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 march-panes 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 La
ngelee, 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.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 10
