They crossed a bridge and had their first glimpse of the parish church. It was unusually large and had been the subject of a recent renovation, as parts of it were still swathed in scaffolding. The top half of the building was new, and so was the south aisle, while the lower half was ancient, dating from the time of the Conqueror.
‘It looks odd,’ declared Langelee, reining in to regard it critically. ‘As if some giant has come along and sliced off one roof in order to replace it with another. The two parts do not fit together properly – they are different colours, for a start.’
‘That will not be so noticeable once the new parts have weathered a bit,’ said Bartholomew, and smiled appreciatively. ‘The nave and chancel are an impressive height, though, so the ceiling must look splendid from within.’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Langelee. ‘But I am unimpressed by that south aisle – it is crafted from cheaper materials than the rest, and is not nearly as handsome.’
‘We should go in,’ declared Michael. Their arrival had attracted attention, and he was keen for his piety to be reported to people who mattered. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’
No one liked to argue, so they dismounted and trooped into the porch. Hoods were pushed back and hats removed, although Roos declined to part with his vile woollen cap.
‘Do you still have earache?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically, wondering if discomfort had been responsible for the unedifying incident with the book in the tavern earlier.
Roos nodded and raised one hand to the side of his head. ‘It throbs like the Devil, and I shall be glad to lie down. Your fat friend knows it, of course, which is why he suggested a prayer – to cause me additional pain by dallying.’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to deny it, but Roos had already stamped away. Pushing the surly old man from his mind, he walked into the nave, aware of the clean scents of wet plaster and fresh paint. Then he gazed upwards in astonishment.
The clerestory windows high above allowed light to flood in, even on that dull day, and it illuminated something he had never seen before – a ceiling that soared, so high and delicate that it seemed impossible that it should stay up. At the top of each pillar, stone ribs had been carved in a fan pattern, to intertwine like lace with the ones adjacent to it. Each fan had been given a unique geometric design, executed in a blaze of bright colour. Much was hidden by scaffolding, but enough could be seen through the gaps to show that it was a remarkable achievement.
‘Well,’ said Donwich eventually, the first to find his voice. ‘I knew they had been working to improve the place, but I was not expecting anything so …’
‘Tasteless,’ finished Badew, sniffing his disdain. ‘It is ugly.’
‘It is stunning,’ countered Donwich. ‘As any fool can see. What a pity that the Lady did not live to enjoy it. I imagine it was her money that paid for the project.’
‘Not too much of it, I hope,’ murmured Langelee to his Fellows. ‘I should not like to think she spent so recklessly that there is none left for us.’
Still braying their admiration, Donwich and Pulham went to inspect the murals that covered every wall, prayers forgotten. The Swinescroft men pretended to be indifferent as they perched on a convenient tomb to rest their legs, although even they could not resist surreptitious glances at the glories around them. Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee went to the chancel, where they knelt to say their prayers. As a professional, the monk had more to say to his Maker than the other two, so when they had finished, they withdrew to give him some privacy.
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing upwards at the ceiling with renewed awe. ‘Not even in France.’
‘It is called “fan vaulting”,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘The only other place you will see it is in Gloucester Abbey, but ours is better.’
They turned to see a vicar. He was an Austin friar of middle years, whose fine robes indicated that he earned a good living from his parish. He had a shock of yellow hair and a physique that was almost as impressive as Langelee’s. He introduced himself as Father Nicholas de Lydgate.
‘Who designed it?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing that the priest wanted to brag.
‘An architect named Thomas de Cambrug. If you are in Clare next Tuesday, you will meet him, because he is coming for the rededication ceremony. He is working on Hereford Cathedral at the moment, but has promised to return for the unveiling.’
‘Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around doubtfully. The scaffolding would take a while to dismantle, and artists were still working feverishly on several bare patches of stone. ‘That is in six days. Will you be ready by then?’
‘We had better be, because the time and date have been set for months,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It will start at seven o’clock in the evening, and will be conducted by torchlight. I made the arrangements myself, and it will be the most beautiful service that anyone has ever seen.’
‘I am sure it will be impressive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Hereford is a long way away. Are you sure Cambrug will make the trek?’
Nicholas smiled serenely. ‘Yes, because the Queen is coming, and no ambitious man wants to miss his work being praised by royalty. He will be here, of that I am certain.’
‘All this beautification must have been expensive,’ fished Langelee. ‘Did the Lady fund it?’
Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘You have hit upon a bitter bone of contention. It was to have been the town’s project, as it is our parish church, but when the Lady saw what was happening, she wanted to be part of it – which caused a lot of bad feeling.’
‘Did it?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘In Cambridge, the town would be delighted if the castle offered to pay for something.’
‘She funded the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, waving at the section in question, ‘which sounded generous until we learned that the townsfolk were expected to stand in it, out of the way, while she and her cronies took over the nave.’
‘The castle does not have a chapel of its own?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, but it is too small to accommodate everyone, so they have to attend Mass in shifts. This place, however, can hold them all, so they aim to steal it from us. They have already started meddling in parish affairs. For example, they want me to leave my current house and move into a smaller one. But where I live is none of their damned business!’
He continued to rail until the latch clanked and two men entered. The older of the pair reclined on a litter carried by a couple of moon-faced boys; all three were clad entirely in purple. The other was so plump that he barely managed to squeeze through the door. Nicholas broke off from his grumbles to say they were Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym.
‘They will tell you about the Lady’s gall,’ he confided, ‘because they were obliged to deal with most of her infractions – I confined myself to the religious issues that arise from this sort of undertaking. It is never wise for a priest to take sides, although it is hard to remain impartial sometimes.’
‘What religious issues?’ asked Langelee, while Bartholomew thought that Nicholas had not remained impartial at all, and clearly sided with his parishioners.
‘Tending our anchoress while her cell was being refurbished, praying for the work to be finished on time, burying our Master Mason, who was tragically killed a few weeks ago – your three friends over there are sitting on him.’
‘You have an anchoress?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, preferring to discuss a holy woman than the fact that his Swinescroft colleagues had made themselves very comfortable on the final resting place of someone who was so recently dead.
Nicholas smiled. ‘Her name is Anne de Lexham, and she is very religious. I shall introduce you to her after you have spoken to Godeston and Grym. Here they come now.’
The Mayor cut a very stately figure in his litter. His lavender robes were made of unusually fine cloth, and there was silver embroidery on his sleeves. His bearers’ clothes were coarser, but they were obviously
proud of the way they looked, because they kept glancing at their reflections in the windows.
‘Robbers,’ Godeston said without preamble, staring up at Bartholomew and Langelee through sharp mauve eyes. ‘Did you encounter any on your way here?’
‘Specifically Simon Freburn and his sons,’ elaborated Grym, identifiable as a barber because his enormous girth was encircled by a belt from which dangled implements to cut hair, shave faces and extract teeth. He had twinkling eyes and a ready smile, and was not ‘grim’ at all.
‘No, we were too large a party to tackle,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although I sensed them watching us as we passed. If we had been fewer, I am sure they would have attacked.’
‘Scum!’ spat Godeston. ‘I would give my right arm to see Freburn and his sons hang.’
Grym changed the subject with a smile. ‘We do not see many scholars these days. Why—’
‘We do not see them because of Freburn,’ interrupted Godeston bitterly. ‘People are loath to use the road as long as he haunts it.’ He scowled at Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘Or have you kept your distance these last few years because the College named after our town is tired of us?’
‘I thought Clare Hall was named after the Lady,’ said Langelee, puzzled.
‘I am sure that is what its Fellows told her,’ sniffed Godeston, ‘but everyone knows the real truth, which is that one of them travelled here fourteen years ago, and thought our town so fabulous that he decided to honour us.’
‘And who can blame him?’ shrugged Grym. ‘It is the nicest place in Suffolk. No, let us be honest about this – in the whole world!’
‘I was telling them how the castle insisted on providing us with a new aisle,’ said Nicholas grumpily. ‘Even though we did not want one.’
Godeston’s face hardened. ‘Especially as they think they will shove us in there, out of sight, while they worship in the nave. Well, we are not going anywhere.’ He folded his arms defiantly.
‘But the nave is huge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely there is enough room for everyone?’
‘Not at the front,’ explained Godeston. ‘Which is where we all like to be. We refuse to give way to them, so they bring their weapons and give us a poke.’
‘It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt,’ put in Grym, shaking his head disapprovingly. ‘And do not say that should please a man who stitches wounds – it is not the way I like to win new business.’
‘There was talk of a north aisle as well,’ growled Godeston, ‘but we scuppered that plan by making sure the south one cost the Lady a fortune. There is gold leaf in all its murals, and its floor came from Naples. Of course, the stone in the walls is very inferior …’
‘Well, she is dead now, so you are safe from her unwelcome meddling,’ said Langelee.
‘Dead?’ echoed Nicholas, startled. ‘What are you talking about? The Lady is not dead.’
‘More is the pity,’ put in Godeston acidly.
‘Of course she is,’ countered Langelee. ‘A messenger rode all the way to Cambridge with a letter. Her funeral is today.’
‘Then I am afraid you have been the subject of a practical joke,’ said Grym. ‘Because the Lady is no more dead than I am. I saw her myself, not an hour ago.’
‘And there is no funeral today,’ added Nicholas. ‘There is one tomorrow, but not hers. Grym is right – someone is playing games with you.’
CHAPTER 2
When he emerged from his devotions, Michael was deeply unimpressed to learn that he had had a wasted journey, although Bartholomew was happy to pass a day or two exploring the glories of Clare. Personally, he felt the visit had been worthwhile for the fan vaulting alone.
‘Are you sure?’ the monk asked for at least the third time. He, Bartholomew and Langelee were in a chapel dedicated to the patronal saints – Peter and Paul. It was in a part of the church that had not been revamped, so it was dark, old and rather plain. ‘You did not misunderstand what the vicar and the others told you?’
‘Of course we did not misunderstand,’ snapped Langelee, disappointment turning him testy. ‘The Lady is in fine fettle and has no intention of being buried today.’
‘Then who sent the letter telling us about her funeral?’ demanded Michael. ‘And hired a messenger to take it all the way to Cambridge?’
‘Lord knows,’ replied Langelee, disgusted. ‘But he had better not come to gloat about it, not unless he wants a blade in his gizzard. This jaunt cost us money we can ill afford. The bastard has no idea of the damage he has done.’
Michael was silent for a while. Then his expression turned from irked to calculating, and his green eyes gleamed with the prospect of a challenge.
‘Yet what is to stop us from turning the situation to our advantage? The Lady may appreciate three busy scholars coming here to pay their respects, and it is our chance to ensure that when she does die, Michaelhouse is mentioned in her will for certain.’
‘But I do not like Clare,’ objected Langelee sulkily. ‘There is a nasty dispute between the town and the castle about who has the right to stand where in the church. Oh, you can smile, Brother, but passions are running very high over it.’
‘Probably because so much money has been spent on its refurbishment,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym mentioned a couple of the sums involved, and even the smallest would keep Michaelhouse afloat for a decade.’
‘In that case, we shall certainly stay,’ determined Michael. ‘If Clare folk have so much spare cash, then we must persuade them to put some of it our way. I do not care if they hail from the town or the castle. Merchants, knights, tradesmen, nobles … their gold is all the same colour.’
‘I suppose we can try,’ conceded Langelee. ‘Everyone here is very well dressed, even the paupers. Indeed, I feel like a beggar in my shabby academic attire.’
‘You are a beggar,’ Michael reminded him. ‘But not one who will go home empty-handed if I have anything to say about it. We shall stay for this rededication service next Tuesday – that will be our excuse for lingering. And in the interim, we shall tout for benefactors and court the Lady.’
Langelee regarded him in alarm. ‘But that is six days hence – we cannot afford to dally here that long! And what about the beginning of term? We dare not leave William and Suttone to manage on their own. William will drive off all our new students with his fanatical bigotry, while Suttone is lazy and incompetent.’
‘Term starts on Thursday, so we shall leave first thing Wednesday morning,’ determined Michael. ‘And do not worry about lodgings. We shall find somewhere cheap.’
Langelee frowned unhappily. ‘Very well, if you are sure. I admit that I am loath to return home with an empty purse.’
Bartholomew left them plotting tactics and went to admire more of the church. Yet again, his eyes were drawn to the roof. He could hear rain drumming on it, and marvelled that there were no leaks, as there would be at home. Personally, he was delighted that Michael and Langelee had agreed to stay, as he wanted to see the ceiling without the scaffolding. And, of course, he was interested in meeting Cambrug, as only a genius could have invented fan vaulting.
It seemed that Nicholas had driven the Swinescroft men off the mason’s tomb, because they were now sitting in the porch. Badew was laughing, which made Bartholomew suspect he did not yet know that the Lady was still in the land of the living. He considered breaking the news, but then decided against it: they would be livid, and he had no wish to bear the brunt of their disappointment. He was about to go and admire more murals, when he was intercepted by Donwich and Pulham.
‘Look at Roos,’ said Donwich disapprovingly. ‘The man is a disgrace.’
Bartholomew could see what he meant. While Badew and Harweden chatted to each other, Roos’s eyes were fixed on a young woman who was sweeping the floor. His leer was brazen, and Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she would react if she looked up and saw it.
‘He shames us with his open lust,’ said Pulham, repelle
d. ‘Someone should tell him to desist before there is trouble.’
‘Well, I am not doing it,’ said Donwich firmly. ‘Indeed, I think I shall adjourn to the Swan for the rest of the day. It is the best inn in Clare, and I much prefer it to the castle. The Lady always insisted that I stayed with her whenever I visited in the past, but now she is dead …’
‘What about the funeral?’ asked Pulham, startled.
‘It is not until tomorrow,’ replied Donwich. ‘The vicar just told me. Where will you stay tonight, Bartholomew? With us in the Swan? Oh, I forgot! Michaelhouse cannot afford it.’
He smirked, which meant that Bartholomew, who had been about to report that the Lady was still alive, decided to let him find out for himself. At that point, Badew and Harweden approached, although Roos did not join them, and continued to ogle the woman.
‘The Swan!’ spat Badew in distaste, overhearing. ‘I would not demean myself by using a garish place like that. The Bell is more to my liking – staid, decent and respectable.’
‘He means dull,’ said Pulham to Donwich, and turned back to Badew. ‘We shall leave you to enjoy it, then. However, you had better hope that the husband of that young lady does not work there, or you may find yourselves stabbed during the night.’
He nodded towards Roos, who was creeping towards his quarry with one hand extended for a grope. With a hiss of alarm his friends hurried over to stop him. Wanting nothing to do with any of them, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and returned to Michael and Langelee.
‘They do not know about the Lady,’ he said. ‘And I am disinclined to tell them.’
‘So am I,’ said Michael, ‘but I imagine they will hear the news when they book into their respective inns. And if not … well, it is hardly our problem.’
Worried about the expense that six nights in Clare would incur, Langelee disappeared to locate the cheapest available tavern, leaving his Fellows with strict instructions to stay in the church until he returned. Bartholomew did not mind, content to examine the paintings in more detail. He roamed the nave, while Michael chatted to Nicholas about the Lady.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 4
