‘My Lady of Clare,’ gulped Donwich, the first to regain his composure. ‘May I congratulate you on your radiant good health? We expected to find you … rather less ambulatory.’
Chapter 4
A short while later, seven of the eight scholars waited in a pleasant antechamber, where the Lady had agreed to grant them a private audience, away from the hundred or so courtiers who clustered around her. Roos had disappeared, which annoyed Badew and Harweden, who muttered darkly about needing his support in the light of the recent unwelcome developments. Both were trembling with anger and disappointment.
‘So what of your secret, Badew?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Will you still reveal it today?’
Badew scowled. ‘It will have to keep for a little longer. However, I still have something to say to Steward Marishal. I shall never forget the vile behaviour of his brats when I was forced to sign that quit-claim, and it is time for revenge.’
‘Badew, please,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It was a long time ago and they were children–’
‘It feels like yesterday to me,’ flashed Badew. ‘And fourteen years is not a long time ago. Not when you are my age.’
Donwich and Pulham did not care about Badew and his secrets. They were more concerned about their benefactress finding out that they had travelled to Clare in the expectation of attending her funeral.
‘It must be kept from her at all costs,’ Pulham said worriedly. ‘We cannot afford to annoy her – she is old, and there may not be enough time to regain her good graces before she really does die. Our College will not survive without the handsome legacy she promised.’
‘Do not fret – I have a plan,’ said Donwich soothingly. ‘No one will accuse you and me of circling like vultures, Pulham, I promise. What about you, Langelee? Do you have a convincing excuse to explain your presence here?’
‘I shall tell her the truth,’ hissed Badew, before the Master could reply. ‘And that will be the end of so-called Clare Hall.’
‘Then it will be the end of you as well,’ countered Pulham warningly. ‘Because if you hurt us, I shall ensure that you are forever remembered as a thief. Your contributions as Chancellor will be forgotten, and when you die, scholars will spit on your grave.’
‘You would not dare,’ snarled Badew, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘It would be a lie.’
‘I would dare,’ Pulham flashed back, ‘so think very carefully before you open your mouth. In fact, why not cut your losses and leave now, before the Lady sees you? You will not be dancing on her grave today, so there is no reason for you to linger.’
‘We cannot go home on our own,’ said Harweden indignantly. ‘Not with ear-loving robbers at large. Much as your company sickens us, we have no choice but to wait for you.’
‘Besides, I still have things to say to Marishal,’ said Badew, so venomously that Bartholomew was repelled by the malice that blazed from the old man’s face. Clearly, the passage of time had inflamed rather than soothed the wound that Clare Hall had inflicted when its Master and Fellows had invited the Lady to take his place.
‘Here she comes,’ whispered Langelee, cocking his head at the clatter of approaching footsteps. ‘Best behaviour now, everyone. We do not want her to denounce us all as greedy opportunists with long-standing grudges.’
The Lady had visited Cambridge fairly regularly when she had first agreed to finance Clare Hall, but her appearances had decreased over the past two or three years. Bartholomew understood why when she entered the antechamber. She had aged since he had last seen her – her gait was stiff, her skin was papery, and there was a pallor about her that was indicative of a recent illness.
She was followed in by Marishal and Lichet, with Bonde bringing up the rear, toting enough weapons to supply a small army and looking as though he would dearly love to try them out. Donwich and Pulham swept forward to make a gushing obeisance, effecting courtly bows and remarking again on their benefactress’s radiant good health.
‘Then you are not very observant,’ the Lady retorted, ‘because I have been unwell. However, I am better now, thanks to Master Lichet. He tended me day and night until I recovered.’
‘He is a medical man?’ asked Donwich with polite interest.
‘A learned man,’ corrected Lichet in a voice that had a peculiarly booming quality. He stroked his red beard importantly. ‘Which means my knowledge extends far beyond a single discipline. I have studied medicine, of course, but I also know philosophy, theology, geometry, music, the law and art.’
‘But not modesty,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, who struggled not to laugh.
‘It is always interesting to meet a fellow intellectual,’ said Pulham, inclining his head courteously. ‘Where did you earn your degrees? Oxford? Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances.’
‘I did not insult myself by studying in England,’ declared Lichet, his voice dripping contempt at the very notion of it. ‘I attended the great university at Bordeaux.’
‘Bordeaux?’ echoed Michael suspiciously. ‘I did not know it had one.’
‘Then you are an ignoramus,’ stated Lichet. ‘Because it is by far the best studium generale in the world. Of course, only the top minds are accepted to study there – the rest have to make do with Paris, Oxford and Cambridge. We shall have no mutual friends, Pulham, of that I am sure.’
‘So am I,’ muttered Michael in distaste, ‘because he is a charlatan. Maybe he is a warlock who has bewitched his host – the Lady is no fool, and should be able to see through such transparent mendacity.’
‘Then let us hope he does not bewitch us as well,’ Langelee whispered back, ‘or we might find that he has inveigled us into making him a Fellow, and we do not want a man like him offering to teach medicine when Bartholomew leaves.’
Michael raised his voice. ‘Perhaps you will show us dim-witted Cambridge men how to debate properly, Master Lichet,’ he said, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘So how about a public disputation? I am sure the Lady will agree, as there is no entertainment quite like it. Then you can demonstrate Bordeaux’s superiority to us dullards.’
‘I do not have time for that sort of nonsense,’ declared Lichet pompously, although not before alarm had flared in his eyes. ‘I am too busy with the paroquets.’
‘Paroquets?’ queried Michael. ‘What are those?’
‘Exotic birds,’ explained Lichet, and smirked. ‘Perhaps you can debate with them instead. Then you might stand a chance of winning.’
The Lady chuckled, so Marishal and Bonde did likewise. Bartholomew held his breath – scholars were sensitive to insults about their intelligence – but Michaelhouse and Clare Hall needed the Lady’s money, and dared not risk offending her by exposing Lichet as a dolt, while Swinescroft was under threat of blackmail. There were pained smiles or glares, but no reckless rejoinders.
‘So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ asked the Lady eventually. ‘I am sure it can have nothing to do with money, as I am already generous to Clare Hall, while Michaelhouse must wait until I die to learn if it features in my will. And I have nothing to say to Swinescroft.’