‘Because they do not like the Lady very much, as she refuses to give them donations. But why should she? She already funds several other foundations.’
‘Such as Clare Hall,’ mused Michael. ‘Although they are seculars, and she would do better to invest in a College filled with priests and monks instead. A College such as Michaelhouse. The Masses we recite will lessen her time in Purgatory.’
‘Oh, she will not go to Purgatory,’ laughed Ella. ‘She will fly straight to Heaven. She told me so herself – when she also said that my brother and I would go directly to Hell.’
‘What did you do to earn that sort of censure?’
Ella giggled. ‘We sewed up the sleeves on her ladies’ kirtles. You should have seen them struggling to get dressed while she screeched with increasing impatience for them to hurry.’
‘Very droll,’ said Michael. ‘It is the kind of thing I might have done when I was eight.’
‘You were eight, Brother?’ asked Ella impishly. ‘Good Lord! Did you know Moses?’
She flounced ahead at that point, treating him to a fine view of her jauntily swaying hips.
‘She aims to seduce me, Matt,’ he murmured. He nodded to where Thomas chatted to a girl with raven hair. ‘And there is another man who is irresistible to women. She was scowling a moment ago, but now she simpers like a lovesick calf. It is a gift some of us have.’
But Thomas’s real attention was on his sister, and it was obvious from the sly glances that were exchanged between the pair that more mischief was in the offing. Sure enough, Thomas eased the dark-haired girl into the centre of the path that led across the outer bailey, forcing Badew to step off it to go around her. The old scholar howled his alarm when he disappeared up to his knees in mud.
‘You did that on purpose!’ he screeched, batting away Thomas’s outstretched hand – probably wisely, as it would almost certainly be withdrawn at a critical moment. ‘You vicious little bastard! If I were twenty years younger, I would thrash you.’
‘If you were forty years younger, you could try,’ retorted Thomas. ‘But do not blame me for your clumsiness. You should have watched where you were going.’
Bartholomew and Langelee hurried forward to extricate the furious Badew, although at the expense of getting smeared with muck themselves. Fighting down her amusement, Ella returned to take Michael’s arm again, and began to point out features of interest as they went.
‘That is the Oxford Tower,’ she said, gesturing to the smallest and oldest of the four squat turrets. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It is not very nice inside, and no one wants to live there. When the Queen arrives, we shall put her conceited clerks in it, just for the delight of seeing their horror.’
‘The name alone would render it undesirable,’ drawled Michael.
‘Of course, we are not always so strapped for space when the royals come to visit,’ Ella went on. ‘The problem is that Sir William Albon arrived with his entire retinue two weeks ago. He is one of the Lady’s councillors, and he came to take my brother and the squires to France. He had intended to leave the day after the rededication ceremony, although if peace really is declared …’
Michael was puzzled. ‘If he is one of the Lady’s councillors – not to mention an executor of her will – what will happen to her affairs while he is away?’
Ella lowered her voice. ‘He is not a very useful administrator, to be frank, and my father makes all the important decisions anyway.’ She went back to her tour of the castle. ‘There is the Constable Tower, where I live with my parents and Thomas. It is the steward’s prerogative to have better quarters than anyone else, so we have all five storeys to ourselves.’
‘Impressive,’ said Michael. ‘Will you be obliged to share when the Queen arrives?’
‘Yes, we shall host her steward and his retinue. Over there is the Maiden Tower, where Lichet lives. But we call it the Cistern Tower, because it is as deep as it is tall. Below ground, it forms a great cylindrical well, where we store all our fresh water. As you can imagine, it is full to overflowing at the moment, with all this rain.’
Bartholomew was intrigued, and wondered if there would be time to inspect it, while Langelee murmured approvingly about the value of such a device in the event of a siege.
‘And Lichet lives above it?’ Michael was asking.
‘He has the whole tower to himself – for now, at least; he will have to share it when the Queen comes. Personally, I cannot imagine why he likes it there. I know for a fact that it is damp.’
‘How many people live in the castle?’
‘We are about three hundred souls at the moment, although that will double when the Queen arrives. I am looking forward to it.’
‘I am sure you are,’ murmured Michael. ‘It will provide you and your brother with more victims for your japes. I only hope you are wise enough not to target Her Majesty.’
Ella took the eight scholars to a reception room in the Constable Tower, where she presented them to a black-haired man and a fair-headed woman. Robert Marishal was tending to stoutness, although there was strength and determination in his stern features. He wore the kind of clothes that suggested he was about to go hawking, an activity usually confined to the gentry, indicating that he considered himself a cut above a mere retainer.
His wife Margery had one of the loveliest faces Bartholomew had ever seen, not just for its even features, clear skin and blue eyes, but for its expression of astonishing sweetness. She was simply dressed in a rose-coloured kirtle, and her only items of jewellery were a string of pink pearls and a small onyx ring bearing a tiny carving of a bird.
‘Clare Hall,’ said Marishal in surprise when he saw Donwich and Pulham. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’
Donwich bowed. ‘May I take the opportunity to offer my condolences?’
‘If you like,’ replied Marishal cautiously. ‘Although it is not a death that touches us very deeply, you understand. I shall attend the funeral, of course, but I hope it will not take too long, as I want to go hawking with Albon.’
Michael and Langelee exchanged a smirk when the other scholars blinked their astonishment at the confidence – all except Roos, who was leering at Margery. She blushed uncomfortably, and edged behind her husband, but Roos simply changed positions and ogled her afresh. Unwilling to stand by while a woman was harassed, Bartholomew stepped into his line of sight, causing Roos to scowl his annoyance.
‘I did not expect to find anyone out gallivanting today of all days, Marishal,’ said Donwich with rank disapproval. ‘Do you not consider it disrespectful?’
‘I am not “gallivanting” – I am entertaining a guest.’ Marishal was obviously nettled by the censure, and would have added more, but a servant hurried up. ‘Yes, Quintone? What is it?’
Quintone was a sly-faced man in brown clothes. He strutted with more arrogance than was appropriate for a minion, and there was nothing deferential in his manner.
‘Sir William Albon is about to leave his quarters,’ he reported. ‘You asked me to tell you when he was ready.’
‘Wait here with Ella,’ Marishal instructed the scholars. ‘I shall return as soon as I can, but my Lady’s most important guests must take priority over you. I am sure you understand.’
He strode away without waiting to hear whether they understood or not, leaving his wife to provide a more sincere apology. But she did not linger long either, perhaps because Roos had managed to inch towards her and was standing offensively close. She ordered Ella to fetch wine from the kitchen, before hurrying after her husband.
‘I know why Marishal toadies to Albon,’ said Michael, once the scholars were alone. ‘He is afraid that Albon will refuse to take Thomas and the loutish squires off his hands. Having them at large must interfere with the smooth running of his castle.’