‘I am sure this is important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I have no idea why.’
‘Then we had better find you some answers.’
They decided to speak to Riborowe first, and arrived at the Carmelite Priory to find the friars spring-cleaning ready for Corpus Christi. Their bedding had been put to air, and clerics and lay-brothers alike were busy with mops and brushes. Etone was in the scriptorium.
‘Out, out!’ he was crying, driving his querulous scribes before him like a flock of geese. ‘It reeks in here, and the floor is in desperate need of a scrub.’
‘But we cannot afford the time, Father Prior,’ objected Riborowe, clasping his skeletal hands in dismay. ‘Dunning wants this Book of Hours by Thursday, because he is going present it to the Common Library. At its opening.’
‘It will not be ready then, will it,’ said Etone sweetly. ‘What a pity!’
‘He will take his custom to Ely,’ warned Jorz, hopping from foot to foot in distress.
‘So what?’ demanded Etone. ‘What can he do to us now? Decline to give us Newe Inn? He is an untrustworthy man, and I would sooner not treat with him again anyway.’
‘We have company,’ said Riborowe, whipping around suddenly when he sensed they were being observed. ‘What do you want, Bartholomew? To inspect Jorz’s pictures, and tell him whether his portrayal of Satan is accurate?’
‘Stop!’ ordered Etone sharply. ‘What have I told you about being rude to Matthew?’
‘That he may refuse to tend your chilblains if I insult him,’ replied Riborowe sullenly. He glowered at Bartholomew, and ignored his Prior’s pained wince at the lack of tact.
‘How can we help you, Matthew?’ asked Etone with an ingratiating smile that did not sit well on his naturally austere features.
‘For a start, you can tell us whether Coslaye visited you early on Saturday morning,’ replied Michael. ‘To accuse you of spoiling his mural with soot.’
‘Yes, he did,’ replied Etone uncomfortably. ‘And I have disciplined the novice responsible. However, I can see the lad’s point. Coslaye’s painting is a glorification of war, and while I am as patriotic as the next man, I do not condone slaughter.’
‘What time did Coslaye arrive?’
‘Just before nocturns. I remember, because his ranting distressed us, and we found it difficult to concentrate on our prayers afterwards.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So Coslaye had no alibi for the raid after all, because nocturns was in the middle of the night, a long time before dawn.
‘How long was he here?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘A few moments,’ replied Etone. ‘He howled at me, I howled back, then he stormed out.’
‘I do not suppose you noticed whether he was limping, did you?’
Etone frowned. ‘It is odd that you should ask, because I saw him hobbling quite painfully, but that was much later in the day. I did not observe any obvious limp when we raged at each other over his horrible painting.’
‘Did he explain what had happened to him?’
‘He said a book had fallen on his foot. I quipped that perhaps a Common Library was not such a bad idea after all, because it would save the heads of impecunious hostels from being injured by tomes stored on cheap shelving. He did not find my remark amusing.’
‘We also need to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, intending to ask whether Ayera had spoken to the scribe during the raid, as Clippesby had claimed; and if so, what about.
Riborowe scowled. ‘Tulyet still has him. How are we expected to manage when we have no one to draw chickens? What are my ribauldequins supposed to shoot at?’
‘Or my demons to eat?’ added Jorz.
‘Ribauldequins,’ mused Michael. ‘How familiar are you with those, Riborowe?’
The thin friar was delighted to be asked. ‘I have never seen one in action, because I was too far away at Poitiers, but I have read a good deal about them and …’
He trailed off when he saw his Prior regarding him coldly, disapproving of his obvious pleasure in devices designed to take human life. He flushed, and slunk away to the chamber at the rear, where he stirred something red that was bubbling in a pot.
‘I shall speak to him later,’ said Etone, watching Riborowe with troubled eyes. ‘It is time this unseemly fascination with artillery ended.’
He returned to the business of driving the reluctant scriveners from their desks in his quest for a dust-free environment, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to make their own way out.
‘Coslaye would have had plenty of time after this altercation to join the attack on the castle,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked across the yard. ‘So perhaps Robin did see him, and he injured his foot in the fracas. Etone’s testimony certainly points that way.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I sincerely hope they are wrong!’
Outside the friary, the roads were quieter than they had been, and several families had given up decorating their homes, leaving them oddly lopsided. Michael and Bartholomew had reached the High Street when they saw Tulyet arguing with the head of the Frevill clan. The debate was cut short when Frevill stalked into his house and slammed the door.
‘I was trying to persuade him to cancel the pageant,’ explained Tulyet. ‘He refuses, although he has spirited his family and valuables to the country. Hypocrite! What about those who do not have a refuge, and who may lose everything if the raiders strike during his damned festivities?’
‘I thought he was to lead the procession,’ said Michael. ‘If he flees the town, then–’
‘Oh, he will lead it,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘It will take more than the prospect of a raid to deprive him of an opportunity to flaunt his finery. He will enjoy himself, safe in the knowledge that all he holds dear is beyond the raiders’ reach, and that a fast horse will be waiting to whisk him away at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Then perhaps you should not have arranged for his cope to be repaired,’ said Michael. ‘He might have been less eager to strut if his ceremonial regalia was full of lye-holes.’
‘I wish I had let it dissolve,’ said Tulyet viciously. ‘His actions are the worst combination imaginable. Either he should have cancelled the pageant and left the town to organise a proper defence, or he should have proved that there is nothing to worry about by keeping his family and jewels here. As matters stand, folk are confused and frightened by his example.’
‘The rumours of an attack do seem to be growing stronger,’ said Michael. ‘Several Colleges and a number of hostels have declared an end to their programmes of beautification, on the grounds that we shall all be in flames soon anyway. And my grandmother is afraid they may be right.’
Tulyet sighed tiredly. ‘I shall ask the other burgesses to cancel the festivities, but I doubt they will oppose Frevilclass="underline" the Guild of Corpus Christi is powerful, and money has been invested in the arrangements. Dunning would be furious, too – he wants the whole town to witness his largesse in funding your Common Library.’
‘Can you not order them to do it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not on the basis of rumours. Still, at least I know who murdered Adam, the beggar and my guard. It was definitely the robbers. I have witnesses now, along with a distinctive piece of armour that was gripped in my soldier’s dead hand.’
‘When did they claim their first victim?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In other words, how long have they been spying on the town?’
‘The beggar was murdered on Easter Day – more than two months ago.’
‘Holm arrived here to live on Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Ignore him,’ said Michael, when Tulyet’s eyebrows rose. ‘He has taken a dislike to Holm.’