As the new work made the older parts look shabby, Nicholas had arranged for the whole building to be redecorated, and Clare’s wealth was such that the murals commissioned were the best that money could buy. He could not resist a grin of pride. Here he was, a one-time soldier in the King’s army, now in charge of a church as fine as any cathedral. How fortune had smiled on him since he had taken holy orders!
‘She does not like the fan vaulting,’ grumbled Roger. ‘She told me so herself.’
‘She’ was Clare’s anchoress, a woman who was walled up in a cell attached to the north wall. Her little room had two windows – the squint, which opened into the chancel and allowed her to receive Holy Communion; and a slit opposite that was used for passing in food and other essentials. Anne de Lexham had entered her ‘anchorhold’ two months before the renovations had started, so her life of religious contemplation had not been exactly peaceful.
‘She will change her mind once she sees it with the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘Besides, she has benefited hugely from Cambrug’s presence here – her poky wooden cell exchanged for a nice new stone one, all designed to her own specifications.’
‘The church will not be ready for the rededication in April,’ declared Roger, who had an annoying habit of never acknowledging that someone else might be right, and always conceded defeat by segueing to a different gripe. ‘The artists are behind schedule, and so are the glaziers.’
‘Only by a few days, and they will make up for lost time when they hear the news I had this morning – namely that the Queen herself plans to be here for the occasion. They will not want to disappoint her.’
‘It is you who will be disappointed,’ warned Roger, looking upwards with a disparaging eye. ‘Because it will take longer than a few weeks to finish this lot, you mark my words.’
Nicholas was glad when the mason went to moan at someone else. He continued to watch the artists swarm over the scaffolding high above, but jumped in alarm when there was a sickening thud, followed by a babble of horror. It came from the chancel, so he hurried there at once. A number of workmen had clustered around someone who lay unmoving on the floor. Nicholas elbowed through them to find out what had happened – there had been surprisingly few mishaps so far, and he had been worried for some time that their luck would eventually run out.
Roger was dead, his skull crushed. A piece of wood lay on the floor next to him, and blood seeped across the paving stones.
‘It is part of the scaffolding,’ said Nicholas, squinting up at the mass of planking, ropes and ladders overhead. ‘It must have come loose somehow.’
‘Our scaffolding does not “come loose”,’ objected one of the carpenters indignantly. ‘I assure you, that plank did not fall of its own accord.’
‘Of course it did,’ countered Nicholas, startled. ‘What else could have happened?’
The workman shrugged. ‘Someone could have picked it up and belted him with it.’
‘You mean one of you?’ asked Nicholas, looking at each one in turn. ‘Because you are tired of his sour tongue?’
‘No, of course not,’ gulped the carpenter. He managed a feeble grin. ‘Ignore me, vicar. You are right – it was an accident. Let us say no more about it, eh?’
CHAPTER 1
April 1360
The acrimony between the scholars began while they were still in Cambridge. The plan had been for all three foundations to leave at dawn, so that the journey to Clare – a distance of roughly twenty-five miles – could be completed in a day. This was particularly important to Michaelhouse, which was short of cash, so a night in an inn was a luxury its members were keen to avoid.
The first trouble came when the Michaelhouse men arrived at the town gate at the appointed hour, mounted and ready to ride out, but those from Clare Hall and Swinescroft Hostel did not.
‘Where are they?’ demanded Master Ralph de Langelee, looking around angrily as time ticked past and there was still no sign of them. ‘They promised not to be late.’
He was a bluff, stocky man, who had been henchman to an archbishop before deciding to try his hand at academia. He was no scholar, but he ran his College fairly and efficiently, while his military bearing and famed skill with weapons meant that tradesmen were disinclined to cheat him.
‘They did,’ agreed Brother Michael, who was not only a Benedictine theologian of some repute, but also the Senior Proctor – a post that had been lowly when he had first taken it, but that he had adjusted to the point where he now ran the entire University. He possessed a very princely figure – tall as well as fat – which he maintained by inveigling plenty of invitations to dine out.
‘I am not surprised, though,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Doctor of Medicine and the last of the three Michaelhouse men who were to travel that day. He had black hair, dark eyes and was considerably slimmer than his companions. ‘Clare Hall men always rise late, while Swinescroft … well, Roos is the youngest of them, and he is well past sixty.’
‘Swinescroft,’ said Michael with a smirk. ‘You know that is not its real name, do you not? It is officially St Thomas’s Hall, but so many vile characters enrol there that it has been Swinescroft ever since it opened its doors fourteen years ago.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I always thought it was because it stands on Swinescroft Row.’
Michael waved an airy hand. ‘I am sure that is what its members believe, but they would be wrong. Of course, with Richard de Badew as its Principal, how could it attract anything other than a lot of disagreeable ancients?’
‘Badew,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I first met him, he was a good man – generous, kind and dedicated. But when his Fellows changed the name of his foundation from University Hall to Clare Hall, he became bitter, angry and vengeful, virtually overnight.’
‘Who can blame him?’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It was a disagreeable business, and revealed them to be ungrateful, dishonourable and sly.’
‘It is a pity he let it turn him sour,’ said Michael, ‘because he makes for unpalatable company these days. And yet he is an angel compared to Saer de Roos, who is quite possibly the least likeable person I have ever met – and that includes all the killers and thieves we have confronted over the years.’
‘Gracious!’ murmured Langelee. ‘And he will be travelling to Clare with us today?’
Michael nodded. ‘Along with Badew himself and their friend Henry Harweden, who is another surly rogue. None are known for congenial conversation.’
‘They had better not be uncongenial with me,’ growled Langelee, patting his sword. ‘Because I will not put up with it. However, their characters – whether sullen or charming – will be irrelevant if they fail to turn up.’
‘Yes – where are they?’ Michael looked around crossly, aware that it was now fully light, and well past the time when they should have left. ‘Perhaps you are right, Matt: they are too old for such an excursion, so they decided to stay in bed. They are not like us – men in our prime.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about the last part. There were several grey hairs among his black ones, while Michael had to use a special glass for reading, and Langelee had recently been forced to retire from his favourite sport – camp-ball – because he could no longer run fast enough to avoid being pummelled by the opposition.
‘We cannot afford to dally,’ determined Langelee. ‘If they do not come soon, we shall have to leave without them. We will be safer in a large group, I know, but a lot is at stake here – Michaelhouse’s coffers are empty, and unless we get our bequest from the Lady of Clare in the next few days, we shall have to declare ourselves bankrupt and close down.’
‘I will not allow that to happen,’ vowed Michael. ‘Not after all we have been through over the past decade to keep the place going.’
‘Then let us hope the Lady has been generous,’ said Langelee, ‘because we will not last another month without a substantial donation. Thank God she died when she did!’
Bartholome
w winced, still uncomfortable with the true purpose of their mission – not to attend the Lady’s funeral, as Michael and Langelee told anyone who asked, but to collect what they hoped she had left them in her will.
‘Are you sure we will be among her beneficiaries?’ he asked uneasily. ‘I had no idea she had promised us anything until you mentioned it last night. Did she tell you privately?’
‘Not in so many words,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But she liked us, and I often had the impression that she wished she had taken Michaelhouse under her wing, rather than Clare Hall. She loved being generous to scholars, so I am sure she will have remembered us.’
‘Which is why we must reach Clare in time to pay our respects to her body,’ said Michael. ‘It will look grubby if we just appear for the reading of the will – as if we only want her money.’
‘But we do only want her money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As does Clare Hall. I fail to understand why Swinescroft wants to come, though – they and the Lady hated each other.’
‘Probably to dance on her grave,’ shrugged Michael. ‘I told you: they are despicable characters, and gloating over the death of an enemy is exactly the sort of thing they will enjoy.’
For the next hour or so, they watched the little Fen-edge settlement come to life. Scholars and priests hurried to their daily devotions, while townsfolk emerged yawning and scratching for a day of honest – or dishonest – toil. Carts of all shapes and sizes poured through the gates from the surrounding villages, bringing wares to sell at the market – vegetables, sacks of peas and beans, woven baskets, pottery, wooden cages filled with agitated birds. It was hectic, noisy, and over it all came the sound of bells from at least twenty churches and chapels, ranging from the bass boom of St Mary the Great to the tinny clang of nearby St Botolph’s.
‘Here they are,’ said Langelee eventually, as two horsemen rode towards them with insulting insouciance. ‘Or Clare Hall, at least. Damn! They have sent Donwich and Pulham as their emissaries. I cannot abide that pair. I am the Master of a respectable College, but they still make me feel like a grubby serf.’
It was true that Donwich and Pulham considered themselves to be very superior individuals. Both were in their late thirties, and were smug, conceited and pompous, with reputations built on their contribution to University politics rather than their intellectual achievements. They hailed from noble families, and their travelling clothes were cut from the very finest cloth.
‘We overslept,’ explained Pulham breezily, careless or oblivious of the inconvenience this had caused. ‘But we are here now. Shall we go?’
‘We cannot,’ replied Langelee sourly, ‘because we are still missing Badew, Roos and Harweden. Stay here and do not move. I will find out what is keeping them.’
‘Do not bother,’ drawled Donwich. ‘They will have hired nags from some inn, which will never match ours for speed. We shall make better time without them.’
He smirked, because he and Pulham rode young stallions with glossy coats and bright eyes, whereas Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew had elderly ponies with shaggy manes and lazy natures. To emphasise the point, he performed a series of fancy manoeuvres designed to show off his mount’s pedigree. Michael and Langelee watched with grudging admiration, but Bartholomew, who was not remotely interested in horsemanship, wished Donwich would stop fooling around, because their departure would be delayed even further if he was thrown.
‘So why wait for Swinescroft?’ Donwich went on, to prove he could talk and control his horse at the same time. ‘We should leave now.’
‘There is safety in numbers, and the Clare road has been plagued by robbers of late,’ explained Langelee. ‘Simon Freburn and his sons, who have a penchant for cutting off their victims’ ears.’
‘If we are attacked, we shall just gallop away,’ declared Pulham smugly. ‘No thief will ever catch us or our ears. I only hope that you will be able to follow.’
‘Galloping away is exactly what they want you to do,’ retorted Langelee disdainfully. ‘You will ride directly into an ambush, where two men will be much easier to manage than eight. If you want to reach Clare in one piece, I strongly suggest you remain in the pack.’
The Clare Hall men blanched, as well they might, because it was clear from their clothes that they were worth robbing, and neither carried a weapon. By contrast, Michael had a stout staff, Bartholomew had a selection of surgical blades, while Langelee toted a sword, a crossbow, several very sharp daggers and a cudgel. Donwich gave a short, uneasy laugh.
‘My colleague jests,’ he blustered. ‘Of course we will not abandon you, and you can count on us to be at your side in the event of trouble.’
‘Behind us, more like,’ muttered Langelee venomously. ‘Cowering.’
It was some time later that the door to a nearby tavern opened, and the three scholars from Swinescroft emerged, brushing crumbs from their tabards as they did so. The scent of smoked pork and fried eggs wafted out after them. They strolled unhurriedly to the adjoining yard, where they heaved themselves on to three nags that looked older than their riders.
‘Do not rush,’ called Donwich acidly. ‘We are quite happy to sit here, twiddling our thumbs.’
‘We have no intention of rushing,’ shot back grey-haired Badew, the oldest of the trio. There was ice in his voice. ‘Not on your account.’
He had once been a formidable figure in the University – a chancellor, no less – but that had been before his treacherous Fellows had inflicted the wound from which he had never recovered, and that had turned him sour and twisted with hate. His favourite pastime now was suing other scholars, so that barely a month went by when he was not engaged in one lawsuit or another, ranging from disputes over books and money to accusations of theft, assault and damages.
‘Have you been waiting?’ asked Saer de Roos, the youngest, sweetly. ‘Oh, we do apologise.’
He was still a handsome man, with blue eyes and fair hair, who continued to win admiring glances from women – although the attraction tended to wane once he engaged them in conversation and they discovered that he was sly, lecherous and cruel. That day, he had donned a peculiar brown woollen hat with flaps that came down over his ears. Donwich regarded it askance.
‘I hope you do not intend to wear that to the funeral,’ he remarked. ‘It would be an insult to the Lady.’
Roos smirked. ‘Would it? Good! However, I was not thinking of her when I put it on this morning. I did it because I have earache.’
‘Would you like a tincture?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘I have one in my bag.’
‘I do not want your rubbish, thank you very much,’ retorted Roos unpleasantly. ‘I would sooner endure the pain than be treated by a man who deals with filthy paupers.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘But let me know if it becomes worse. Earache is caused by flesh-eating worms, and you do not want those boring into your brain.’
He was ashamed of the lie when he saw the glance of horror exchanged between Badew and Harweden, although Roos was unconcerned, and merely gave Bartholomew a look of such disdain that the physician felt himself bristle.
‘I trust you had a good breakfast, Doctor,’ he said tauntingly, ‘because only fools embark on long and dangerous journeys on empty stomachs. Does Michaelhouse run to providing real food these days, or are you still subsisting on sawdust and grit?’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to defend his College, but Langelee, ever a man of action, was unwilling to waste time trading insults with colleagues. He nodded to Michael and the two of them began to trot forward. Unfortunately, Donwich thought it was Clare Hall’s prerogative to be first, and tried to overtake, which resulted in his horse stumbling in a pothole, after which it began to limp. Dismayed, Donwich dismounted to fret over the damage. Michael and Langelee watched in contempt, disgusted that Donwich’s self-serving antics should have resulted in harm to such a fine animal.
‘He will have to rest that for at least a week,’ said Michael,
regarding the afflicted leg with the eye of a man who knew. ‘You will have to hire one instead.’
Another delay followed, as Donwich declared himself to have high standards where horseflesh was concerned and rejected a dozen animals before accepting one that he considered to be of sufficient quality. By the time he was satisfied, the three Swinescroft men had repaired to the tavern for more food, obliging everyone to wait until they had finished a second time.
Then, just as the party was about to ride through the gate, a panting student arrived from Clare Hall to report that water was dripping through the library ceiling. Horrified, Donwich and Pulham raced home, and refused to go anywhere until they were sure their precious collection was safe. It was noon by the time the travellers assembled again.
‘You go first, Donwich,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘We cannot have you ruining a second horse by attempting to shove past me. We are late enough as it is.’
‘We will make up the lost time,’ shrugged Donwich carelessly. ‘Once we are on the open road, the miles will just melt away. You wait and see.’
‘They will not,’ growled Langelee to his Fellows. ‘Not with our poor nags and the three old men from Swinescroft. We shall be lucky to arrive by midnight.’
As it happened, they did not reach Clare at all that day, because they were plagued by a series of mishaps, all of which resulted in spats that held them up even further. First, Donwich’s new horse threw a shoe, which Michael and Langelee claimed was down to poor handling. Donwich naturally took exception to their remarks, and a furious quarrel ensued.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 2