‘She was unwell a couple of weeks ago,’ the vicar obliged, ‘but Master Lichet put her right. Or so he claimed. Personally, I think it was Grym’s posset that finally settled her stomach.’
‘Who is Lichet?’ asked Michael. ‘A physician?’
‘A learned man,’ replied Nicholas. ‘At least, that is how he describes himself. To me, he is the Red Devil and an ignoramus. When he arrived here a few months ago, he did not even know that we have an anchoress and a hermit.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Michael mildly, unwilling to confess that neither had he. ‘I have not met an anchorite since I was last in Norwich. Where is she?’
‘In her anchorhold, of course,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where else would she be? Like all her ilk, she is walled inside it, and the only way to extricate her would be to smash a hole in the stonework.’
‘I know how anchorites live,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What I meant was: where is her cell? Here in the church, or has she chosen a more remote place for her life of saintly contemplation?’
‘She is near the chancel,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our hermit is the one who lives in the wilds. Well, at the back of the castle, actually, although he can always be seen at the market of a Wednesday, as it is when he likes to buy his groceries.’
‘A hermit who goes shopping once a week,’ drawled Michael, amused. ‘And who has chosen a busy fortress for his retreat. Singular!’
‘We are lucky to have him,’ said Nicholas sharply, sensing an insult. ‘Pilgrims will flock here to see him once the word spreads. And Anne the anchoress will draw crowds, of course, not to mention the hordes who will come to see the fan vaulting. We shall be inundated with visitors. But speaking of Anne, when would you like to meet her? Now or later?’
‘Neither,’ replied Michael. ‘I imagine she would rather be left to her devotions.’
Nicholas smiled indulgently. ‘She loves company, and there will be hell to pay if I do not introduce her to scholars from the University at Cambridge. Come.’
Bartholomew tagged along, too, as the vicar led the way to the chancel, where the anchoress’ cell abutted the church’s north wall. It was unusually well constructed – most anchorholds tended to be rough lean-to structures built by the occupants themselves, but Clare’s was made of stone and possessed a tiled roof. The cell was spacious, with a screen across one end, which allowed the inmate to do some things without an interested audience.
Bartholomew had visited such places before, and braced himself for an unpleasant smell – personal hygiene tended not to feature very high on anchorites’ lists of priorities. Anne’s abode, however, was fragrant with the scent of fresh straw, and he peered through the squint to see a pile of clean clothes, water for washing and a broom for keeping the cell tidy. Like everything else about Clare, its holy woman was rather more superior than average.
‘I shall leave you to it,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘But do not take up too much of her time. She usually has a nap about now.’
‘A nap?’ blurted Michael in astonishment, but the vicar had gone.
The anchoress sat on a stool, humming over some sewing, although she put it aside when she saw strangers at her squint. She was of indeterminate age, and wore a fine blue gown with a bright white wimple. Bartholomew blinked his surprise – not just at her handsome attire, but at the fact that she should be indulging in needlework. Most people who allowed themselves to be walled up inside churches tended to reject earthly pursuits in favour of the spiritual.
‘You are like no anchoress that I have ever met before,’ he remarked, unable to help himself.
Anne chuckled. ‘You mean I am not some smelly old fanatic who would rather babble nonsense at the Almighty than wash?’
‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And they are not usually so well dressed.’
Anne smiled as she smoothed out a couple of wrinkles in her elegant kirtle. ‘I tried wearing sackcloth, but it is difficult to pray when all you want to do is scratch, so I begged some more comfortable apparel from those who come to ask for my blessings.’
‘What about food?’ asked Michael, cutting to what would matter to him. ‘Do you have enough? Itchy clothes are unpleasant, of course, but being hungry would be worse.’
‘Most folk are generous,’ she replied, ‘and those who fall short can expect a piece of my mind. I am not in here being holy for nothing, so if they want me to petition God on their behalf, they can damn well provide me with proper victuals. And they do, generally speaking. Indeed, I usually get so much that I have plenty left over to sell.’
‘Sell?’ echoed Bartholomew warily, while Michael stepped smartly away from the squint so that Anne would not see him smile. ‘You mean for money?’
‘Of course for money! What else? Then I can buy nice things for myself, like scented water, hairpins and silk thread for sewing.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling the grim little cells he had seen in France, where the occupants were so absorbed in matters of the soul that they had to be reminded to eat.
‘Perhaps I should become an anchorite,’ mused Michael, struggling to keep the humour from his voice. ‘Then I could lounge about all day, doing nothing but gorge.’
‘And being holy,’ Anne reminded him earnestly. ‘Not everyone can manage it. But I have a reputation for sanctity, and people from the castle and the town come to me for religious guidance.’
‘What prompted you to take this particular path?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that ‘sanctity’ was the word he would have used to describe what she had to offer visitors.
‘I was called by God, of course. He asked if I would mind sitting in here, dispensing wisdom on His behalf, and He phrased it so nicely that I decided to oblige.’
‘I am sure He is grateful,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s large frame quaking with silent laughter next to him.
‘Oh, He is. And it is not a bad life. I got that architect – Cambrug – to put a fireplace in here, so I am very snug of an evening. And once pilgrims come en masse to admire the fan vaulting, they will pay me handsomely to solve their personal problems. Which is why I am here, of course.’
‘Is it? I thought it was to lead a life of quiet communion with God.’
Anne waved a dismissive hand. ‘Giving advice is a lot more fun. Now, do you need my guidance on anything? All it will cost you is a flask of Rhenish wine.’
‘I do not have wine of any description. Does that mean you will withhold your help?’
‘It means we can negotiate,’ she replied smoothly. ‘But do not think you can cheat me, because I am very well versed in the sly ways of men.’
Michael guffawed aloud the moment they were out of earshot, amused by the concept of a recluse with such a worldly outlook on life.
‘She has carved a very comfortable niche for herself here,’ he remarked when he had his mirth under control, ‘and she lives in greater luxury than most monastics.’
‘She is a fraud,’ declared Bartholomew, less inclined to see the funny side of the situation. The poor and desperate would buy her services, but would be cheated of their money’s worth. ‘The Bishop should oust her.’
‘I shall write to him once we are back in Cambridge,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right – something should be done. But not yet. We cannot afford to annoy anyone here until we have secured Michaelhouse’s future. It is all very well for you – you will be living with Matilde in a few weeks’ time – but the rest of us would like a College to call home.’
Despite Langelee’s injunction to remain in the church, Bartholomew and Michael stepped out into the graveyard. The rain had stopped, and both felt the need for some fresh air. Neither spoke, Bartholomew reflecting again on the changes that would occur in his life when he exchanged wedding vows with Matilde, while Michael pondered the anchoress and her lack of spirituality. He noticed that a queue had formed outside her outer window, of people waiting to talk to her.
‘You are thinking about Anne,’ came a squ
eaky voice near the monk’s elbow. ‘You have that look about you – the one visitors always get after their first audience with her.’
The speaker was a thin, scrawny man with wiry hair somewhere between red and grey. He was dirty and stank of animals, although his cloak was fur and his boots sturdy, both far better than the scholars’. Over his arm was a basket full of fresh produce.
‘You are the hermit, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘Come from your remote refuge behind the castle to shop for victuals.’
‘Yes, I am Jan,’ replied the man, blithely oblivious of the monk’s sarcasm. ‘I always lay in supplies on a Wednesday, as it is the best time for butter and smoked pork.’
‘A worldly anchorite and a hermit who likes busy markets,’ remarked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Clare is certainly full of surprises.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Jan earnestly. ‘No other town can match us for them. Do you have any spare change, by the way? If you do, I shall pray for you this evening.’
‘And if we do not?’ asked Michael.
Jan raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Then I shall “forget” to include you on the list of names I give to God each night, and you do not want that. So come on. Give.’ He waggled his fingers.
‘I am afraid Master Langelee has all our money,’ lied Michael. ‘So you are out of luck.’
‘I suppose you can bring it to the hermitage later,’ said Jan grudgingly. ‘Although do not leave it too long – my list does not remain open indefinitely.’
‘The hermitage,’ mused Michael. ‘Is it as elaborate as the anchorhold?’
Jan made a moue of disdain. ‘It is the abode of a spiritual man, not of some wench who likes sitting around braying her opinions. My home is a cave, with nothing in it but the bare essentials – furniture, bedding, pots, pans, a goat, ten chickens, two pairs of shoes, four baskets of—’
‘A cave?’ asked Bartholomew, interrupting because he suspected that the list might go on for some time otherwise. ‘In this sort of countryside?’
‘A cottage, then,’ conceded Jan. ‘Although I do not see that it matters what I call it. Would you like some advice on credit? Because I have three things to say to you.’
‘No, it is all right,’ said Michael quickly, unwilling to run up debts that they might be unable to pay. ‘We are not—’
‘First, do not trust that Anne,’ said Jan, cutting across him. ‘Not as far as you can spit, as she is a liar and a cheat. Second, do not join the war between castle and town, because it is deadly. And third, if the Austin friars invite you to stay in their priory, wear armour.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Are they the kind of priests to stab guests, then?’
‘No, but they have sworn oaths,’ replied Jan, and lowered his voice to add darkly, ‘Oaths to help each other in time of need. It is all wrong, if you ask me.’
Bartholomew wanted to know why, but the hermit was already hurrying away, moving with a curious sideways scuttle that was redolent of a crab. Jan had no sooner disappeared into the leafy darkness of the churchyard when someone else strode towards them. It was an Austin with a neat grey beard, a scarred face and a black eyepatch. Bartholomew could only suppose that Jan had seen the friar coming, and it was this that had prompted the curious warning.
‘Is Nicholas in there?’ the priest asked. He nodded towards the church, then went on without giving them time to answer. ‘He probably is – he has a lot to do if he wants the place ready in time for the ceremony next week. So, who are you? Scholars from Clare Hall? We do not see you very often these days, not since you started objecting to the Lady telling you how to run your College.’
‘We are from Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael. ‘A far superior foundation.’
‘Never heard of it,’ declared the friar, but listened with interest as Michael introduced himself and Bartholomew. He gave a military-style salute. ‘And I am John de Weste, the priory’s cofferer.’
‘The artist?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw some of your work yesterday – a Book of Hours.’
Which had almost been incinerated by the surly Roos, he recalled, although it did not seem prudent to mention that to its creator.
Weste beamed with genuine pleasure. ‘My work is at the University in Cambridge? Then perhaps I shall be famous yet! You must visit me in the priory and tell me all about it. But I had better find Nicholas before any more of the day is lost. Good day to you.’
He bowed and hurried away. Bartholomew watched him go.
‘I wonder what Jan has against the Austins. It cannot just be that they have sworn vows to help each other – there is nothing wrong with being loyal to friends.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘There is not.’
It was some time before Langelee returned, dejected because he had visited every tavern he could find, only to learn that there was no such thing as cheap accommodation in Clare. Even the lowest place charged top rates, and they would run out of money within two days if they accepted the terms on offer. Lines of strain showed around his eyes. It was never easy being Master, but Langelee’s tenure had been harder than most. The College had been plagued with problems from the moment he had taken office, virtually none of his own making. He had done his best, but worry was taking its toll, draining even his ebullient spirits.
‘But if we disappear to sleep under a hedge, it will raise eyebrows,’ he said glumly. ‘And no one will give money to a foundation that cannot pay its envoys’ basic expenses.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But surely they will want to give us more, on the grounds that their help will be especially appreciated?’
‘That is not how it works,’ explained Michael impatiently. ‘Rich folk invest in foundations that are thriving, not ones that teeter on the edge of collapse, where their money might be wasted. We must look as though we are awash with cash.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘By staying at the Swan?’
‘I will think of something,’ promised Michael, and glanced up at the sky, aware that the rain had started again. ‘Because I am not sleeping under hedges in this weather.’
‘I met that anchoress,’ said Langelee disapprovingly. ‘She hailed me through her window – in a voice like a fanfare – and demanded to know my business.’
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The truth,’ replied Langelee. ‘That we came to pay our respects to the Lady, and that we are a flourishing College which does not need more benefactors, but if anyone here would like to contribute, then we would consider making an exception in their case.’
‘That is the truth, is it?’ said Bartholomew, amused.
‘Then I asked her about the town’s worthies, so as to know who to target first – I thought I could trust her to give me an honest answer, being holy and all – but she told me to keep my thieving fingers to myself. What sort of saint comes up with that kind of response?’
‘The kind of saint who comes from Clare,’ replied Michael. ‘You should meet their hermit – a “recluse” who lives near a busy castle and likes shopping.’
‘Perhaps we should stay with him then,’ suggested Langelee. ‘He probably has guest quarters we can use, and we will be better fed than at home.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘He smelled of goat and I do not want to share my bed with a menagerie. Perhaps the Austins will put us up. I know for a fact that they are wealthy.’
‘They are unlikely to extend their hospitality to a Benedictine,’ predicted Langelee gloomily. ‘Maybe we should visit the castle, and hope the Lady offers to house us in return for the pleasure of our company. She likes scholars, and we are charming fellows. Especially me.’
‘How about Nicholas?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He might find us a corner, and we can tell everyone that we accepted his offer because we want to be near the church.’
‘That is a good idea,’ said Langelee, brightening. ‘It will make us look pious, which is not a bad thing, and he has the look of
an old soldier about him. He will not turn a fellow warrior away.’
The three scholars entered the church to see Nicholas and Weste talking near the anchorhold. Unwilling to beg in front of an audience, Langelee made a show of removing a stone from his boot, murmuring that they would make their move once the friar had gone. Unfortunately, the moment Weste walked away, Nicholas was approached by Badew, Roos and Harweden, all demanding to know about the following day’s funeral. Again, Langelee held back, although he, Bartholomew and Michael were close enough to hear the conversation that followed.
‘It was to have been today, but I delayed it because of the rain,’ said Nicholas. ‘And Anne thought it would be better tomorrow, as no one likes standing around open graves in a downpour.’
‘I do not mind,’ declared Badew with a vindictive smirk. ‘Especially if it is to bury someone I hate. What time will it be?’
‘Mid-morning,’ replied the vicar, eyeing him askance. ‘Anne said that is the best hour for burials, as it leaves plenty of time for a drink afterwards, to remember the deceased’s virtues.’
‘Anne thought, Anne said,’ scoffed Harweden nastily, although the three Michaelhouse men were thinking much the same. ‘Do you make no decisions for yourself?’
‘It is not a crime to confer with a holy woman,’ retorted Nicholas stiffly. ‘Indeed, it would be foolish not to. She is a very wise lady.’
‘Is she?’ sneered Roos. ‘She seems rather worldly to me.’
Nicholas regarded him coldly. ‘You are an experienced traveller, are you?’
Roos frowned suspiciously. ‘Not especially. Why?’
‘To ascertain how many other anchorites you have met, because if Anne is the only one, then your opinion is worthless.’
‘He is very well travelled,’ declared Harweden, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He has kin in Peterborough, whom he visits every three months. Is that not so, Roos?’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Nicholas triumphantly. ‘I hail from Peterborough, and there are no future saints living anywhere near the place. Thus Anne is the only one he has—’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 5
