‘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.’<
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‘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, b
ut 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.’
CHAPTER 5
The castle was in turmoil. Servants scurried in every direction, although to no apparent purpose, while their masters stood in huddles and whispered in low, frightened voices. The atmosphere was thick with fear and confusion. Marishal should have taken charge, but he stood in shocked immobility, clutching Ella’s arm. It would have been a good opportunity for Thomas to prove his worth, given that the post of steward was hereditary, but he only lounged by the stables, watching events unfold with a peculiarly blank expression.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 12
