‘That is the truth, is it?’ said Bartholomew, amused.
‘Then I asked her about the town’s worthies, so as to know who to target first – I thought I could trust her to give me an honest answer, being holy and all – but she told me to keep my thieving fingers to myself. What sort of saint comes up with that kind of response?’
‘The kind of saint who comes from Clare,’ replied Michael. ‘You should meet their hermit – a “recluse” who lives near a busy castle and likes shopping.’
‘Perhaps we should stay with him then,’ suggested Langelee. ‘He probably has guest quarters we can use, and we will be better fed than at home.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘He smelled of goat and I do not want to share my bed with a menagerie. Perhaps the Austins will put us up. I know for a fact that they are wealthy.’
‘They are unlikely to extend their hospitality to a Benedictine,’ predicted Langelee gloomily. ‘Maybe we should visit the castle, and hope the Lady offers to house us in return for the pleasure of our company. She likes scholars, and we are charming fellows. Especially me.’
‘How about Nicholas?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He might find us a corner, and we can tell everyone that we accepted his offer because we want to be near the church.’
‘That is a good idea,’ said Langelee, brightening. ‘It will make us look pious, which is not a bad thing, and he has the look of an old soldier about him. He will not turn a fellow warrior away.’
The three scholars entered the church to see Nicholas and Weste talking near the anchorhold. Unwilling to beg in front of an audience, Langelee made a show of removing a stone from his boot, murmuring that they would make their move once the friar had gone. Unfortunately, the moment Weste walked away, Nicholas was approached by Badew, Roos and Harweden, all demanding to know about the following day’s funeral. Again, Langelee held back, although he, Bartholomew and Michael were close enough to hear the conversation that followed.
‘It was to have been today, but I delayed it because of the rain,’ said Nicholas. ‘And Anne thought it would be better tomorrow, as no one likes standing around open graves in a downpour.’
‘I do not mind,’ declared Badew with a vindictive smirk. ‘Especially if it is to bury someone I hate. What time will it be?’
‘Mid-morning,’ replied the vicar, eyeing him askance. ‘Anne said that is the best hour for burials, as it leaves plenty of time for a drink afterwards, to remember the deceased’s virtues.’
‘Anne thought, Anne said,’ scoffed Harweden nastily, although the three Michaelhouse men were thinking much the same. ‘Do you make no decisions for yourself?’
‘It is not a crime to confer with a holy woman,’ retorted Nicholas stiffly. ‘Indeed, it would be foolish not to. She is a very wise lady.’
‘Is she?’ sneered Roos. ‘She seems rather worldly to me.’
Nicholas regarded him coldly. ‘You are an experienced traveller, are you?’
Roos frowned suspiciously. ‘Not especially. Why?’
‘To ascertain how many other anchorites you have met, because if Anne is the only one, then your opinion is worthless.’
‘He is very well travelled,’ declared Harweden, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He has kin in Peterborough, whom he visits every three months. Is that not so, Roos?’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Nicholas triumphantly. ‘I hail from Peterborough, and there are no future saints living anywhere near the place. Thus Anne is the only one he has–’
‘Come, Harweden,’ said Roos, plucking his crony’s sleeve. ‘We have better things to do than converse with this ignoramus. Like wiping horse muck from our boots.’
The three old men sailed away, although their haughty departure was spoiled when Badew skidded in mud, almost pulling his friends to the ground with him. They walked more carefully after that. When they had gone, Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew approached the vicar.
‘You do realise that they were asking about the Lady’s funeral, do you not?’ said Michael. ‘The one that will not happen tomorrow, because she is still alive?’
Nicholas smiled smugly. ‘Then they should have made themselves more clear. I assumed they were asking after Robert Skynere, who was killed by someone from the castle four days ago.’
‘How do you know the culprit is from the castle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘Because who else would dispatch a townsman?’ Nicholas shot back. ‘Moreover, he was poisoned, and sly toxins are difficult to acquire – townsfolk do not know where to buy them, but some of the castle residents have been to London.’ He pursed his lips, as if this was all the proof that was needed.
‘How can you be sure that Skynere was poisoned?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Death by such means is notoriously difficult to diagnose.’
‘Because Grym says so,’ replied Nicholas. ‘And as he is a barber-surgeon, he is familiar with such matters. The culprit is doubtless one of those nasty squires. Or that knight Albon, who is so stupid that he probably does not even know what he has done.’
‘I am beginning to feel quite at home here,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Murders, feuds, unfounded accusations. It is just like Cambridge.’
‘Yes, except that it is not our responsibility to investigate anything,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid that the monk would see it as a challenge worthy of his talents. ‘Thank God.’
While the two of them spoke, Langelee started to work on Nicholas, casually mentioning his own military background. The vicar beamed his delight, and clapped a burly arm around the Master’s broad shoulders.
‘I once knew the garrison in York very well,’ he declared. ‘Indeed, I still have friends in the Austin Priory there.’
‘I did not mix with clerics,’ said Langelee, making it sound like a very undesirable thing to have attempted. ‘But there are several soldiers who you might have met.’
He began to list them, and the vicar chortled with pleasure when several names were familiar to him. And then, while Bartholomew and Michael watched in silent admiration, Langelee secured not only three beds for the night, but an invitation to dine as well.
‘Unfortunately, it cannot be for longer,’ said Nicholas apologetically. ‘Do you remember what I told you earlier about the castle meddling in town affairs? Well, the Lady decided that the Queen’s priests will lodge with me when Her Majesty comes for the rededication service, and tomorrow is when everything will be made ready for them.’
‘We have other plans for the rest of our stay,’ lied Langelee, affecting insouciance to conceal his disappointment. ‘We shall not trouble you after tonight.’
When Nicholas showed the three scholars around his home, Bartholomew thought it was small wonder that the Lady aimed to commandeer it. Most vicars occupied modest houses, but Nicholas’s, located a few convenient steps across the graveyard, was palatial. It comprised a large chamber on the ground floor, three bedrooms on the one above, and five little attics on the top.
‘Perhaps I should become a priest,’ said Langelee, looking around enviously. ‘You have ten times as much space as me, and I am Master of a College!’
They deposited their bags, saw their horses settled in the adjoining stable, then used the rest of the day getting to know the town and its residents. Bartholomew was more interested in the architecture, but Michael and Langelee made the acquaintance of several wealthy locals, who they decided could later be targeted for donations.
When the last of the daylight had faded, they returned to the vicarage, pleased to discover that Nicholas had a fire going and a stew warming over it. Outside, a spiteful wind hurled rain against the window shutters, and Bartholomew was glad they did not have to spend the night in the open. So was Langelee, who began to unwind, especially after his third cup of mulled wine. The lines of worry eased from his face, and he reverted to his old ebullient self – the man he had been before College troubles had dragged him down. He perked up even further when the stew transpired to comprise meat and no vegetables, which was the kind of manly fare he loved.