‘I told him everything,’ he said softly. ‘About Roos killing my mother and Langelee trying to help her. He believes me, but it has opened a painful wound and he is deeply angry …’
Bartholomew could see it was true: the steward’s rage was apparent in the way he was glaring at the assembled townsfolk – as if he itched to vent his spleen on them for the hurt he had suffered.
‘Disperse,’ he ordered contemptuously. ‘Or I shall order my archers to shoot. Besides, you should be in the church. You will have to stand at the back unless you get there early.’
‘Not so – the ceremony is postponed until your bloody Lady finishes chatting to her friends,’ shouted Paycock. ‘It is outrageous and an insult! It is our church, so what right does she have to keep us hanging about?’
‘That is high-handed,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And foolish, too, given the unsettled mood of the town. It is begging for trouble.’
‘And now her squires threaten a man who has taken refuge in our church,’ Paycock raged on. ‘So what are you going to do about it, steward?’
‘The squires will not break sanctuary laws,’ declared Marishal scornfully. ‘However, I shall fetch them back – not because you tell me I must, but because I choose to do so.’
His scathing tone did nothing to soothe ruffled feathers, and the mob surged forward indignantly. Then the portcullis clanked up and soldiers poured out, Marishal in the vanguard. The crowd’s advance stuttered to a standstill at the sight of so much naked steel, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable and silent impasse. Grym broke it.
‘We shall walk to the church together, Marishal,’ he said, holding out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Side by side. And while we go, I shall explain the nub of the problem. You see, Quintone was wearing a hat that your boys claim is stolen—’
‘Because it is stolen,’ interrupted Thomas, while his father only stared at the proffered hand until Grym lowered it. ‘It belongs to Nuport.’
The barber gave a pained smile. ‘Regardless, he has been inflaming the situation by taunting them with it. They have never learned to rise above an affront, and there will be a brawl unless you take them home.’
‘Quintone thinks that being cleared of murder gives him licence to behave as he likes,’ said Thomas to his father. ‘And I am afraid Grym is right – there will be a spat unless we intervene.’
Marishal began to issue orders to his soldiers. Some were instructed to remain at the castle, while others were told to form a protective phalanx around him. The townsfolk resented arms being toted openly through their streets, so there was a lot of angry muttering as he and his men set off along the road called Nethergate. Grym waddled along at his side, desperately trying to soothe the situation with appeasing remarks, but Marishal’s face was cold and hard, and he gave no indication that he was listening.
‘When trouble does erupt,’ murmured Michael, as he and Bartholomew trailed along behind them, ‘it will be his fault. Grym is trying his best, but Marishal is determined to be truculent.’
‘A fight may be what he wants,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Katrina had told him. ‘It will allow the castle to defeat the town, after which the Lady’s authority can be stamped on Clare once and for all. And Marishal will win – he may have fewer men, but they carry real weapons. Of course, his victory will come at a terrible price. For both sides.’
They arrived to find the church and its environs thronged with people, because the promised presence of the Queen had attracted visitors from the surrounding villages, as well as the town. There was a good deal of disappointment that she would not now be making an appearance, which Paycock and other malcontents were quick to turn into open disgruntlement.
Then there was a terrible scream. The door was ripped open and Quintone stood there, howling in pain and disbelief. Blood streamed down both sides of his face.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, shocked. ‘Someone has chopped off his ears.’
CHAPTER 14
The townsfolk were outraged. Not only had the squires committed an act of violence against a man who had renounced his ties to the castle and declared himself to be one of them, but they had broken one of the country’s oldest and most inviolate laws. Paycock led the way in demanding that they answer for the crime at once, overriding Grym’s meek suggestion that they wait until tempers had cooled.
‘There they are!’ screeched Paycock, stabbing his finger towards the opposite end of the churchyard, where the squires could be seen climbing over the wall. ‘After them!’
Nuport released a jeering laugh as he and his cronies bounded away. One or two of his fellows paused just long enough to make obscene gestures to their pursuers, then they all disappeared across the nearby fields. Their obvious high spirits suggested that they had no idea of the seriousness of the situation they were in. Bartholomew wondered why, and then realised that the answer lay with the wineskins each was clutching.
‘They are drunk,’ he said in disgust. ‘That is why they have thrown good sense to the wind.’
‘It is Anne’s fault,’ said Grym, who had come to stand next to him. ‘Many of the visitors from the villages brought her gifts of food and wine today, and she had so much that she offered to share. I think she was overly generous to the squires …’
‘Then let us hope they are not too inebriated to run fast,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because I doubt they will survive if they are caught.’
‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, suddenly aware that the young man was on the receiving end of some very venomous glares. He had not been involved in violating Quintone’s sanctuary, but the townsfolk were unlikely to make such a distinction, and there would be a fight for certain if he was attacked – his father might not think much of him, but the castle guards would not overlook an assault on their steward’s heir.
Michael strode towards the twin. ‘Go and fetch the Austins. Tell them they are needed here.’
‘I cannot,’ replied Thomas, either careless or oblivious of the danger he was in. ‘Most of them rode off to search for Langelee and Weste, and they have not come back yet. The few who remain will not abandon their priory, lest it is sacked by—’
‘Heselbech and Weste are there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Tell them what is happening, and urge them to bring as many friars as they can spare. Go! Hurry!’
But Thomas ambled away with such insouciance that Bartholomew knew he was going to be of scant help in the brewing crisis. Michael turned to Marishal next.
‘Send your men to find the squires before the townsfolk tear them to pieces. Tell them to box Nuport’s ears while they do it – that may appease the mob. For now, at least.’
Marishal inclined his head and went to issue a series of low-voiced commands to his men. They saluted and left, although, like Thomas, not very fast. Bartholomew watched them go with some concern. Had Marishal told them to take their time in the hope that the squires would be caught by the townsmen, giving him a pretext to attack in revenge? The steward had scant regard for the young men, so might well consider them expendable. Or had his orders been unintentionally half-hearted, because he was still groggy from Langelee’s punch?
‘Take Quintone inside the church, Matt,’ Michael was saying, ‘and give him something to stop that howling – it is making the situation worse. I expected Grym to do it, but he is just standing there like a great lump of lard.’
Bartholomew fumbled for the poppy juice he carried in his bag. ‘I can help him, but not inside the church – the door is shut again.’
‘Nicholas?’ bellowed Michael authoritatively. ‘Open up.’
‘Never!’ came the priest’s indignant voice. ‘I did it once for Quintone, who promptly claimed sanctuary and all the trouble that entails. Then I let the squires in to pray, and they repaid my kindness by committing a terrible crime. Well, I have had enough. My church stays closed until the Queen arrives.’
‘She is not coming,’ called Grym. ‘Have you not heard? Plea
se let us in, Nicholas. Quintone needs to lie down, and it cannot be out here in all this dirt. And do not suggest taking him home, because he does not have one – he has not yet had time to secure lodgings in the town.’
There was an indecisive pause. ‘Let me consult with Anne. She will know what to do.’
Bartholomew was glad so many of the mob had hared off in pursuit of the squires, because he felt exposed and vulnerable crouching next to Quintone. He was relieved when there was a clank a few moments later, and the church door opened.
‘Anne says a few of you may come in, as long as you behave,’ said Nicholas. ‘No pushing, no swearing and no fighting. Oh, and wipe your feet, please. I spent all night cleaning the floor, and I will not have it marred with filthy boot prints.’
Together, Bartholomew and Grym carried the swooning Quintone inside, and laid him on Roger’s tomb. Bartholomew sewed up the gaping wound where Quinstone’s ears had been, while Grym swabbed away the blood, although the physician could not help glancing up from time to time. Now all the scaffolding was down, the ceiling was revealed in its full glory. It was magnificent, and he hoped there would be a moment to admire it properly before he left.
Yet even the fan vaulting could not distract him from the growing conviction that Clare was about to suffer a calamity that would change it for ever, and which he was powerless to prevent. The streets would run with blood, and the murders that had gone before would be a mere drop in the ocean compared to the carnage that would follow. He felt his stomach churn as he desperately tried to think of a way to stop it.
‘Fasten his ears back on,’ came a voice from the anchorhold, and Bartholomew turned to see beady eyes watching with unabashed interest. ‘I would.’
‘They would fester,’ replied Grym. ‘And we do not have them anyway.’
‘Nuport probably ate them,’ declared Anne, loud enough to be heard by the crowd that milled around outside her other window; they gave a collective growl of anger and revulsion. ‘He can be a dreadful brute on occasion.’
Bartholomew moved to block her view of what he was doing in the hope of avoiding more such remarks, and while he stitched, he listened to the discussion taking place between the others who had managed to slip inside when Nicholas had opened the door. They included Michael, Marishal, a handful of courtiers and several town worthies, the ubiquitous Paycock among them.
‘I understand why you let Quintone in,’ Marishal was saying irritably to the vicar, ‘but why did you then admit the squires? It was a stupid—’
‘Oh, so it is my fault, is it?’ interrupted Nicholas archly. ‘The castle louts come here and commit a dreadful sin, but I am to blame?’
‘Yes, in part,’ Marishal snapped back. ‘Anyone can see they are drunk, so will be more asinine than usual.’
‘They told me they wanted to pray,’ said Nicholas defensively. ‘I assumed they were sincere.’
‘Then you are a fool, too,’ spat Marishal in disgust. ‘Pray indeed!’
‘They had better not show their faces in my town again,’ declared Paycock, bristling with indignation. ‘Because if they do, I shall smash them in – personally.’
He waved his fist to show that he meant it. Then there was an imperious hammering at the door, followed by an angry order for it to be opened at once.
‘It is Cambrug!’ exclaimed Nicholas in startled delight, irritation evaporating like mist in the sun. He beamed happily and ran to let the famous architect in, ushering him over the threshold with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.
Cambrug was of middle height with squat, ugly features, travel-stained clothes and a sulky scowl. He ignored the vicar’s gushing welcome, and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up at his creation with professional detachment. Grym was among the many – townsfolk and castle men – who immediately hurried to fawn over him, so there was an unseemly scrum that resulted in him being very roughly jostled.
‘Get away!’ he snarled, and glowered at Nicholas. ‘I have just been informed by some peasant outside that the Queen is not coming. Could you not have written to tell me? I have ridden all the way from Hereford for nothing.’
‘Hardly nothing,’ objected Nicholas, stung. ‘We still have a lovely evening planned.’
‘Besides, we only had word ourselves this morning,’ added Marishal. ‘By which time it was too late to inform anyone. But we shall make your stay a memorable one, never fear. We have prepared a nice suite of rooms in the castle with—’
‘No, he will stay with me,’ stated Paycock firmly. ‘My house is a lot more comfortable. The company will be better, too.’
‘We took all the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas unctuously, before Cambrug could accept either offer. ‘As you can see. Her Majesty will miss the rededication ceremony, but that is her loss, and at least her haughty priests will not try to make unnecessary adjustments to it.’
‘So you will preside, Nicholas?’ asked Paycock. ‘Good! The castle can piss off home then, because now the Queen is not coming, neither will they. It will be our ceremony and ours alone.’
‘We certainly will attend,’ countered Marishal sharply. ‘The Lady is looking forward to it, and she will be here as soon as she has completed her business in the north of the town.’
‘Her business?’ echoed Paycock scathingly. ‘Her gossiping with friends, you mean. Well, she can stand in the south aisle, because we paid for the nave, and it is our right to use it.’
‘But the ceiling is not yet finished,’ objected Cambrug, who had continued to peer upwards critically. ‘There are several unpainted sections that—’
‘Nonsense,’ stated Grym, and lowered his voice. ‘It is either a ceremony or a battle, Cambrug. You choose – but remember that any blood spilled will be on your hands.’
Cambrug sniffed. ‘I suppose the finishing touches can be added later.’
Grym nodded to Paycock and his cronies, and anything else the architect might have said was lost as the townsfolk hurried away to begin their preparations. Lamps were lit, candles set out, and flower displays lifted on to windowsills. But Marishal and his courtiers had their own opinions about what should be done to beautify the church, and arguments soon broke out. Anne listened from her cell, and Bartholomew was unimpressed that every time she spoke, she invariably made matters worse.
‘Not long now,’ said Nicholas, nodding approvingly as an elaborate arrangement of dried flowers was plonked on the font. ‘Then my ceremony will begin. Heselbech may steal the leading role, but everyone will know that he recites the words I wrote.’
‘Well, I shall not stay for it,’ declared Cambrug unpleasantly. ‘You dragged me here with the promise of a royal audience, but now you—’
‘Go back to Hereford, then,’ called Anne crossly. ‘We are tired of your bleating. If you cannot be genteel, then there is no place for you in Clare.’
Cambrug blinked his astonishment that anyone should dare address him with such brazen disrespect. ‘I am not—’
‘We do not want you here anyway,’ she forged on, getting into her stride. ‘You are a vile old misery – even worse than Roger, and he could not open his mouth without moaning. The ceremony will be much nicer without you.’
‘And it will take place today, because our holy anchoress says that is when the stars are most favourable for it,’ put in Nicholas. ‘Her opinion is good enough for me.’
‘Your holy anchoress is not an architect,’ flashed Cambrug, bristling with outrage at the insults that had been heaped upon him. ‘So do not blame me if the place tumbles about your ears in the middle of your stupid celebrations. You should have let me examine the roof before you ripped the scaffolding down. You did promise that you would wait.’
‘What is this?’ cried Marishal, listening to the exchange in alarm. ‘Are you saying that it is unsafe? That the roof might fall on the Lady?’
Cambrug eyed him loftily. ‘I cannot answer that until I inspect the quality of the work that was done after I left. However
, I decline to do it now you have offended me. Not unless you beg.’
‘Please, dear Cambrug, will you kindly help us to—’ began Grym obligingly.
‘No!’ barked Marishal. ‘There will be no begging here. Cambrug will do the job for which he was paid, and inspect the roof with good grace.’
‘Shan’t,’ said Cambrug, folding his arms and putting his nose in the air.
‘Because he knows there is nothing wrong with it,’ called Anne provocatively. ‘And he cannot stand the fact that we have achieved so much without him. It is jealousy speaking.’
The architect bristled anew. ‘I am not staying here to be abused. I am going back to Hereford this very moment – and I wish a plague on Clare and everyone in it!’
When Quintone had been sewn up, bandaged and carried to Grym’s house to recover – much to the barber’s obvious reluctance – Bartholomew gave the fan vaulting his full attention, although it was difficult to see it in detail, as dusk was falling. He wondered why Nicholas had elected to hold the ceremony at night, when even a thousand lamps would be unequal to showing it at its best. Then he reconsidered. Or had the vicar actually been rather wise, as the dark would hide any small imperfections?
‘Perhaps Cambrug was right to say that the scaffolding should not have come down until he had inspected the work,’ he said to Michael. ‘Because those unpainted sections have lots of small cracks, and it will be difficult to fill them with glue now they cannot be reached so easily.’
Michael glanced around uncomfortably. ‘I have a bad feeling about this ceremony. Why must it still go ahead, even though the Queen will not be here, and it will throw together a lot of people who hate each other? There is something not quite right about the whole affair.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have been thinking the same. All the murders – not just Margery and Roos, but Roger, Skynere, Albon and the others – have resulted in one thing: widening the rift between town and castle.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 36