Langelee agreed. ‘There is nothing more dangerous than bored young men who know how to fight, and I should know, because I was one, once upon a time. France is the best place for them. They may be too late to fight enemies, but at least they will not be here.’
‘This is all very peculiar,’ said Pulham, frowning worriedly. ‘The castle goes about its normal business while its Lady lies dead, then her steward reveals that he would rather go hawking than attend her funeral. What are they thinking?’
Bartholomew waited for them to surmise that there had been a misunderstanding, but none of them did, and instead they began a sniping argument about what was suitable behaviour for such an occasion. Acutely uncomfortable with the deception, he went to the window and looked out.
There was a flurry of activity in the yard below as Sir William Albon emerged from the Auditor Tower with his retinue at his heels. He was a glorious man in glorious clothes, and stood for a moment looking around imperiously. He had a head of golden hair, shot through with noble streaks of grey, a fine beard and an imposing physique. He wore a scarlet gipon with a gold cloak, and anyone looking at him might be forgiven for thinking that he was royalty.
Head held high, he raised his hands. No orders were given, but Nuport pressed a cup of wine into the left one, while Thomas slapped a pair of hawking gauntlets into the right. The great man took a sip from the cup, savoured it for a moment, then nodded to say it was of acceptable quality. He passed it back to Nuport and snapped his fingers, which was the signal for Quintone to hurry forward with a horse. Unfortunately, something was wrong with the way it had been saddled, because Nuport kicked the servant, who yelped and hobbled away. It was probably fortunate that no one other than Margery saw the murderous look Quintone shot the belligerent squire, or he might have been kicked a second time. Margery took Quintone’s arm and whispered in his ear; whatever she said coaxed a reluctant smile.
Then all was bustle and shouting as more horses were led from the stables, and Albon and his followers mounted up. They were a bright crowd, all sporting the latest court fashions, although ones that were far less extreme than those favoured by the squires. Dogs scampered everywhere, men arrived with hawks, and servants rushed about with equipment and refreshments.
Michael, Langelee and Bartholomew watched the noisy chaos with interest, although the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft retreated to the furthest corner of the chamber, where they continued to bicker among themselves. Then Ella returned, bringing goblets of wine on a tray.
‘Perhaps you will tell us who all these people are,’ suggested Langelee, aiming to find out which ones might be suitable to approach for a donation.
Ella was happy to oblige. ‘The tall, ginger-headed person is Philip Lichet, who the Lady keeps for intelligent conversation. I think he is a warlock, although he denies it, of course.’
Bartholomew could see why Nicholas had dubbed Lichet the Red Devil. The man wore his auburn hair long, tumbling well past his shoulders, although he did not take good care of it, so it was greasy and unattractive, like his beard. He wore a scarlet cloak, and his great height made him a striking figure, albeit one that was a trifle shabby.
‘And the dangerous-looking man who lounges by the stable?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he have half a nose, or do my eyes deceive me?’
He referred to a man clad completely in black, who seemed to belong to the shadows. Even from a distance, it was possible to see that his eyes were cold, hard and calculating.
‘That is Stephen Bonde,’ replied Ella. ‘And yes, he is missing part of his nose. He lost it to Grisel, whom it is never wise to annoy.’
‘Who is Grisel?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Someone who does not put up with nonsense, and who will have the rest of it if Bonde goes near him again. Bonde is the Lady’s chief henchman. He loves her more than his own mother, and will do anything for her.’
‘Including murder?’ asked Michael, recalling that Bonde was on Godeston’s list of killers, along with the squires and Lichet.
‘Oh, yes. He killed one of our neighbours and should have been hanged, but the Lady is as loyal to him as he is to her – she bribed the judges and got him acquitted.’
‘So we have yet another mysterious death in Clare,’ mused Michael. ‘To go with Roger, Talmach, Charer, Skynere and Wisbech.’
‘It was not in Clare,’ replied Ella. ‘It happened miles away in Wixoe. And there is nothing mysterious about it – Bonde knifed Master Knowl in front of several horrified witnesses.’
And with that, she turned on her heel and flounced away.
It was some time before the hawkers were finally ready to leave. Albon led them out, mounted on a prancing white stallion that was draped with a silver blanket – which seemed inappropriate tackle for what promised to be a muddy excursion. His retinue clattered after him, followed by the dogs and men with birds. When they had gone, the silence seemed deafening. Marishal gazed after them wistfully, clearly wishing he could go too, then began to issue instructions to the castle servants, so that a hot meal would be ready for when the party returned.
Meanwhile, the quarrel between Clare Hall and Swinescroft had escalated, and the participants were on the verge of coming to blows.
‘You came to gloat over her death,’ Donwich was declaring hotly. ‘It is disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourselves. Thank God you are no longer part of our College, because I should be mortified to be associated with you.’
‘Oh, we are not here to gloat,’ countered Badew, eyes flashing. ‘We came to reveal a secret. We have kept it for years, but now the she-devil is dead, it is time to share it with the world.’
‘Tell them she is alive,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael and Langelee, alarmed. ‘Or he may say something to harm the whole University.’
Michael started to step forward, but the Clare Hall men were too intent on Badew to notice.
‘If you damage our chances of an inheritance,’ Donwich was snarling, ‘I will kill you with my bare hands. I swear to God I will!’
‘The secret has nothing to do with you,’ sneered Badew. ‘It is to do with her. And while we are speaking the truth, I have something to tell Marishal about his brats as well.’
Pulham’s expression was murderous. ‘If you say or do anything untoward, we will make it known that you falsified the accounts when you ran “University Hall”.’
Badew blinked his shock. ‘But I never did!’
‘Perhaps not,’ acknowledged Pulham, ‘but can you prove it? No? Then who do you think folk will believe? Two distinguished members of Clare Hall, or a man no one likes? You may have been respected – even loved – once, but your bitterness and rage these last fourteen years mean that no one will baulk at thinking ill of you.’
Badew spluttered his outrage, but the spat was cut short by the return of Marishal.
‘I shall escort you to the Lady now,’ he said. ‘She is in the hall.’
‘Is she?’ blurted Donwich, startled. ‘Good gracious! Is that not a little … public?’
Marishal frowned his bemusement at the question, but he was keen to be finished with business so he could join the hawking. Thus he did not ask for clarification, and instead led the way at a brisk trot to the palace, where he opened the door to the ground-floor hall.
It was a beautiful room. Tapestries adorned the walls, while the ceiling was hung with banners from the Lady’s knights. The floor was made of stone and very clean, and the whole place smelled of herbs and fresh food, as opposed to sweat and wet dog, like the hall in Cambridge Castle. There was a throne-like chair on the dais at the far end, and the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft stopped abruptly when they saw the Lady sitting in it, slumped with her head lolling to one side. Michael and Langelee chuckled at their shocked expressions, especially when she sat up, and fixed them with bright, beady eyes.