Mortified, Marishal hauled the guilty pair out of their hiding place, although neither child was contrite.
‘But surely important documents should be signed in blood?’ declared Ella, her cherubic face the picture of bemused innocence, although mischief sparkled in her eyes. ‘It will make them more binding.’
‘And red is a nicer colour than black anyway,’ piped her brother. ‘Black is boring.’
Marishal marched them out in disgrace, while the onlookers exchanged disapproving glances, all thinking that such ill-behaved imps should have been left at home. Then Donwich produced a pot of proper ink, and everyone waited in taut silence again while Badew reread the document. But the prank had unsettled the older man and he was suddenly keen for the whole affair to be over, so it was not long before he leaned forward and wrote his name. When he sat back, the relief among the Fellows was palpable. It was done – they were free of him at last.
‘Now we have something to give you, My Lady,’ announced Donwich grandly. ‘From this day forth, University Hall will be known as Clare Hall, in recognition of your generosity.’
‘What?’ Badew was stunned. He had always assumed the College would be named Badew Hall after his death, in recognition of his vision in founding it, as was the custom in such situations. However, it was clear that the Lady had prior knowledge of the Fellows’ intentions, because she was not surprised at all by Donwich’s proclamation. She merely inclined her head in gracious acceptance of the honour. ‘But you cannot–’
‘Under your patronage, we shall become a centre for academic excellence,’ Donwich went on, rudely cutting across Badew and addressing the Lady directly. ‘University Hall was mediocre, but Clare Hall will attract the greatest scholars from all over the civilised world.’
‘No!’ objected Badew, aghast. ‘I am your founder. She is just–’
‘Your association with us is over, Badew,’ interrupted Donwich curtly, eyeing him with dislike. ‘You may see yourself out.’
While Badew sat in open-mouthed shock, the young Fellow swept out of the chamber with the Lady on his arm. The guests followed, chattering excitedly, and it was not long before only Badew and his two friends were left. Silence reigned, the only sound being the crackle of the fire.
‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Badew eventually, his voice unsteady with dismay. ‘They must name the College after me. I created it – all the Lady will do is throw money at a venture that is already up and running. I did all the hard work.’
‘You did,’ agreed Harweden kindly. ‘And you shall have your reward in Heaven, while the Lady and her newly acquired Fellows are destined for another place altogether. Leave justice to God, and forget about them.’
‘Forget about them?’ cried Badew incredulously. ‘I most certainly shall not! They will not get away with this outrage.’
He was barely aware of his friends escorting him home, so intent was he on devising ways to avenge himself. Unfortunately, none of the schemes that blazed into his fevered mind were very practical. He brooded on the matter for the rest of the day, and then went to bed, hoping a better plan would occur to him in the morning, when he would not be quite so incandescent with rage. None did, but that did not mean he was ready to concede defeat – not when he knew things about the Lady that would tear away the façade of pious respectability she had so carefully built around herself. He went to his church, knelt before the altar and made a solemn vow.
‘I will not rest until University Hall is mine again,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I will do anything to bring it about – steal, beg or even kill. It will be Badew Hall, even if it is the last thing I ever do. I swear it on my immortal soul.’
Clare, Suffolk, February 1360
The parish church of Clare had a unique claim to fame: it was the only one in the country with a fan-vaulted ceiling. Its vicar, Nicholas, gazed admiringly at it – or rather, he gazed at the parts he could see through the scaffolding. Fan vaulting – an architectural style where clusters of ‘ribs’ sprang from the supporting columns to form a fan-shape – was an entirely new invention. It was the brainchild of Thomas de Cambrug, who had first tried it in Gloucester Abbey. But Clare’s roof was better, because Cambrug had still been experimenting in Gloucester, whereas he had known what he was doing by the time he arrived in Suffolk.
It had been expensive, of course, but Clare was wealthy, and its inhabitants had leapt at the chance to transform their rather dull church into something remarkable. Donations had poured in, and work had started at once – removing the old, low roof and replacing it with a tier of elegant clerestory windows and the magnificent ceiling above.
Unfortunately, there was a downside. The Lady of Clare had been complaining for some time that her castle chapel was too small, especially when she had guests, but when she saw Cambrug’s innovations, she realised that a solution to her problem was at hand – the church was not only large enough to accommodate her entire household, but the rebuilding meant that it was now suitably grand as well. However, she was not about to subject herself to the unsavoury company of commoners while she attended her devotions, so she gave Cambrug some money and told him to design a new south aisle. The parishioners could have that, she declared, while she took the nave.
The townsfolk were outraged. It was their church and they resented her gall extremely. They marched to the castle as one, where they objected in the strongest possible terms to her projected south aisle. The Lady refused to listen. She ordered Cambrug to begin work, not caring that every stone laid destroyed more of the harmony that had existed between her castle and their town for the last three hundred years.
As soon as the aisle was completed, Cambrug took a new commission in Hereford Cathedral, relieved to be away from the bitterness and hostility that festered in Clare. He left his deputy Roger to finish the roof, but promised to return and check that all was in order before the church was rededicated the following April.
Unfortunately, Roger was entirely the wrong man to have put in charge. First, he was a rigid traditionalist who hated anything new, so the fan vaulting horrified him. And second, he was a malcontent, only happy when he was grumbling, which was irritating to his employers and downright exasperating for his workforce.
‘I will not answer for it,’ he said, coming to stand at Nicholas’s side and shaking his head as he peered upwards. ‘You should have stuck with a nice groin vault, like I told you. This fan lark is dangerous, and will come to a bad end.’
Nicholas fought for patience. ‘Nonsense! Cambrug’s ceiling will be the talk of the country, and we shall be celebrated as men of imagination and courage for having built it.’
Roger sniffed. ‘Oh, it looks pretty enough, but it should have taken twenty years to raise. We tossed it up in a few months.’
‘Yes, because we had so much money,’ argued Nicholas, although he did not know why he was bothering; he and Roger had been through this countless times already. ‘We were able to hire a huge army of masons and use high-quality stone.’
‘The stone is acceptable, I suppose,’ conceded Roger reluctantly. ‘But the men … well, most are strangers, so their work is shoddy.’
‘Not so, because you dismissed all those you deemed to be unsatisfactory. Of course, the same is not true for the south aisle. The Lady’s donation was niggardly, so corners have certainly been cut there.’