‘She has carved a very comfortable niche for herself here,’ he remarked when he had his mirth under control, ‘and she lives in greater luxury than most monastics.’
‘She is a fraud,’ declared Bartholomew, less inclined to see the funny side of the situation. The poor and desperate would buy her services, but would be cheated of their money’s worth. ‘The Bishop should oust her.’
‘I shall write to him once we are back in Cambridge,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right – something should be done. But not yet. We cannot afford to annoy anyone here until we have secured Michaelhouse’s future. It is all very well for you – you will be living with Matilde in a few weeks’ time – but the rest of us would like a College to call home.’
Despite Langelee’s injunction to remain in the church, Bartholomew and Michael stepped out into the graveyard. The rain had stopped, and both felt the need for some fresh air. Neither spoke, Bartholomew reflecting again on the changes that would occur in his life when he exchanged wedding vows with Matilde, while Michael pondered the anchoress and her lack of spirituality. He noticed that a queue had formed outside her outer window, of people waiting to talk to her.
‘You are thinking about Anne,’ came a squeaky voice near the monk’s elbow. ‘You have that look about you – the one visitors always get after their first audience with her.’
The speaker was a thin, scrawny man with wiry hair somewhere between red and grey. He was dirty and stank of animals, although his cloak was fur and his boots sturdy, both far better than the scholars’. Over his arm was a basket full of fresh produce.
‘You are the hermit, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘Come from your remote refuge behind the castle to shop for victuals.’
‘Yes, I am Jan,’ replied the man, blithely oblivious of the monk’s sarcasm. ‘I always lay in supplies on a Wednesday, as it is the best time for butter and smoked pork.’
‘A worldly anchorite and a hermit who likes busy markets,’ remarked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Clare is certainly full of surprises.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Jan earnestly. ‘No other town can match us for them. Do you have any spare change, by the way? If you do, I shall pray for you this evening.’
‘And if we do not?’ asked Michael.
Jan raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Then I shall “forget” to include you on the list of names I give to God each night, and you do not want that. So come on. Give.’ He waggled his fingers.
‘I am afraid Master Langelee has all our money,’ lied Michael. ‘So you are out of luck.’
‘I suppose you can bring it to the hermitage later,’ said Jan grudgingly. ‘Although do not leave it too long – my list does not remain open indefinitely.’
‘The hermitage,’ mused Michael. ‘Is it as elaborate as the anchorhold?’
Jan made a moue of disdain. ‘It is the abode of a spiritual man, not of some wench who likes sitting around braying her opinions. My home is a cave, with nothing in it but the bare essentials – furniture, bedding, pots, pans, a goat, ten chickens, two pairs of shoes, four baskets of–’
‘A cave?’ asked Bartholomew, interrupting because he suspected that the list might go on for some time otherwise. ‘In this sort of countryside?’
‘A cottage, then,’ conceded Jan. ‘Although I do not see that it matters what I call it. Would you like some advice on credit? Because I have three things to say to you.’
‘No, it is all right,’ said Michael quickly, unwilling to run up debts that they might be unable to pay. ‘We are not–’
‘First, do not trust that Anne,’ said Jan, cutting across him. ‘Not as far as you can spit, as she is a liar and a cheat. Second, do not join the war between castle and town, because it is deadly. And third, if the Austin friars invite you to stay in their priory, wear armour.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Are they the kind of priests to stab guests, then?’
‘No, but they have sworn oaths,’ replied Jan, and lowered his voice to add darkly, ‘Oaths to help each other in time of need. It is all wrong, if you ask me.’
Bartholomew wanted to know why, but the hermit was already hurrying away, moving with a curious sideways scuttle that was redolent of a crab. Jan had no sooner disappeared into the leafy darkness of the churchyard when someone else strode towards them. It was an Austin with a neat grey beard, a scarred face and a black eyepatch. Bartholomew could only suppose that Jan had seen the friar coming, and it was this that had prompted the curious warning.
‘Is Nicholas in there?’ the priest asked. He nodded towards the church, then went on without giving them time to answer. ‘He probably is – he has a lot to do if he wants the place ready in time for the ceremony next week. So, who are you? Scholars from Clare Hall? We do not see you very often these days, not since you started objecting to the Lady telling you how to run your College.’
‘We are from Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael. ‘A far superior foundation.’
‘Never heard of it,’ declared the friar, but listened with interest as Michael introduced himself and Bartholomew. He gave a military-style salute. ‘And I am John de Weste, the priory’s cofferer.’
‘The artist?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw some of your work yesterday – a Book of Hours.’
Which had almost been incinerated by the surly Roos, he recalled, although it did not seem prudent to mention that to its creator.
Weste beamed with genuine pleasure. ‘My work is at the University in Cambridge? Then perhaps I shall be famous yet! You must visit me in the priory and tell me all about it. But I had better find Nicholas before any more of the day is lost. Good day to you.’
He bowed and hurried away. Bartholomew watched him go.
‘I wonder what Jan has against the Austins. It cannot just be that they have sworn vows to help each other – there is nothing wrong with being loyal to friends.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘There is not.’
It was some time before Langelee returned, dejected because he had visited every tavern he could find, only to learn that there was no such thing as cheap accommodation in Clare. Even the lowest place charged top rates, and they would run out of money within two days if they accepted the terms on offer. Lines of strain showed around his eyes. It was never easy being Master, but Langelee’s tenure had been harder than most. The College had been plagued with problems from the moment he had taken office, virtually none of his own making. He had done his best, but worry was taking its toll, draining even his ebullient spirits.
‘But if we disappear to sleep under a hedge, it will raise eyebrows,’ he said glumly. ‘And no one will give money to a foundation that cannot pay its envoys’ basic expenses.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But surely they will want to give us more, on the grounds that their help will be especially appreciated?’
‘That is not how it works,’ explained Michael impatiently. ‘Rich folk invest in foundations that are thriving, not ones that teeter on the edge of collapse, where their money might be wasted. We must look as though we are awash with cash.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘By staying at the Swan?’
‘I will think of something,’ promised Michael, and glanced up at the sky, aware that the rain had started again. ‘Because I am not sleeping under hedges in this weather.’
‘I met that anchoress,’ said Langelee disapprovingly. ‘She hailed me through her window – in a voice like a fanfare – and demanded to know my business.’
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The truth,’ replied Langelee. ‘That we came to pay our respects to the Lady, and that we are a flourishing College which does not need more benefactors, but if anyone here would like to contribute, then we would consider making an exception in their case.’