‘They still do not know,’ whispered Michael in astonishment, as their colleagues hastened to enter the castle before them. ‘They consider themselves too grand to chat with local folk, so no one has had the chance to enlighten them. That will teach them to be aloof!’
Langelee chuckled. ‘It will be hilarious to watch what happens when they see her alive.’
‘I hardly think—’ began Bartholomew uneasily.
‘All is fair in war,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘And the future of Michaelhouse depends on the next few days, so we cannot afford to be gentlemanly. Now shut up and follow my lead.’
Donwich and Pulham had contrived to be first up the ramp to the gatehouse, with the three Swinescroft men hot on their heels. They were about to pass under the portcullis when they met some people on their way out. They were the squires who had caused such a rumpus at the church earlier, along with a golden-haired couple in their mid-twenties. At a glance, the pair – who were so alike that they had to be the Marishal twins – appeared angelic, but a closer inspection revealed mischief sparking in the blue eyes. Both were sniggering, and Bartholomew suspected he knew why when he looked at their companions.
Since Mass, the squires had been at their toilet. Their beards had been slicked into two sharp points below their chins, kept in place by a waxy gel. It was an odd fashion, and in combination with their long-toed shoes and flowing sleeves, made them look like travelling magicians.
Bartholomew wanted to laugh, too, but prudently resisted the urge – the clothes were effete, but their wearers were not. All carried swords and had the arrogantly swaggering gait that suggested they would like nothing more than a brawl. Moreover, they were on Mayor Godeston’s list of suspects for killing Skynere, so needed to be approached with care.
‘Scholars!’ exclaimed the male twin. His clothes were fine but sensible, and although Bartholomew could not have said why, he knew that the oiling of the others’ beards had been his idea – a practical joke to make them look silly. ‘Welcome! To what do we owe this honour?’
‘We are not here to talk to the likes of you,’ declared Badew rudely, regarding him with open disdain. ‘We want Marishal the steward.’
‘I am his son, Thomas,’ said the twin pleasantly, although his cronies bristled at Badew’s manners. ‘And this is my sister Elizabeth, although we call her Ella. Perhaps we can help you.’
‘Leave them, Tom – we have better things to do than wait on scholars,’ growled the largest of the squires, a beefy fellow with a big, heavy face. A scar on one cheek suggested he was no stranger to fighting, and his fancy clothes looked more ridiculous on him than the others – akin to a bull wearing lace.
‘There is always time to help men of learning, Nuport,’ said Thomas, although the sly cant in his eyes suggested that any assistance offered should be accepted with caution.
‘Thomas and Ella,’ mused Badew, regarding them closely. ‘You came to University Hall and made a nuisance of yourselves on the day that I was forced to sign that quit-claim.’
Ella inclined her head. ‘But I am afraid I do not recall you, sir. It must be thirteen years ago now, and we were just children at the time.’
‘Fourteen years, one month and eighteen days,’ corrected Badew briskly. ‘It is not an event I shall ever forget.’
‘I remember it, Ella,’ said Thomas. His face was sombre but there was laughter in his eyes. ‘The quit-claim was very nearly signed in blood. Surely that cannot have slipped your mind?’
Badew seemed to inflate with rage at the reminder, and his face turned a worrying shade of puce, but Ella spoke before he could begin a tirade.
‘Perhaps it will come to me later. Meanwhile, we shall call a servant to conduct these men to our father. It is—’
‘Universities are a waste of time,’ interrupted Nuport, and gave a grin that was all bared teeth and menace. ‘Learning to kill is much more fun. We are going to France next week with Sir William Albon, to join the Prince of Wales. The war will be as good as won once we arrive.’
‘It is as good as won now,’ said Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that peace will be declared within the month.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Nuport, while his friends regarded each other in dismay. ‘How can there be peace when our King does not yet wear the French crown?’
Michael shrugged. ‘His Majesty has gained as much as he can realistically expect from the campaign, and he knows when it is time to stop. There will be no more battles, so your task will be to guard the territories he has gained these last few years.’
‘I am not going then,’ declared Nuport sulkily. ‘What would be the point? I want to kill Frenchmen, not defend a lot of fields and hovels.’
‘Oh, come now,’ chided Pulham. ‘It will be an interesting experience regardless, and I am sure your kin will be delighted to know that you are in no danger over there.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ murmured Donwich, glancing around at the stricken faces of those who had heard the monk’s announcement. ‘I have the sense that folk were looking forward to being rid of this lot, and your news has just ruined their day.’
In the end, it was Ella herself who conducted the scholars to her father, while Thomas trailed along behind. The squires retreated to a nearby guardroom to discuss Michael’s alarming news over jugs of ale. They remained blissfully unaware of the amusement their appearance was affording the people of Clare – castle and townsmen alike. However, the grins faded as word spread that the squires might not be going to France after all – Donwich was right to predict that most folk had been looking forward to seeing the back of them.
As they walked, Ella homed in on Michael, regarding him in a way that suggested she liked what she saw. Women were often attracted to the monk, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that he was fat, unfit and not especially handsome. Michael claimed his dynamic personality made him more appealing than ordinary men, and it seemed he was right, as Ella clung to his arm and chatted brightly.
‘We do not see many Benedictines in Clare,’ she gushed. ‘There is a whole priory of them a few miles away, but they rarely come here.’
‘No?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because they do not like the Lady very much, as she refuses to give them donations. But why should she? She already funds several other foundations.’
‘Such as Clare Hall,’ mused Michael. ‘Although they are seculars, and she would do better to invest in a College filled with priests and monks instead. A College such as Michaelhouse. The Masses we recite will lessen her time in Purgatory.’
‘Oh, she will not go to Purgatory,’ laughed Ella. ‘She will fly straight to Heaven. She told me so herself – when she also said that my brother and I would go directly to Hell.’
‘What did you do to earn that sort of censure?’
Ella giggled. ‘We sewed up the sleeves on her ladies’ kirtles. You should have seen them struggling to get dressed while she screeched with increasing impatience for them to hurry.’
‘Very droll,’ said Michael. ‘It is the kind of thing I might have done when I was eight.’
‘You were eight, Brother?’ asked Ella impishly. ‘Good Lord! Did you know Moses?’
She flounced ahead at that point, treating him to a fine view of her jauntily swaying hips.
‘She aims to seduce me, Matt,’ he murmured. He nodded to where Thomas chatted to a girl with raven hair. ‘And there is another man who is irresistible to women. She was scowling a moment ago, but now she simpers like a lovesick calf. It is a gift some of us have.’
But Thomas’s real attention was on his sister, and it was obvious from the sly glances that were exchanged between the pair that more mischief was in the offing. Sure enough, Thomas eased the dark-haired girl into the centre of the path that led across the outer bailey, forcing Badew to step off it to go around her. The old scholar howled his alarm when he disappeared up to his knees in mud.
‘You did that on purpose!’ he screeched, batting away Thomas’s outstretched hand – probably wisely, as it would almost certainly be withdrawn at a critical moment. ‘You vicious little bastard! If I were twenty years younger, I would thrash you.’
‘If you were forty years younger, you could try,’ retorted Thomas. ‘But do not blame me for your clumsiness. You should have watched where you were going.’
Bartholomew and Langelee hurried forward to extricate the furious Badew, although at the expense of getting smeared with muck themselves. Fighting down her amusement, Ella returned to take Michael’s arm again, and began to point out features of interest as they went.
‘That is the Oxford Tower,’ she said, gesturing to the smallest and oldest of the four squat turrets. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It is not very nice inside, and no one wants to live there. When the Queen arrives, we shall put her conceited clerks in it, just for the delight of seeing their horror.’
‘The name alone would render it undesirable,’ drawled Michael.
‘Of course, we are not always so strapped for space when the royals come to visit,’ Ella went on. ‘The problem is that Sir William Albon arrived with his entire retinue two weeks ago. He is one of the Lady’s councillors, and he came to take my brother and the squires to France. He had intended to leave the day after the rededication ceremony, although if peace really is declared …’
Michael was puzzled. ‘If he is one of the Lady’s councillors – not to mention an executor of her will – what will happen to her affairs while he is away?’
Ella lowered her voice. ‘He is not a very useful administrator, to be frank, and my father makes all the important decisions anyway.’ She went back to her tour of the castle. ‘There is the Constable Tower, where I live with my parents and Thomas. It is the steward’s prerogative to have better quarters than anyone else, so we have all five storeys to ourselves.’
‘Impressive,’ said Michael. ‘Will you be obliged to share when the Queen arrives?’
‘Yes, we shall host her steward and his retinue. Over there is the Maiden Tower, where Lichet lives. But we call it the Cistern Tower, because it is as deep as it is tall. Below ground, it forms a great cylindrical well, where we store all our fresh water. As you can imagine, it is full to overflowing at the moment, with all this rain.’
Bartholomew was intrigued, and wondered if there would be time to inspect it, while Langelee murmured approvingly about the value of such a device in the event of a siege.
‘And Lichet lives above it?’ Michael was asking.
‘He has the whole tower to himself – for now, at least; he will have to share it when the Queen comes. Personally, I cannot imagine why he likes it there. I know for a fact that it is damp.’
‘How many people live in the castle?’
‘We are about three hundred souls at the moment, although that will double when the Queen arrives. I am looking forward to it.’
‘I am sure you are,’ murmured Michael. ‘It will provide you and your brother with more victims for your japes. I only hope you are wise enough not to target Her Majesty.’
Ella took the eight scholars to a reception room in the Constable Tower, where she presented them to a black-haired man and a fair-headed woman. Robert Marishal was tending to stoutness, although there was strength and determination in his stern features. He wore the kind of clothes that suggested he was about to go hawking, an activity usually confined to the gentry, indicating that he considered himself a cut above a mere retainer.
His wife Margery had one of the loveliest faces Bartholomew had ever seen, not just for its even features, clear skin and blue eyes, but for its expression of astonishing sweetness. She was simply dressed in a rose-coloured kirtle, and her only items of jewellery were a string of pink pearls and a small onyx ring bearing a tiny carving of a bird.
‘Clare Hall,’ said Marishal in surprise when he saw Donwich and Pulham. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’
Donwich bowed. ‘May I take the opportunity to offer my condolences?’
‘If you like,’ replied Marishal cautiously. ‘Although it is not a death that touches us very deeply, you understand. I shall attend the funeral, of course, but I hope it will not take too long, as I want to go hawking with Albon.’
Michael and Langelee exchanged a smirk when the other scholars blinked their astonishment at the confidence – all except Roos, who was leering at Margery. She blushed uncomfortably, and edged behind her husband, but Roos simply changed positions and ogled her afresh. Unwilling to stand by while a woman was harassed, Bartholomew stepped into his line of sight, causing Roos to scowl his annoyance.
‘I did not expect to find anyone out gallivanting today of all days, Marishal,’ said Donwich with rank disapproval. ‘Do you not consider it disrespectful?’
‘I am not “gallivanting” – I am entertaining a guest.’ Marishal was obviously nettled by the censure, and would have added more, but a servant hurried up. ‘Yes, Quintone? What is it?’
Quintone was a sly-faced man in brown clothes. He strutted with more arrogance than was appropriate for a minion, and there was nothing deferential in his manner.
‘Sir William Albon is about to leave his quarters,’ he reported. ‘You asked me to tell you when he was ready.’
‘Wait here with Ella,’ Marishal instructed the scholars. ‘I shall return as soon as I can, but my Lady’s most important guests must take priority over you. I am sure you understand.’
He strode away without waiting to hear whether they understood or not, leaving his wife to provide a more sincere apology. But she did not linger long either, perhaps because Roos had managed to inch towards her and was standing offensively close. She ordered Ella to fetch wine from the kitchen, before hurrying after her husband.
‘I know why Marishal toadies to Albon,’ said Michael, once the scholars were alone. ‘He is afraid that Albon will refuse to take Thomas and the loutish squires off his hands. Having them at large must interfere with the smooth running of his castle.’
Langelee agreed. ‘There is nothing more dangerous than bored young men who know how to fight, and I should know, because I was one, once upon a time. France is the best place for them. They may be too late to fight enemies, but at least they will not be here.’
‘This is all very peculiar,’ said Pulham, frowning worriedly. ‘The castle goes about its normal business while its Lady lies dead, then her steward reveals that he would rather go hawking than attend her funeral. What are they thinking?’
Bartholomew waited for them to surmise that there had been a misunderstanding, but none of them did, and instead they began a sniping argument about what was suitable behaviour for such an occasion. Acutely uncomfortable with the deception, he went to the window and looked out.
There was a flurry of activity in the yard below as Sir William Albon emerged from the Auditor Tower with his retinue at his heels. He was a glorious man in glorious clothes, and stood for a moment looking around imperiously. He had a head of golden hair, shot through with noble streaks of grey, a fine beard and an imposing physique. He wore a scarlet gipon with a gold cloak, and anyone looking at him might be forgiven for thinking that he was royalty.
Head held high, he raised his hands. No orders were given, but Nuport pressed a cup of wine into the left one, while Thomas slapped a pair of hawking gauntlets into the right. The great man took a sip from the cup, savoured it for a moment, then nodded to say it was of acceptable quality. He passed it back to Nuport and snapped his fingers, which was the signal for Quintone to hurry forward with a horse. Unfortunately, something was wrong with the way it had been saddled, because Nuport kicked the servant, who yelped and hobbled away. It was probably fortunate that no one other than Margery saw the murderous look Quintone shot the belligerent squire, or he might have been kicked a second time. Margery took Quintone’s arm and whispered in his ear; whatever she said coaxed a reluctant smile.
Then all was bustle and shouting as more hors
es were led from the stables, and Albon and his followers mounted up. They were a bright crowd, all sporting the latest court fashions, although ones that were far less extreme than those favoured by the squires. Dogs scampered everywhere, men arrived with hawks, and servants rushed about with equipment and refreshments.
Michael, Langelee and Bartholomew watched the noisy chaos with interest, although the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft retreated to the furthest corner of the chamber, where they continued to bicker among themselves. Then Ella returned, bringing goblets of wine on a tray.
‘Perhaps you will tell us who all these people are,’ suggested Langelee, aiming to find out which ones might be suitable to approach for a donation.
Ella was happy to oblige. ‘The tall, ginger-headed person is Philip Lichet, who the Lady keeps for intelligent conversation. I think he is a warlock, although he denies it, of course.’
Bartholomew could see why Nicholas had dubbed Lichet the Red Devil. The man wore his auburn hair long, tumbling well past his shoulders, although he did not take good care of it, so it was greasy and unattractive, like his beard. He wore a scarlet cloak, and his great height made him a striking figure, albeit one that was a trifle shabby.
‘And the dangerous-looking man who lounges by the stable?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he have half a nose, or do my eyes deceive me?’
He referred to a man clad completely in black, who seemed to belong to the shadows. Even from a distance, it was possible to see that his eyes were cold, hard and calculating.
‘That is Stephen Bonde,’ replied Ella. ‘And yes, he is missing part of his nose. He lost it to Grisel, whom it is never wise to annoy.’
‘Who is Grisel?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Someone who does not put up with nonsense, and who will have the rest of it if Bonde goes near him again. Bonde is the Lady’s chief henchman. He loves her more than his own mother, and will do anything for her.’
‘Including murder?’ asked Michael, recalling that Bonde was on Godeston’s list of killers, along with the squires and Lichet.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 8
