The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘And it will,’ said Vicar Weste, ‘although not with fan vaulting designed by Cambrug. The town cannot afford it, and the castle has agreed to stay out of parish affairs from now on. Of course, it was Anne who encouraged the Lady to meddle, and to build that unpopular south aisle.’

  ‘The south aisle that will provide the town with a temporary place of worship while the nave is out of action,’ said John. ‘It will serve a valuable function for many months to come – much better than having to use the churchyard.’

  ‘And peace reigns in our town again,’ finished Weste happily.

  ‘It will not last,’ predicted Michael. ‘You agreed not to excommunicate the squires in exchange for an abject apology, and they are suitably chastened. But their mortification will wear off, and they will soon turn bored and vicious again.’

  ‘Nuport will not,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘He died this morning, from wounds sustained in the stampede to escape Margery’s ghost.’

  ‘And the rest will not be here,’ said John. ‘Clare is too small for such an unruly horde, so Langelee has offered to take them to France.’

  ‘I have a hankering to see the place again,’ explained Langelee, ‘and they will fare better with me than with poor old Albon.’

  ‘They will,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But are you sure you want to go?’

  Langelee nodded. ‘I have my own penance to make, and the King’s army will be a lot more enjoyable than a pilgrimage. Peace will be declared in a few weeks, but His Majesty will still need men to help him keep the concessions he has won, so there will be plenty for me to do. Besides, academia has been fun, but I am ready for a new challenge.’

  ‘You will be missed,’ said Bartholomew sincerely, watching Weste and John leave, both sensing that this was a discussion they did not need to hear.

  ‘I know,’ said Langelee. ‘But it will not be for ever, and I shall come back to Michaelhouse eventually. Until then, you can put my stipend in the College coffers. It will help a little, along with these donations.’

  ‘Not to mention the Lady’s hundred marks,’ said Michael smugly, and upended a heavy purse on the table. Coins spilled from it and lay in a gleaming pile.

  ‘How in God’s name did you manage that?’ gasped Langelee, gazing at him in disbelief.

  Michael smiled haughtily. ‘By telling her who killed Margery.’

  ‘Did you tell her who killed Roos, too?’ asked Langelee uneasily. ‘Marishal will not blab – he promised to keep quiet on condition that I take Thomas and Ella to France when I go. But I thought you had agreed to keep my role in the affair quiet. For Michaelhouse’s sake.’

  ‘I gave her the truth,’ replied Michael. ‘Namely, that Roos stabbed Margery in a fit of pique, and was mortally wounded in the struggle that followed. The Lady was so relieved to put the matter behind her that she virtually threw the money at me.’

  Bartholomew was more concerned with the arrangement that Langelee had made with the steward. ‘You cannot take Ella to war. She is not a squire.’

  Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Neither twin will go to war. I will drop them off in Paris, along with the pregnant Isabel Morley and poor scarred Suzanne de Nekton. The four of them plan to settle there together.’

  ‘But Thomas is not free to go off and live in another country,’ said Michael. ‘The stewardship of Clare is hereditary – he will have to stay here and do his duty.’

  ‘Not if Marishal has other children,’ explained Langelee. ‘And he will take a new wife at the end of the year. Katrina de Haliwell offered to do the honors and he has accepted.’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘Well, she did say she wanted a secure future, and she does not care who provides it. Marishal will suit her perfectly – he will be busy with the Lady’s business most of the time, leaving her free to do as she pleases. She must be delighted with her good fortune.’

  ‘Poor Margery,’ sighed Michael. ‘Of all the victims in this sorry tale, she is the one who grieves me most. She was a good woman, and it is just that her killer was dispatched in his turn.’

  ‘I am glad you feel that way,’ said Langelee, ‘because it means you might say a few Masses for me. None for Anne, though. If we include all the people who died in the fight, she claimed twenty-three lives in the end, not to mention some serious injuries. She is doubtless perched on the Devil’s shoulder as we speak, furious that she did not kill ten times that number.’

  ‘And Nicholas will be next to her,’ added Michael. ‘I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that he was a rogue, and I was right. You two should have listened to me.’

  ‘We should,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Because he was a thief as well as an accomplice to murder. We found his cart in the woods today, loaded up with all the church’s silver.’

  Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Please tell us what Badew whispered before he died. Was it the secret he came here to share? The one he refused to divulge as long as the Lady is alive?’

  ‘I believe so,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But it was not a secret, it was an accusation – one final, vicious attempt to hurt her when she was not in a position to defend herself. He aimed to tarnish her memory, in the hope that Clare Hall would rename itself as Badew Hall. It was shabby and sly, but it might have worked.’

  ‘And this accusation entails what, exactly?’ asked Michael keenly.

  But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘It cannot be true, so what is the point of making it public? It is best that such a distasteful allegation dies with him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, determining to wheedle it out of him later. ‘Yet I cannot say I am looking forward to the journey home – not carrying all this money. Freburn will be delighted if he happens across us, but my ears will not.’

  ‘Freburn will not bother us,’ declared Langelee confidently, then made an impatient sound at the back of his throat when Michael started to ask what made him so sure. ‘Think, Brother. Who else chopped off someone’s ears recently?’

  ‘Nuport? You think he was masquerading as Freburn? I do not believe you!’

  ‘Well, you should, because he told me so himself. Bartholomew asked me to carry him to Grym’s house for medical treatment, and the rogue mistook me for Albon in my nice new cloak – he bleated a confession before I could stop him.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘This cannot be true. Roos would have recognised him when he was attacked after the last council meeting.’

  ‘Nuport was not a total fool – he wore a mask to hide his face. Apparently, the real Simon Freburn and his sons were hanged months ago, but Nuport started a rumour that they were alive and in this area, which allowed him to terrorise travellers as he pleased. He did it for the riches, and because inflicting pain gave him pleasure.’

  ‘Then some of his cronies helped him do it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because “Freburn” was always accompanied by his “sons”. And you are about to take them to France. What if they decide they like the look of your ears?’

  ‘Then they will lose their own,’ shrugged Langelee, unperturbed. ‘But they are different lads now they are away from Nuport’s malign influence, and I should like to give them a chance to make something decent of themselves. You will see what I mean on the way to Cambridge.’

  ‘They will escort us there?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  Langelee nodded. ‘To make sure you and the money arrive safely, and so that Suzanne can spend a few days with Matilde, learning how to disguise scars. Besides, I must tender my resignation as Master properly, or our colleagues will speculate.’

  And if they did, even their wildest imaginings would not come close to the truth, thought Bartholomew wryly. Then he groaned as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.

  ‘Oh, Lord! There will have to be an election.’

  ‘Will you stand, Brother?’ asked Langelee.

  ‘No, of course not,’ retorted Michael. ‘I shall tell the others that I am taking the post, and they will accept my offer with suitable gratitude. I sho
uld have done it years ago, because I am sure I can use my University connections to secure Michaelhouse a better future.’

  ‘The College will thrive with you in charge,’ predicted Langelee, gripping his shoulder in comradely affection. ‘And Matilde will make a good wife for Bartholomew. He is a lucky man.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I am,’ said Bartholomew. He realised he was looking forward to seeing Matilde again, and perhaps Langelee had a point about it being time for something different. But he still had one term left, and the longer he stayed in Clare, the more of it would be lost. He stood abruptly.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael, who still had a full cup of wine.

  ‘Cambridge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Where we belong.’

  Clare, seven months later (November 1360)

  The Lady was dying. She felt she had lived a godly life, and had no regrets. Except one.

  She had married three times for duty, and then she had fallen in love. Unfortunately, her beau already had a wife, and their unguarded passion had almost been her undoing. Fortunately, Anne had been on hand to prevent the loss of her good name and everything she had held dear.

  The Lady sighed when she thought about the old nurse. If only Anne had chosen somewhere other than Grisel’s room for Suzanne de Nekton to recover. Then the scandal would never have broken, the Austins would not have been so horrified, and Suzanne’s father would not have made such a fuss. Of course, once the tale was public, the Lady had had no choice but to condemn Anne, which had precipitated the whole bloody business – Anne’s horrible revenge, the murders, the loss of the church’s roof, and the deaths in the fighting.

  She pondered the day when Anne had come with her hook. Had Roos been hiding behind the tapestry, as he had always claimed? She shuddered. It did not bear thinking about – that horrid, salacious little man watching Anne work her magic. She wished she had known he was there, as she would have risen up and plunged a dagger into his black heart herself.

  Roos had been quick to come to her afterwards, telling her that he could be useful if she made it worth his while. And so she had. She had given him a place on her council, paid him handsomely for his continued silence, and pretended that she was interested in the reports he gave her about Badew and the University. But the truth was that every time she saw him, she itched to tear out his scheming, rapacious tongue.

  She had remarked to Bonde once that Roos’s presence was unwelcome, and the henchman had offered to relieve her of the problem permanently. She had accepted with relief, but Bonde had made a mistake and killed an innocent instead. Terrified that the truth would come out if the matter went to trial, she had spent a fortune on bribes for the judge – which had done nothing for her reputation as a just, God-fearing woman. And Roos had lived on, blithely oblivious of the danger he had been in.

  She stared into the darkness. Yet there had always been small inconsistencies in what Roos claimed to have seen, and she had suspected for years that he had lied about being in the chamber himself – that it had actually been someone else watching. But no other blackmailer had come to demand favours from her, so she could only assume that either Roos had killed him, or they had reached an agreement to share Roos’s ill-gotten gains.

  She sighed. Of course, she had done poor Margery a grave disservice by condemning her to Roos’s pawing hands all those years, but it could not be helped. Besides, she knew why Margery wore the cheap little ring that Roos had given her, and why the twins had Roos’s golden hair. Margery had only given herself to the man once, but she had been burdened with the consequences for the rest of her unhappy life. The ring had been her penance, a constant reminder of why Roos’s advances had to be tolerated – she dared not repel him too harshly, lest he then ran to her husband with the tale of her betrayal.

  The Lady glanced at the man who lay next to her, sleeping peacefully and blissfully unaware that her life was slipping away. Robert Marishal – the only man she had ever truly loved. He would marry Katrina the next day, and although he swore that nothing would change, the Lady knew it would. Katrina was not kind, unsuspecting Margery, and would notice her new husband slipping away with suspicious regularity. The Lady was not about to risk her good name now – not after all the trouble she had taken to keep it pure and free from scandal.

  Was it coincidence that she would die on the last night that she and Marishal would ever spend together? She closed her eyes and sighed. Probably not.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Richard de Badew founded University Hall in 1326, but he was not a wealthy man, and his College soon fell into financial difficulties. Within two years, its scholars approached the wealthy Elizabeth de Burgh, begging for help. She responded by giving them a church and the income it would generate. It seems she was willing to do more, but only if Badew relinquished all claim on the place. The Fellows were keen for this to happen, so charters were drawn up in 1338, but Badew delayed signing the necessary quit-claim until 28 March 1346, almost certainly for no reason other than pure bloody-mindedness. Once the quit-claim was executed, University Hall became known as Clare Hall (although it is now Clare College, and a new Clare Hall was founded in 1966). Two of its first Fellows were John Donwich and John Pulham.

  Most of what is known of Badew comes from mentions of him in various legal documents, which show that he was involved in several quarrels with younger colleagues – eight lawsuits simultaneously at one point, which must have eaten away at his personal finances and perhaps explain why he was unable to finance University Hall properly. He and Saer de Roos were sued by a woman named Joan de Marishal in 1316, while Henry Harweden, a crony of Badew’s and Chancellor of the University himself, was deposed amid accusations of assault and corruption.

  Elizabeth de Burgh liked to be called the Lady of Clare. She was widowed three times before she was thirty, then took a vow of chastity, which effectively prevented her from being married off to anyone else – and she was a good catch, given that she was a very wealthy lady. She owned several large estates, but her seat of power was the castle in Clare, the remains of which still stand in the lovely country park today.

  Some of her household accounts survive, and provide a fascinating glimpse into the practical side of running a large medieval household. She lived lavishly, and her ‘court’ was often graced with royal and noble visitors. Her steward was Robert Marishal (or Robert the Marshal), who married Margery and had two children, Thomas and Elizabeth. Marishal is mentioned in the Lady’s will, but Margery is not, suggesting that she had predeceased her mistress. It has been suggested that Marishal was related in some way to Badew. The accounts suggest that Marishal liked to go hawking, a pastime usually reserved for the nobility, indicating that he was rather more than just a retainer.

  Many of the characters in The Habit of Murder are based on names in the Lady’s will – Adam the baker, Richard the watchman, Sir William Albon, Katrina de Haliwell, Suzanne de Nekton, Isabel Morley, William Talmach, Peter de Ereswell, Philip de Jevan, Charer the coachman, Justin the forester and John the hermit (called Jan here to avoid too many Johns). Also mentioned is ‘Master’ Philip Lichet, who was probably a clerk or a secretary, and Anne de Lexham the anchorite. Anchorites were men and women who elected to withdraw from secular society, often taking up residence in small, permanently enclosed cells attached to churches. The practice was popular in the Middle Ages, and some of their anchorholds survive today, although there is no trace of Anne’s.

  John de Heselbech and Robert de Wisbech were castle chaplains in the 1360s. They were friars from Clare’s Austin Priory, and were ‘lent’ to the Lady in exchange for a generous donation to the convent’s coffers. The Prior at this time may have been a man named John, and there was a cofferer named John de Weste, although he was never an illustrator of books.

  Grisel, Blanchard and Morel were horses in the Lady’s stables, but household accounts show that she did own exotic birds as well – perhaps parakeets or parrots – and there are entries made for the purchas
e of almonds for them.

  Stephen Bonde was another member of the Lady’s retinue. He was accused of murder, but she seems to have secured his acquittal, even though it appears that he was guilty. Simon Freburn and his sons were also criminals, notorious as robbers and thieves.

  Another scandalous crime was committed in the 1380s by Sir Thomas Nuport, who with Thomas Marishal, John Mull and several others broke the sanctuary of the church and assaulted one John de Quintone. It seems that Quintone stole some of Nuport’s property, then fled to the church for sanctuary. Nuport and his friends dragged him out and cut off his ears. Afterwards, under threat of excommunication, the culprits were obliged to walk barefoot through the town and beg forgiveness.

  Records tell of other people who lived in Clare at this time. They include Nicholas de Lydgate, who was vicar of Sts Peter and Paul from 1350 until 1361. There was a bailiff named William Paycock, and other local worthies were Hugh de Godeston, Robert Skynere and John Grym, barber of Rutten Row.

  The innovative fan vaulting in the cloisters at Gloucester Abbey (now Gloucester Cathedral) is attributed to Thomas de Cambrug (or Thomas of Cambridge), who installed it between 1351 and 1364. When he had finished, he went to Hereford Cathedral, where he built the chapter house. He never worked in Clare, although the parish church was rebuilt in the fourteenth century. A mason named Roger is mentioned in the Lady’s will.

  And finally, Ralph de Langelee was Master of Michaelhouse until 1361, after which Michael de Causton appears in the records.