river for years, so why would he suddenly fall in? And Grym suggested hemlock for Skynere.’

‘Did you see Skynere’s body, as well as Wisbech’s?’ asked Bartholomew.

John nodded. ‘He died at his dinner table. I think he had swallowed too much wine with his last meal, so when the poison struck, he was incapable of saving himself. However, that is a guess on my part, and I cannot prove it. No one can – not now.’

Bartholomew did not want to listen to a lot of ex-warriors recounting deeds of bloody glory – he had heard enough of those from Nicholas the previous night – but Langelee hissed angrily that if the physician wanted a free bed, then the least he could do was feign an interest in his hosts’ exploits.

Time passed slowly, and the tales were still in full flood when the bell rang for vespers. The three scholars joined the Austins in their beautiful church for the ceremony, and as they were hungry afterwards, accepted an invitation to dine in the refectory. Mercifully, John imposed a rule of silence at meals, so Bible readings took the place of grisly stories. Unfortunately, the cantor had selected the Book of Joshua, and the subject was the Battle of Jericho.

By the time they emerged, the sun had set. The cool air smelled of wet soil and spring blossom, and was damp from a recent shower. A blackbird trilled a final song from the roof of the church, clear and sweet, while one of the cooks sang lustily in the kitchens. Other than that, the evening was still, and Bartholomew was aware of a growing sense of peace. Unwilling to lose it, he begged to be excused a return to the Prior’s House for another session of entertainment.

‘Very well,’ said Langelee, although it was clear from his bemused expression that he failed to understand why anyone should choose to opt out of what promised to be a rollicking good time. ‘But have an early night, because I want you and Michael to start recruiting new benefactors first thing in the morning. I shall spend tonight devising a list of who to target.’

But when Bartholomew saw the barrels of ale that were being hefted into the Prior’s House by the bulky Nicholas, he knew Langelee would do no such thing. The Master was about to indulge in the kind of occasion he loved – one in which the tales of his and others’ victories flowed freely, and the drink flowed more freely still. He might make a stab at working on Michaelhouse’s behalf, but it would not be long before the College and its fiscal problems were forgotten.

‘Come on, Langelee,’ bellowed Nicholas cheerfully. ‘The ale will turn sour if you stand there gossiping much longer.’

With a grin, Langelee loped towards him, stopping en route to fling comradely arms around the shoulders of Prior John and Heselbech. Other friars were already inside the house – they could be heard bawling the songs that soldiers sang while on campaign.

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am glad we are to be spared more of that, Brother.’

‘Let me show you to your quarters,’ came Weste’s voice from the darkness behind them. It made them jump, as neither had heard him approach. For such a stocky man, the cofferer possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And when you children are tucked up in bed, we men can make merry.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael primly. ‘But do not forget your calling – priests are not supposed to carouse all night, revelling in the violence they committed in the past.’

‘It will do us good,’ countered Weste. ‘We have been in a state of high alert for months while the feud between castle and town has escalated. It is high time we relaxed for a few hours.’

The sounds of manly laughter faded as Bartholomew and Michael followed him across the precinct towards the room that had been readied for them. Bartholomew breathed in deeply, enjoying the sweet scents of the fading day. The friars were not the only ones who had been busy of late – he himself had worked frantically during the last term, struggling to make enough time for Matilde in his busy schedule. It felt good to retire with the sun, secure in the knowledge that his sleep would not be disturbed by patients, students or a demanding fiancée.

‘You think you will rest easy, do you?’ murmured Michael, reading his mind. ‘When there have been at least five suspicious deaths since Roger was felled by scaffolding in February, and the town is on the verge of some serious civil disorder?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘We should be safe here – the place is full of soldiers.’

‘The hermit does not consider it safe. He told us to wear armour.’

Having met the friars, Bartholomew was inclined to think that Jan was wrong to malign them. Yes, they were warlike, but their desire to atone for the blood they had spilled seemed genuine to him, and meant they would be loath to kill anyone else.

‘It was your idea to ignore his warning and come here anyway,’ he retorted.

‘Only because you and Langelee failed to come up with an alternative. Lord! All that talk of slaughter! I shall have nightmares tonight.’

As Langelee was a friend of the Prior, they had been allocated a very handsome chamber in the guesthouse, although resentful glares from three men carrying hastily packed bags told them that it had not been standing vacant.

‘Albon’s people,’ explained Weste. ‘Billeted here because the castle is full. They claim to be soldiers, but they do not have a single battle scar among them. I cannot see the enemy being overly alarmed when they land on French soil. Not like they were when I arrived with John and the lads all those years ago.’

‘Is that where you lost your eye?’ asked Bartholomew, while Michael shot him an agitated glance for encouraging the telling of yet another bloody tale.

‘In a skirmish near Paris.’ Weste flipped up the patch to reveal the empty socket beneath. Bartholomew examined it with polite interest, while Michael studiously looked in the opposite direction. ‘Would you like to hear about it?’

‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Michael hastily before he could oblige. ‘But does being single-eyed interfere with your work as an illustrator?’

‘It does not help, certainly. Did you see my Book of Hours? Some careless rogue set it alight, so Marishal brought it to me for repairs. I was horrified. How could anyone have treated a book so badly? Especially that page, which was the best in the whole tome.’

‘The one with the shepherd?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And the white-whiskered demon peering out from behind a tree?’

Weste nodded. ‘It was meant to serve as a reminder that Satan is always present. I gave him a human face to underline the point – if I had made him a serpent, it would be patently obvious that we should steer clear of him. But Lucifer looks like us, which is what makes him so dangerous.’

‘Too true,’ agreed Michael, and glanced around uneasily.

The guesthouse was supremely comfortable. The beds were soft and smelled of clean straw, the blankets were freshly laundered, and someone had set a bowl of spring flowers on the windowsill, which released a delicate scent. Michael retreated primly behind a screen to perform his ablutions. He was particular about his privacy, and hated anyone seeing him in a state of undress.

Bartholomew enjoyed a vigorous wash, glad to sluice away the dirt of travel, then rinsed his shirt and hose, and set them to dry in front of the fire. By the time he had finished, Michael had bagged the best bed, and was lying in it with the blanket pulled up to his chin. Bartholomew took the one by the window, which he opened the moment the monk had doused the lamp and could not see what he was doing – he hated stuffy rooms. He closed his eyes, and was just dropping off when Michael began to speak.

‘Roger was the first victim in this turbulent town. He died eight weeks or so ago, killed by a piece of scaffolding. It was deemed an accident, but there were no witnesses and he was unpopular. I suspect he was brained deliberately.’

Bartholomew was barely listening. ‘By whom?’ he asked drowsily. ‘Town or castle?’

‘Who knows? Next was Talmach, who fell off his horse and on to his dagger. He was elderly and the track was slick, but his saddle strap was later discovered to be defective. Again there were no witnesses, but his young widow and her twin were quickly on the scene.’

Bartholomew tried to concentrate. ‘The Lady’s servants were not surprised when Badew bawled his accusation. I saw them nodding agreement. And Marishal was not surprised either, although the Lady seems sure they are innocent. At least, she gave that impression …’

‘After Talmach came Wisbech, poisoned by hemlock, then Charer the coachman, who drowned while staggering home along a familiar path. And finally Skynere, also fed hemlock. So what do they have in common? Three hailed from the castle, one came from the town – and we are not sure about Roger … What do you think, Matt?’

‘That I am glad it is not our responsibility to investigate. Goodnight, Brother.’

Bartholomew was not sure how long he had been asleep before he was jolted awake. It was still dark, but he sensed dawn was not far off. He sat up, and saw Langelee and Michael sitting by the fire they had stoked up. Langelee was rumpled and seedy, and his red-rimmed eyes suggested he had yet to retire. By contrast, Michael was shaved, dressed and ready to go about saving Michaelhouse by recruiting new benefactors.

‘Something woke me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear it, too?’

Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘I imagine the rumpus is audible in Cambridge! The friars are stampeding about like wild horses, shouting their heads off. Perhaps the French have invaded.’

Bartholomew was an unusually heavy sleeper, and could doze through the most frantic of nocturnal crises. It was not a good trait in a physician, and it was fortunate that his friends knew how to rouse him when there was a medical emergency, or there might have been all manner of tragedies. He climbed out of bed and went to peer through the window.

The sky was dark, although there was a faint glimmer of light in the east, so it would not be long before sunrise. Lamps blazed in the refectory, dormitory and Prior’s House, and pitch torches bobbed by the gate. Shadows flitted everywhere, and hammering footsteps sounded in the night.

‘Should we find out what is happening?’ he asked.

‘Best not,’ advised Langelee. ‘It is priory business and none of ours.’

Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘What time did you get back? I did not hear you come in.’

‘I did,’ said Michael wryly. ‘Less than two hours ago. Good night, was it, Master?’

‘I was working,’ replied Langelee stiffly. ‘Acquiring information about potential donors.’

‘Then you must have an enormous list for us,’ remarked Michael, smothering a smirk. ‘Given that it took you six hours or more.’

‘I do – all the names are tucked away up here.’ Langelee tapped his temple, which made him wince and told his Fellows that he would probably have trouble accessing most of them. He changed the subject before they could quiz him further. ‘Yet perhaps I was over-hasty in saying we should stay out of the priory’s affairs. I cannot sleep through this commotion anyway.’

‘Maybe there has been another murder,’ suggested Michael, then blanched as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Lord! I hope it is not the Lady. People might think we killed her, to avoid making a second journey for her funeral.’

‘No one knows we came here for that,’ said Langelee, and closed his eyes suddenly, one hand pressed to his stomach. Wordlessly, Bartholomew handed him a bucket, thinking the Austins would not appreciate vomit on their nice clean floor.

‘I think Marishal has guessed the truth,’ countered Michael. ‘He is no fool and–’

He stopped when there was a rap on their door. It was opened before they could answer, and Prior John strode in. He was bright-eyed and fresh-faced, suggesting that he had either been more abstemious than Langelee, or was better at handling large quantities of ale.

‘There has been an unexpected death,’ he announced without preamble. ‘And I am sorry to say that the victim is one of your scholars.’

‘Badew,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘Because of the accusations he levelled against Thomas and Ella. It was a reckless thing to have done and–’

‘It is Roos,’ interrupted John. ‘The bad-tempered one.’

‘All of the Swinescroft men are bad-tempered,’ remarked Langelee. ‘But how did Roos die?’

‘A dagger, apparently,’ replied John. ‘In the castle, although no one knows why he was there. The squires think a townsman did it, and Mayor Godeston sent a frantic plea for us to intervene, to prevent them from retaliating in kind. Unfortunately, we were all a bit addled from ale, so we were rather less efficient than usual. You may have noticed the racket as we rallied.’

‘Racket?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘What racket?’

‘I am sorry, John,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘I should not have kept you up so late.’

John smiled. ‘We are grown men: it was our own decision to drink ourselves silly. Besides, we intercepted the squires before any harm was done, so there is no need for recriminations.’

‘We had better go to the castle then,’ said Michael, standing and reaching for his cloak. ‘Roos was a scholar, so his death comes under my jurisdiction. And my Corpse Examiner’s.’

Bartholomew held this particular post, and was paid three pennies for every case he judged – money he then spent on medicine for the poor. It was a job he would lose once he resigned his Fellowship, as other University physicians were entitled to a turn. He would miss it, not just for the additional income, but because he felt that studying the dead had taught him much about how to help the living. Yet again, he reflected on all he would lose when he married Matilde.

Langelee and John decided to go too, lest Bartholomew and Michael needed their protection, and the four of them hurried across the precinct towards the bridge.

‘Apparently, Roos died in the cistern,’ the Prior said, and crossed himself. ‘Thank God he was found, or his rotting cadaver might have killed everyone. Do you remember how we used a dead sheep to oust those illegal tenants from the Archbishop’s manor, Langelee? It worked like a charm, although I was sorry that some of the culprits died.’

‘I had forgotten.’ Langelee was as white as a ghost in the light of John’s torch, and Bartholomew hoped they would not have to wait for him to throw up again. ‘Lord! Does this mean the folk at the castle will sicken from bad water? I cannot say I should want to drink from a well where a corpse has been floating.’

Before Bartholomew could reply, they met Heselbech, who was reeling along in the opposite direction. The chaplain seemed much more the worse for wear than his fellows, and in the dim light looked vaguely demonic with his curiously pointed teeth.

‘You should be at Mass,’ admonished John sternly. ‘Not even murder should distract you from your religious duties, and there will be Hell to pay if the Lady decides to attend and discovers that you are not there.’

‘I bring more bad news,’ slurred Heselbech. ‘Namely that there was a second body in the cistern with Roos, also stabbed. By all accounts, it belongs to Margery Marishal.’