‘Nicholas told me last night, after you two had retired. After all, only a fool ventures into enemy territory without first learning the lie of the land.’
‘We have come to inveigle money, not lay siege to the place,’ said Michael.
‘It amounts to much the same,’ shrugged Langelee. ‘Both will involve tactics and strategies.’
The castle had several entrances, but the main one was at the end of the road called Nethergate. Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee were about to pass through it when they were hailed. They turned to see their University colleagues hurrying towards them. The Clare Hall Fellows wore academic gowns of exquisite quality, while Pulham had his Book of Hours tucked under one arm, and Donwich carried the regalia used for writing. Clearly, they aimed to present themselves as men of learning and refinement.
By contrast, the Swinescroft trio were scruffy. They had not shaved, their clothes were spattered with mud, and they had not bothered to clean their boots. Roos looked the most disreputable of the three, because he still wore his horrible woollen hat, tugged down so low that Bartholomew wondered how he could see where he was going.
‘You should have waited for us, Langelee,’ said Donwich coldly. ‘Or do you aim to impress the Lady’s executors by arriving first? What time is her funeral, by the way?’
It was Badew who replied, eyes agleam with malice. ‘Mid-morning. Do not worry, Donwich – we have plenty of time before the old witch is dispatched on her journey to Hell.’
‘They still do not know,’ whispered Michael in astonishment, as their colleagues hastened to enter the castle before them. ‘They consider themselves too grand to chat with local folk, so no one has had the chance to enlighten them. That will teach them to be aloof!’
Langelee chuckled. ‘It will be hilarious to watch what happens when they see her alive.’
‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew uneasily.
‘All is fair in war,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘And the future of Michaelhouse depends on the next few days, so we cannot afford to be gentlemanly. Now shut up and follow my lead.’
Donwich and Pulham had contrived to be first up the ramp to the gatehouse, with the three Swinescroft men hot on their heels. They were about to pass under the portcullis when they met some people on their way out. They were the squires who had caused such a rumpus at the church earlier, along with a golden-haired couple in their mid-twenties. At a glance, the pair – who were so alike that they had to be the Marishal twins – appeared angelic, but a closer inspection revealed mischief sparking in the blue eyes. Both were sniggering, and Bartholomew suspected he knew why when he looked at their companions.
Since Mass, the squires had been at their toilet. Their beards had been slicked into two sharp points below their chins, kept in place by a waxy gel. It was an odd fashion, and in combination with their long-toed shoes and flowing sleeves, made them look like travelling magicians.
Bartholomew wanted to laugh, too, but prudently resisted the urge – the clothes were effete, but their wearers were not. All carried swords and had the arrogantly swaggering gait that suggested they would like nothing more than a brawl. Moreover, they were on Mayor Godeston’s list of suspects for killing Skynere, so needed to be approached with care.
‘Scholars!’ exclaimed the male twin. His clothes were fine but sensible, and although Bartholomew could not have said why, he knew that the oiling of the others’ beards had been his idea – a practical joke to make them look silly. ‘Welcome! To what do we owe this honour?’
‘We are not here to talk to the likes of you,’ declared Badew rudely, regarding him with open disdain. ‘We want Marishal the steward.’
‘I am his son, Thomas,’ said the twin pleasantly, although his cronies bristled at Badew’s manners. ‘And this is my sister Elizabeth, although we call her Ella. Perhaps we can help you.’
‘Leave them, Tom – we have better things to do than wait on scholars,’ growled the largest of the squires, a beefy fellow with a big, heavy face. A scar on one cheek suggested he was no stranger to fighting, and his fancy clothes looked more ridiculous on him than the others – akin to a bull wearing lace.
‘There is always time to help men of learning, Nuport,’ said Thomas, although the sly cant in his eyes suggested that any assistance offered should be accepted with caution.
‘Thomas and Ella,’ mused Badew, regarding them closely. ‘You came to University Hall and made a nuisance of yourselves on the day that I was forced to sign that quit-claim.’
Ella inclined her head. ‘But I am afraid I do not recall you, sir. It must be thirteen years ago now, and we were just children at the time.’
‘Fourteen years, one month and eighteen days,’ corrected Badew briskly. ‘It is not an event I shall ever forget.’
‘I remember it, Ella,’ said Thomas. His face was sombre but there was laughter in his eyes. ‘The quit-claim was very nearly signed in blood. Surely that cannot have slipped your mind?’
Badew seemed to inflate with rage at the reminder, and his face turned a worrying shade of puce, but Ella spoke before he could begin a tirade.
‘Perhaps it will come to me later. Meanwhile, we shall call a servant to conduct these men to our father. It is–’
‘Universities are a waste of time,’ interrupted Nuport, and gave a grin that was all bared teeth and menace. ‘Learning to kill is much more fun. We are going to France next week with Sir William Albon, to join the Prince of Wales. The war will be as good as won once we arrive.’
‘It is as good as won now,’ said Michael. ‘I have it on good authority that peace will be declared within the month.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Nuport, while his friends regarded each other in dismay. ‘How can there be peace when our King does not yet wear the French crown?’
Michael shrugged. ‘His Majesty has gained as much as he can realistically expect from the campaign, and he knows when it is time to stop. There will be no more battles, so your task will be to guard the territories he has gained these last few years.’
‘I am not going then,’ declared Nuport sulkily. ‘What would be the point? I want to kill Frenchmen, not defend a lot of fields and hovels.’
‘Oh, come now,’ chided Pulham. ‘It will be an interesting experience regardless, and I am sure your kin will be delighted to know that you are in no danger over there.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ murmured Donwich, glancing around at the stricken faces of those who had heard the monk’s announcement. ‘I have the sense that folk were looking forward to being rid of this lot, and your news has just ruined their day.’
In the end, it was Ella herself who conducted the scholars to her father, while Thomas trailed along behind. The squires retreated to a nearby guardroom to discuss Michael’s alarming news over jugs of ale. They remained blissfully unaware of the amusement their appearance was affording the people of Clare – castle and townsmen alike. However, the grins faded as word spread that the squires might not be going to France after all – Donwich was right to predict that most folk had been looking forward to seeing the back of them.
As they walked, Ella homed in on Michael, regarding him in a way that suggested she liked what she saw. Women were often attracted to the monk, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that he was fat, unfit and not especially handsome. Michael claimed his dynamic personality made him more appealing than ordinary men, and it seemed he was right, as Ella clung to his arm and chatted brightly.
‘We do not see many Benedictines in Clare,’ she gushed. ‘There is a whole priory of them a few miles away, but they rarely come here.’
‘No?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘And why is that?’