He and Michael ate a hasty breakfast, both anxious about the fact that Langelee and Weste were still missing. Michael eyed the Master’s empty bed anxiously.
‘I hope no harm has come to him. I imagine Talmach and Albon thought they could look after themselves, but look at what happened to them.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘He is an experienced soldier, but that is no defence against slyly slashed saddle straps and devious ambushes. Let us hope that he and Weste just lost track of time, so were forced to camp. Regardless, I think we should go and look for them.’
‘I do, too.’ Michael stood purposefully. ‘So pack our belongings: we leave as soon as we have tracked them down. I shall be sorry to miss tonight’s ceremony, not to mention the last chance to win a few more benefactors, but Langelee is right – none of this is worth our lives.’
‘And the killer? Or have you given up on solving the case?’
‘I fear we must, much as it pains me to say it. There is no time to work on that and ride out to look for the Master.’
They shoved their belongings into saddlebags, then hurried to the stables to ready their nags. Prior John saw what they were doing, and came to voice his own concerns about the missing men.
‘It would be better if we went to look,’ he said, nodding at Heselbech to make the necessary arrangements. ‘We will bring them back – and hunt for Bonde and the hermit at the same time.’
‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Michael shortly. ‘We are—’
‘We know the area, you do not,’ interrupted John. ‘I shall lead the search myself, while Heselbech minds the priory. We will find Langelee, I promise. And if he and Weste are in trouble, then we are far better equipped to deal with it than you two. No offence intended.’
‘Stay here and hunt killers instead,’ suggested Heselbech slyly. ‘I am sure you would like one last chance to win the hundred marks.’
‘It is kind of you to offer,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘But we would rather go ourselves.’
‘Please,’ said John, reaching out to pull the reins from the physician’s hands. ‘I know you were at the Battle of Poitiers, and that you are a highly accomplished warrior, but hacking down an enemy in hand-to-hand combat is not the same as following their scent through unknown territory. Let us do it. It will be safer for all concerned.’
There was a brief tussle over the bridle, but Bartholomew yielded in the end, knowing that John spoke the truth: the friars were better equipped to mount the kind of hunt it would take to find two men who might be anywhere. However, that did not mean he was happy about abrogating the responsibility to comparative strangers, and it was with a sense of deep unease that he watched John begin to choose the horses he wanted to take.
‘Why did you not tell us that Margery planned to leave you a manor in her will?’ asked Michael, whose expression was equally troubled. ‘It would have been helpful to know.’
‘Because she died before she could make her wishes legal,’ explained John, his eyes and most of his attention on the stables and their equine counterparts. ‘So now it will never happen – it is irrelevant.’
‘It is not irrelevant,’ countered Michael. ‘For two reasons. First, it means that you are unlikely to have killed her, on the grounds that you would have waited until the affidavit had been signed—’
‘I hope you did not have any of us on your list of suspects,’ said John indignantly, horses forgotten as he glared at the monk. ‘We might have gone to war in the past, but we are in holy orders now, and we take our vows seriously. If I had any inkling that you thought otherwise, I would not have extended our hospitality to you these last few days.’
‘And second,’ Michael went on, unfazed, ‘it may be a motive for Margery’s murder – that someone did not want the manor to come to you, so killed her to prevent her wishes from being implemented. Thomas and Ella, for example, who may want the property for themselves.’
‘But they did not know what she intended,’ argued John. ‘No one did, other than her and us. Indeed, I cannot imagine how you found out. She did not even confide in her husband, lest he tried to persuade her to leave it to the twins instead.’
‘He would not have done that,’ averred Michael. ‘He does not like them very much.’
‘No one does, but they are his flesh and blood.’ John’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. ‘Or does he fear they are cuckoos in the nest? Lord! I hope he does not remember that I had a mop of golden curls as a youth – much like Thomas’s, in fact. I never went anywhere near Margery, but …’
‘No,’ said Michael flatly. ‘He does not think the twins are your doing.’
‘Thank God for that! It would have been difficult to disprove after all these years.’
John turned back to his duties without further ado. Once the horses were saddled, he picked the roughest and meanest-looking friars to ride out with him, while the remainder were instructed to prevent trouble in the town or guard the priory against attack.
‘We have done our utmost to remain aloof from this feud,’ he told them soberly, ‘but mobs are fickle, and one side may decide to assault us instead. You must all be on your guard.’
And then he and his ruffians were gone in a businesslike rattle of hoofs on cobbles. All were armed with knives and cudgels, and as their functional oiled cloaks covered their religious habits, they looked more like a military fighting unit than a group of clerics.
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing the physician was still far from happy about leaving Langelee’s safety in their hands. ‘They are better at this than us, and I know they will do their best for him. Besides, I cannot say I am averse to having one final crack at catching the killer.’
‘I suppose we can corner Lichet, Thomas and Ella again,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Bonde is unavailable, so they are the only suspects left.’
‘To the castle, then,’ said Michael.
They had grown so used to the town’s rancorous atmosphere that they barely noticed it as they hurried towards the fortress. They heard snippets of conversation as they went, chief of which was outrage that it was to be Heselbech, not Nicholas, who would preside over the rededication ceremony that evening. There was also anger that the church was to remain closed until then, even though the last of the scaffolding had now been taken down. Bartholomew stopped to exchange brief greetings with Grym, but then wished he had not when he saw Paycock was with him.
‘The castle has no right to prevent us from seeing the fan vaulting we paid for,’ Paycock snarled. ‘All they bought was a south aisle that no one wants.’
‘But closing the church was Nicholas’s idea,’ Grym pointed out reasonably. ‘The castle had nothing to do with it.’
‘Oh, yes it does,’ argued Paycock. ‘Anne told me that Nicholas made that decision purely because he is so hurt about being barred from his own ceremony. And his disappointment is understandable. He has been planning the affair for months, and all of a sudden, the castle chaplain is named priest in charge.’
‘Cambrug should arrive this morning,’ said Grym in a transparent effort to change the subject to something less contentious. ‘He will be delighted by all we have achieved since he left – his lovely fan vaulting covered in beautiful geometrical artwork. He will jump for joy.’
‘Then he will have to do it in the graveyard,’ muttered Paycock venomously. ‘Because he will not be allowed inside the church either.’
Bartholomew left Grym trying to placate him, and hurried to catch up with Michael. They reached the castle, and found it on full alert once again, although the monk was spared from crawling under the portcullis a second time, as their arrival coincided with a delivery of fish, so they were able to walk in behind the cart.
‘What time do you expect the Queen, Richard?’ asked Bartholomew as they passed through the gate. The watchman wore his Sunday best, and had shaved for the occasion.
‘Probably this afternoon,’ replied Richard, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘She
will want to be here well before the ceremony, so she can change into finery that reflects the importance of the occasion. Her coronation robes, perhaps. They would be suitable.’
‘What if she is late?’
‘Heselbech will wait until she is ready.’
‘That will not please the town,’ warned Michael. ‘Indeed, it is asking for trouble.’
Richard smiled. ‘They will not mind delaying for her. She is the Queen.’
‘Yes, but she will stay in the castle,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Not in the town. Ergo, you may find they are less accommodating than you expect.’
Richard frowned his concern, and they left him pondering the matter, for which Bartholomew was grateful. Complacency was the last thing they needed while Clare was in such turmoil.
The first person they met inside was Quintone, who had also dressed with care. He held himself with lofty dignity, clearly intending to make the most of the fact that he had been unjustly accused. He obeyed orders slowly, and brayed about claiming compensation for the suffering he had endured. A few servants nodded support, but most were unsettled by his defiance and contrived to keep their distance. Nuport watched him with a dark and brooding expression.
‘You court danger with this rash display of mutiny, Quintone,’ cautioned Michael. ‘It would be wiser to chalk it down to experience and forget about it.’
‘I was innocent and the Lady freed me,’ declared Quintone haughtily, then sneered in Nuport’s direction. ‘So he can sod off. He cannot touch me now, and nor can that stupid Lichet.’
‘Are you willing to bet your life on it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because that is effectively what you are doing with your imprudent swaggering.’
Quintone spat his disdain for the advice. ‘They dare not come anywhere near me! They will have to stay in Clare now that Albon cannot take them to France, but they will bully me no longer. I shall stand up to them, just like Master Marishal did yesterday. And I will win.’
Bartholomew was far from sure he would. ‘It is not—’
‘And while we are talking, let me take this opportunity to inform you that Bonde is the killer,’ announced Quintone with great confidence. ‘I was too frightened to mention it before, but my brush with death has made me a stronger, bolder man. Bonde is a lout, and I know it was him who killed Mistress Marishal and the scholar.’
‘You do?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How? What is your evidence?’
‘I do not have any – not as such. But talk to Katrina de Haliwell if you do not believe me. She will tell you what kind of man Bonde is, because she knows him better than any of us. She was all for taking him as a husband at one point, but then she changed her mind. Ask her why.’
‘You do it, Matt,’ ordered Michael, once the servant had strutted away. ‘I shall see what Ella and Thomas have to say, although I doubt either of us will learn much of value. Meet me here as soon as you have finished. And hurry – we do not have a moment to lose.’
Bartholomew was not averse to seeing Katrina again, although he was aware that time was of the essence. He hurried to the Oxford Tower, and began to climb the steps, taking them two at a time. He arrived to find Grisel contentedly chewing the head off a wooden soldier, while Blanche and Morel ripped a doll to shreds between them.
‘God save the Queen,’ muttered Grisel. ‘Hold the bring van down.’
‘I decided to do what you suggested and keep them amused,’ said Katrina, smiling delightedly. ‘It worked! There has not been a fight all morning. The Lady will have to give you the five marks she promised now, because you have cured them.’
‘Unfortunately, she is also concerned about the amount of expensive food they eat,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘And I have done nothing to reduce that. I imagine they will consume just as much wine, fruit, cakes and meat as they have always done.’
Amusement sparkled in Katrina’s eyes. ‘Perhaps they will. My charges have always had healthy appetites, and I would not see them go hungry.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to waste valuable time discussing what she did with the supplies she claimed from the kitchens, so he turned the subject to Bonde instead. ‘You said he was your chief suspect for the murders at one point, but you never did explain why. Will you tell me now?’
Katrina’s face darkened. ‘I would rather not.’
Bartholomew pressed on anyway. ‘Quintone mentioned that you considered marrying Bonde at one point, but then you thought better of it. Please tell me what you learned about him, Katrina. If you are right, and he did kill Margery, it may help us see that justice is served.’
Katrina raised her eyebrows. ‘I did not need to “learn” about Bonde, because I knew what kind of man he was the moment I set eyes on him. And I never – not once – entertained the notion of making him my husband. Quintone is wrong.’
‘So what kind of man is Bonde?’
Katrina’s face hardened. ‘He expects women to fall at his feet because he is a favourite of the Lady. When they resist his so-called charms, he forces them to give him what he wants.’
‘Did he force you?’
She smiled rather vengefully. ‘He came up here once to try, but he reckoned without Grisel, who bit off part of his nose – you may have noticed the scar.’ She stroked the paroquet fondly.
‘Nuts,’ said Grisel immediately, and Katrina obliged.
‘Did you tell the Lady?’
Katrina shook her head. ‘She will hear no bad word against Bonde, because he is useful to her – more so than his victims. And I like living here.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Is he one of the reasons why Anne’s services were in such high demand? For Suzanne de Nekton, for example?’
Katrina met his gaze levelly. ‘Yes – he raped her. Then he slashed her face and threatened to kill her if she told anyone what he had done. That is why she did not want to bear that particular child, and why Anne agreed to relieve her of it.’
‘But Suzanne confided in you anyway? Or in Anne?’
‘She did not “confide” anything – the ordeal drove her out of her wits for several hours, during which she babbled uncontrollably. Stupid Bonde underestimated the impact his vicious assault would have on his victim.’
‘Then why was he not called to account for it?’
Katrina’s expression was bitter. ‘Because the Lady did not believe it of him. Thomas did, though. He cornered Bonde and issued a warning – not justice in the courts, but meted out quietly in the dark one night. Bonde has behaved since, but we all worry about what will happen when Thomas leaves.’
Bartholomew had difficulty seeing Thomas in the role of gallant protector, but supposed it explained why so many women seemed to like him. Moreover, Thomas – with Ella – claimed to have driven Suzanne’s unsympathetic father from Clare, so perhaps he had taken it upon himself to wreak revenge upon the people who had most hurt the girl.
‘Everyone thinks Suzanne was sent to a nunnery,’ he said reflectively. ‘But you told me that she is in “a place where she is safe from ruthless men” which is not quite the same. Where is she?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ declared Katrina, holding his eyes in a way that made it obvious that she was lying.
‘The paroquets cannot possibly eat everything you take from the kitchens,’ he said patiently, ‘while you usually dine in the hall, so have no need for additional food. These baskets of meat, wine and fruit are for Suzanne – you are hiding her. So I repeat: where is she?’
There was a moment when he thought Katrina would deny it again, but then she sagged in resignation. ‘Very well, then. Come with me and inspect Bonde’s pretty handiwork.’
Although Bartholomew knew he should spend every moment of his last few hours in Clare helping Michael, he still followed Katrina down the stairs. One part of his mind told him that his ‘discovery’ regarding Suzanne might allow him to name Bonde as the killer for certain, but the saner part told him that all it would actually do was underscore what he already kne
w – that Bonde was a vicious and unlikeable tyrant who abused his position of power.
Katrina had been clever in her choice of hiding place, and had selected a tiny chamber built into the thickness of the Oxford Tower wall. Its entrance was concealed by a heavy tapestry, and there was no reason for anyone to know of its existence, although when she unlocked the door and pushed it open, he saw a window that would be visible from the outside: a keen observer would know a room was there. It was very dark inside, as the shutter was closed, although he could make out plenty of cushions and rugs.
‘What are you doing?’ came a shocked voice, making Bartholomew and Katrina turn quickly. Ella was behind them. ‘We swore to keep this a secret, and you bring a stranger here?’
‘A physician,’ said Katrina. ‘He wants to know about Bonde – what kind of monster he is.’
‘You could have just told him,’ snapped Ella. ‘You did not have to show—’
‘We need help, Ella,’ interrupted Katrina quietly. ‘The Lady was ill last month, and we all thought she would die. What will happen to Suzanne when she does? Her heirs will be all over the castle, and Suzanne will be found. We must plan for the future.’
Before Ella could reply, footfalls sounded on the stairs below. It was Quintone, bringing treats for ‘the birds’. Quickly, Katrina bundled Bartholomew and Ella into the room and locked the door behind them. In the darkness, they heard her thank Quintone politely and send him on his way. His footsteps receded.
A moment later, Katrina unfastened the door and joined them inside, while Ella strode to the window and opened it, allowing daylight to flood into the room. It illuminated a young woman, huddled in one corner like a frightened rabbit. She had long silky hair and her skin was as soft as peaches. The scar across her cheek was not as terrible as Bartholomew had anticipated, although it had still been an unconscionably cruel thing to do. Unsurprisingly, Suzanne was very fat – Katrina stole her vast quantities of food, while proper exercise would be all but impossible in the cramped little chamber.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 32