‘You see?’ asked Marishal, smiling. ‘You could leave here wealthy men.’
But the moment he and Ereswell had gone, Langelee’s bullishness faded. ‘I wish we had never come,’ he said gloomily. ‘The venture has been a disaster from the start. The Lady dead indeed! She is fitter than the rest of us put together.’
‘She is not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Her health is fragile, and she feels old and tired. But look over by the gate. Is that the messenger who delivered the letter about her so-called demise?’
‘It is,’ said Michael, eyes narrowing. ‘And he has some explaining to do.’
The messenger was named Justin, a pimply youth with an eager smile and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. He raised his hands defensively when he saw the Michaelhouse men bearing down on him, and began to gabble an explanation.
‘It is not my fault! I knew nothing of what was in that letter until it was opened and read in Cambridge. I am as stunned as you are to learn it was a lie. Please do not tell anyone it was me who took you the news. Marishal will never use me again, and I love riding.’
Langelee nodded to the stained dressing. ‘But are you any good at it? Or did you fall off your horse, and that explains why we seem to have reached Clare before you, even though we dallied for a day before setting out?’
Justin was indignant. ‘Of course I did not fall off! I was almost home when Freburn appeared out of nowhere and tried to lay hold of me. I was able to escape, but it meant a lengthy detour. I only arrived back an hour ago – to learn that someone has used me to play tricks on you.’ He raised one hand to his head and winced. ‘The Red Devil insisted on binding me up, but now it hurts.’
Bartholomew was not surprised that Justin was in pain when he saw how tightly the filthy, stinking bandage had been tied. He unwrapped it to discover a bruise but no broken skin, which meant the blood belonged to someone else – Lichet had reused the material without washing it first. It was shoddy practice, and one Bartholomew deplored.
‘Who gave you the letter?’ asked Michael. ‘Someone who does not like you, and wants to see you fall prey to Freburn? Or in trouble with Marishal?’
‘Everyone likes me,’ declared Justin confidently. ‘And the letter was just waiting for me on Sunday morning – four days ago now – with a note saying that I was to take it to Water Lane in Cambridge with all possible haste. I rode like the wind, but when I got there, I was not sure which house to knock at …’
‘Whose name was on this missive?’ asked Langelee.
‘No one’s.’ Justin looked sheepish. ‘Unfortunately, it and the accompanying note had been left in a place that my horse can reach, and he loves the taste of parchment. We were lucky that there was anything left for me to deliver at all.’
‘Not really,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would have been better for everyone concerned if he had scoffed the lot with no one any the wiser.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Justin ruefully, and resumed his tale. ‘Anyway, as I was not sure where in Water Lane to go, I waylaid that bad-tempered scholar – Roos. He said it was for him, so I handed it over.’ He shrugged defensively. ‘I had no reason to think he was lying.’
‘Chancellor Tynkell used to live on Water Lane,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps whoever sent the letter does not know that he is dead and his successor now resides in Michaelhouse. Still, these details do not matter, because the prank worked – the lie about the Lady has spread all over Cambridge.’
‘Even so, I am astonished that Roos had the audacity to open it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have been obvious that the intended recipient was the current Chancellor.’
‘Of course it was obvious,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But how could he resist? A message from the lair of an ancient enemy to the University’s highest-ranking scholar? Of course he would seize the opportunity to pry.’
‘He never hesitated for a moment,’ put in Justin. ‘He just broke the seal and read what was written. Then he laughed.’
‘I bet he did,’ muttered Langelee.
Michael became businesslike. ‘There is a way you can make amends for this debacle, Justin. You can ride straight back to Cambridge and inform Chancellor Suttone that we have been the victims of a cruel hoax. Then you can take the news to Clare Hall, who will pay you for your trouble. Go now – unless you want to confess what you did to Marishal.’
Justin hurried to do as he was told, and was galloping through the gate in record time.
‘Roos has no right to open messages intended for the Chancellor – any Chancellor,’ said Langelee indignantly, when the lad had gone. ‘What a rogue!’
‘I quite agree,’ said Michael crossly. ‘And I shall fine him when we get home. But first, he will hand it over so that we can identify the jester who sent it. We shall confront him as soon as we are settled into our new lodgings.’
‘What new lodgings?’ asked Langelee sourly. ‘We do not have any.’
‘We shall stay in the Austin Priory for the rest of our visit,’ determined Michael. ‘It is one of the wealthiest foundations in the county and can afford to keep us for a few days.’
‘But the hermit advised us against it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, they will also be preparing for the royal invasion, and I cannot see them inconveniencing themselves for you – a man from a rival Order.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael serenely.
The Austins had chosen an idyllic spot for their community. It was just south-west of the castle, on what was effectively an island with two arms of the River Stour sweeping around it. It boasted a range of impressive new buildings, along with gardens, fishponds and an orchard, although it was its church that most caught the eye. This was a lovely creation of soft grey stone, with tiers of large windows to let in the light.
The priory was centred around its cloisters, which allowed the friars to move between church, dormitory and refectory without being subject to the vagaries of the weather. Stone seats were provided for restful repose during summer, while a tinkling fountain offered not only clean water for washing, but an attractive centrepiece. Its founders were aware that relations between it and the town would not always be peaceful, so there was only one way to reach it: over a small bridge that had its own gatehouse. One of the brothers stood sentry there, ready to repel unwanted visitors.
‘A Benedictine,’ he said, eyeing Michael’s black habit. ‘We do not allow those in here.’
He looked like another old soldier – he carried himself ramrod straight, there was a large knife in his belt, and he wore his habit like a uniform. It was not uncommon for military men to become nervous about the amount of killing they had done in their lives, and large numbers did elect to make amends by taking holy orders in their autumn years, but it seemed to Bartholomew that Clare possessed an unusually high percentage of them.
‘We have important business with your Prior,’ declared Michael, all haughty dignity. ‘He will want to see us, I assure you, so step aside at once.’
At that moment, a bell chimed to announce a meal in the refectory, and friars began to emerge from the surrounding buildings. When they saw their sentry preparing to repel invaders, several came to see if he needed help. Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that all carried daggers, while a few stopped en route to grab pikes and cudgels from what were evidently caches of arms.
‘Is this a convent or a refuge for retired warriors?’ he asked the guard.
‘Or both,’ muttered Langelee. ‘I wager every one has been in France or the Holy Land.’
‘You have a keen eye,’ said the guard approvingly. ‘Prior John was once a captain in the King’s army, and most of his former comrades have asked to serve under him here. Hah! He is coming towards us now – to ask why a Benedictine is trying to infiltrate our sacred confines.’
‘I was a soldier once, too,’ said Langelee, rather more wistfully than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to scholarship. ‘In York and its environs.’
‘So was
Prior John,’ said the guard, pleased. ‘Perhaps you will know each other.’
Prior John was a stocky man with a savage scar on one side of his shaven head. He walked with brisk precision, and carried his Bible in a way that made it look like a weapon. His friars were cast in the same mould, and sported an impressive array of battle wounds. Among them was Cofferer Weste, who was snapping his black eyepatch into place over an empty socket.
‘Do not worry about these three fellows,’ Weste informed the guard amiably. ‘They are just some of the scholars from Cambridge. I told you about them last night.’
‘Do they include the one who has your Book of Hours?’ asked the guard. ‘If so, we should buy it back. It is a lovely piece – far too good for academics, who always have inky fingers.’
He tried to see if that was true of the ones whose way he still barred. Bartholomew, by far the cleanest member of Michaelhouse, presented his own for inspection. The guard nodded approval at what he saw, although Michael and Langelee wisely kept theirs tucked inside their sleeves.
‘My word!’ breathed Prior John as he approached. ‘If it is not Ralph de Langelee! What are you doing here, old friend? I thought we had seen the last of each other when I left York.’
Langelee blinked. ‘John? I did not recognise you! Where are all your fine yellow locks? And what happened to that handsome beard you were so proud of?’
‘The years stole my hair,’ replied John ruefully, then rubbed his bare chin. ‘And the whiskers had to go when I took holy orders – my Prior General said they made me look like a pirate.’
‘You took holy orders?’ blurted Langelee. ‘God’s blood! That must have annoyed the Devil – yours was a soul he must have felt was his for certain. When did this happen?’
‘A decade ago, although I have only been Prior here for the last twelve months. Coming to Clare was a good decision, because it is a lovely place. Would you like to join us? There is always room for another old warrior, and it is never too soon to consider one’s immortal soul. You have more atoning to do than most, so I would not leave it too long if I were you. I say this as a friend.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. They had always known that Langelee had done some disreputable things before he had decided to pursue a career in academia, but it was never comfortable to be reminded of it.
‘It is a tempting offer,’ lied Langelee, ‘but I am Master of Michaelhouse now, which is a very prestigious post. At the University in Cambridge.’
‘Really?’ blurted John. ‘How in God’s name did you convince them to take you?’
‘Easy – I impressed them with my intellect,’ explained Langelee. ‘I am a philosopher.’
Neither claim was true. None of Langelee’s colleagues would ever consider him a thinker, and while he did run a basic course in his chosen subject, all he did was read aloud the set texts that his students were obliged to hear.
‘Are you? Goodness! Who would have thought it? Ralph de Langelee, a famous academic!’
‘And you a priest,’ said Langelee, clapping him on the back with genuine affection. ‘When we were lads, you always dismissed friars as a lot of—’
‘That was a long time ago,’ interrupted John quickly, while his brethren exchanged amused glances behind his back. ‘When death felt like something that happened to other people. Now Judgement Day looms, and I find myself wanting to make amends. You are younger, but it will come sooner than you think. I urge you again – do not leave it too late.’
‘I will not,’ promised Langelee, but with the kind of airy insouciance that suggested he set scant store by such concerns. ‘You must have impressed someone important, John, because such appointments are not handed out to just anybody. Brother Michael here has been angling for an abbacy or a bishopric for years, and he is very talented.’
‘No one else wanted it,’ explained John, who apparently knew Langelee well enough not to be offended by the insult implicit in the remark. ‘There is trouble brewing, you see. The last Prior saw it coming and resigned as soon as he could put pen to parchment. I was the only one willing to take his place.’
‘What trouble?’ asked Langelee warily.
‘Unrest – which started when the town began to rebuild its church, and the castle insisted on interfering. My remit is to keep the peace, while simultaneously ensuring that we Austins are not drawn into the spat.’
‘Is that why you are armed to the teeth?’ asked Langelee, gesturing to the listening flock.
John grinned impishly. ‘You will know when we are “armed to the teeth”, believe me. What you see is us relaxing. Taking up arms is not something we expected to do again, but our Prior General gave us permission to defend ourselves as we execute our duties. We are obedient men, ready to obey his commands to the letter.’
Langelee beamed back. ‘You and I have much to talk about, old comrade, so we shall stay with you for the next week. I am sure you can find us a corner somewhere.’
‘If it were anyone else, I would refuse, given that we shall be overrun with royal retainers in a few days. But seeing as it is you …’
A short while later, Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the Prior’s House, each holding a cup of unusually fine claret. They were being entertained by John and three other Austins. One was Weste, whose post as cofferer meant he was entitled to be there; one was Nicholas, who had come to borrow a Psalter but had decided to linger when he saw a party in the making; and the last was John de Heselbech, the castle’s current chaplain, appointed after Wisbech’s death. All four were much of an ilk – brawny men with missing teeth, although each had one feature that made him distinctive: John was bald, Nicholas was huge, Weste had his eyepatch and Heselbech’s teeth had been filed into points, which made him seem an odd choice to serve a high-ranking noblewoman.
‘The Lady does not find your sharpened fangs alarming?’ asked Langelee, more inclined to speak his mind than Bartholomew and Michael, although both were thinking the same thing.
Heselbech grinned, revealing his imposing incisors in all their glory. ‘If she does, she is too polite to mention it.’
‘I was worried about appointing a second friar to the castle after what happened to Wisbech,’ confided John. ‘But the town has Nicholas, and I did not want to be accused of favouritism …’
‘And I am much better at looking after myself than poor old Wisbech was,’ put in Heselbech. ‘You will not catch me swallowing hemlock.’
‘Good,’ said John fervently. ‘You should be especially wary of anything that comes from the squires. They have grown wild of late – terrorising servants, bullying townsfolk and generally acting like despots. Thank God Albon will soon take them to France.’
‘If you think they poisoned a priest, you should inform the Bishop,’ declared Michael. ‘We cannot let that sort of thing pass unremarked. It sets a bad precedent.’
‘And how would we prove such an accusation?’ asked John quietly. ‘There were no witnesses, and no clues left to lead us to the perpetrators.’
‘How do you know there were no clues?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did you investigate Wisbech’s death yourselves? Or did you rely on Grym? I understand he is Clare’s official investigator.’
John winced. ‘Poor Grym! He knows nothing of such matters, but dares not refuse Godeston – not if he wants to be Mayor when the old man retires. But of course I did not entrust such an important matter to a barber. Obviously, I examined the scene of the crime myself.’
‘You are qualified to do such a thing?’
‘More qualified than Grym. But there was nothing to find. Wisbech was in the chapel, lying on his side. To be frank, I thought he had suffered an apoplexy brought on by strain – night offices can be hard on older folk – until Grym mooted the possibility of hemlock in his supper. I saw no evidence of it, but I am willing to accept his professional opinion on that at least.’
‘And we did inform the Bishop,’ put in Heselbech. ‘But letters take a long time to reach Avignon,
which is where he has lived ever since falling out with the King. We discussed it with the Lady, too, but she merely informed us that her squires would never stoop to poison.’
‘Having met them, I am inclined to agree,’ said Langelee. ‘They strike me as lads who would opt for a sword or a dagger. Hemlock is too subtle a mode of killing for them.’
‘Nuport is a dimwit, but do not tar the others with the same brush,’ warned John. ‘Thomas is very clever – and sly. But their days with us are numbered, thank the good Lord, and if they survive their experiences in France, they may return as better men.’
‘Oh, they will survive,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Michael says peace is about to break out.’
‘Even with a truce, there will still be skirmishes,’ said John with certainty. ‘His Majesty will not disband his army just yet. Of course, Albon will be of scant use over there. He may be an excellent jouster, but he has never seen real warfare, and I would not trust him with my back.’
‘True,’ agreed Langelee. ‘You can tell just by looking that he is all fuss and feathers.’
‘So have you two known each other long?’ asked Nicholas, taking a huge gulp of wine and settling down in the way old soldiers do when a good tale is in the offing.
‘Years,’ replied John. ‘Not only were we warriors together as boys and men, but we both helped the Archbishop of York with some of his more delicate problems. Of course, it was those that compelled me to take the cowl, so I cannot look back on them with pleasure.’
‘I can,’ countered Langelee with a grin. ‘They were the best days of my life, and I was much happier doing his work than battling debt at Michaelhouse. Being Master is fraught with petty worries, and I have considered resigning more than once of late.’
Bartholomew was sorry to hear it. Langelee might be lacking in academic skills, but he was a good Master – conscientious, fair and able to keep the peace among a large, disparate and argumentative body of men.
‘You will always have a place here,’ said John quietly. ‘We have sworn oaths to help each other make our peace with God, and we will happily include you.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 11