With a train of servants in their wake, they processed through a series of rooms, each one grander than the last. He was startled to see Roos and Margery sitting in one, talking in low voices. They shot to their feet when the Lady and her retinue trooped past, although neither she nor Marishal appeared to notice them, absorbed as they were in their own private discussion.
‘Where have you been, Roos?’ asked Langelee, pausing to chat, so that everyone behind him had to stop, too; oblivious, the Lady and Marishal continued alone. ‘Badew is vexed with you for disappearing. And what are you doing in the Lady’s private apartments anyway?’
‘Badew is always vexed about something,’ said Roos sourly. ‘And if you must know, Mistress Marishal and I were discussing the recent rains. Not that it is any of your business.’
‘I was telling him how our cistern is nearly full for the first time in months,’ elaborated Margery, raising one hand to the pink pearls at her throat; they went perfectly with her rose-coloured kirtle. ‘And how I am worried that it might overflow and flood the bailey.’
‘It will not flood,’ declared Lichet confidently. ‘The improvements I made to the original design will prevent it. And a good water supply is essential for any fortress – it will stand us in good stead if we ever come under siege.’
‘Under siege?’ echoed Bonde. He had a deep, gravelly voice, which dripped hostility. His mangled nose had healed badly, accentuating his coarse, battle-scarred demeanour. ‘What nonsense you speak! Who would want to attack the Lady?’
‘You have obviously not been in the town of late,’ Lichet flashed back. ‘They hate her for foisting the new south aisle on their church.’ His thin, sharp face turned vicious as he jabbed an accusing finger. ‘They hate you as well, because you are a killer.’
‘They hate you more, Red Devil.’ Bonde fingered his dagger in a way that made all the hair stand up on the back of Bartholomew’s neck. ‘They think you are a warlock, who has bewitched her.’
‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Margery softly, coming to lay a soothing hand on the arm of each. ‘No sparring, I beg you. There is no need for enmity, as I have told you both before.’
Surprisingly, much of the bristling menace promptly drained out of Bonde, and he mumbled a sheepish apology. Lichet was less easily appeased – he effected a stiff bow, then turned to hurry after the Lady and Marishal.
‘I am sorry, mistress,’ mumbled Bonde. He sounded sincere. ‘But he aggravated me. He knows exactly how to do it, and it works every time.’
‘I know, Stephen,’ said Margery gently. ‘But you must learn to resist or it will see you in trouble. Now, will you do something for me?’
‘Anything,’ declared Bonde, and gave a shy smile that transformed his cold, brutal features into something almost pleasant.
‘Good,’ said Margery, patting his hand affectionately. ‘Then take Anne a basket of food with my compliments. I have put it ready in the kitchen.’
Bonde nodded, clearly desperate to win her approval. He even attempted a bit of genial chatter, although it sounded forced and he was obviously uncomfortable with small talk.
‘I am astonished that there is anything left, given what those greedy paroquets put away. They ate all the marchpanes again yesterday. It is a wonder they can still fly.’
‘I do not think Anne needs supplies,’ put in Michael. ‘From what I can gather, she receives so many gifts that she is obliged to hawk most of them, making herself a fortune in the process.’
‘She sells it to the poor – at a much lower price than they can get at the market,’ explained Margery. ‘Go now, Stephen. Ask Quintone to help if the basket is too heavy for you.’
Bartholomew instinctively liked Margery Marishal, both for her compassion and for her sensitive intervention in the burgeoning row. He hoped there would be an opportunity to talk to her later, as she was by far the nicest person he had met in Clare so far.
A short while later, the three Michaelhouse scholars were seated at a table with the Lady, Marishal, Margery and Lichet. Bonde stood guard at the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that the courtiers who hovered sycophantically in the adjoining chamber were careful to go nowhere near him.
Michael’s eyes gleamed as the food arrived. There was soft white bread, dried fruit, wine imported from Spain, a variety of meats and cheeses, and pats of yellow butter. The Lady asked him to say grace, then indicated that her guests should eat. Michael did not need to be told twice.
‘I am ravenous,’ he declared, helping himself to a generous portion of roasted venison and then placing the platter so it would be difficult for anyone else to reach. ‘The quality of the fare on our journey was very poor.’
‘Probably because of Simon Freburn,’ said the Lady. ‘No one wants to trade with remote villages as long as he is at large, waiting to pounce. Bonde is doing his best to hunt him down, but the fellow is tiresomely elusive.’
‘Bonde!’ spat Lichet, although not so loudly that his voice would carry to the man in question. ‘He is an imbecile, and I do not know why you keep him. He should be dismissed, and someone more efficient – and more personable – appointed in his place.’
‘He has a good heart,’ countered Margery. ‘He just needs a little patience and understanding.’
Lichet sniffed in a way that suggested Bonde would not be getting them from him. ‘When will Jevan next come to Clare? Soon?’
‘For the next Quarter Day council meeting, I imagine,’ replied Margery, frowning her puzzlement at the abrupt change of subject. ‘Which will be eight weeks hence. Why?’
‘Because he brought Godeston a lovely piece of purple silk from London the last time he came, and I want him to do the same for me – only in scarlet,’ explained Lichet. ‘Although it will be galling to beg a favour from such a person. I cannot abide the man.’
‘He has his virtues, too,’ said Margery, evidently one of those people who saw the good in even the most undeserving of specimens. Then it was her turn to skip to a different topic of conversation. ‘I had the strangest dream last night, Master Lichet. Perhaps you can tell me what it means. I dreamt that Anne and Vicar Nicholas were strolling arm in arm across the bailey.’
Lichet stroked his beard, delighted by the invitation to pontificate. ‘It means you had a holy vision, as anchoresses and priests are God’s chosen. Clearly, their wandering souls came to this castle because it is blessed by the presence of one of the Almighty’s favourite people.’
He inclined his head to the Lady, lest she had not understood that he was paying her a compliment. Bartholomew winced at the clumsy flattery.
‘I disagree,’ said Michael, reaching for the roasted pork. ‘It means that Anne is on your mind because you care for her welfare, while Nicholas must figure large in the arrangements for the royal visit. You merely dreamed of events that occupied you during the day.’
Lichet shot him a furious glance, and before the monk could say more, began to hold forth on a variety of subjects, although when anyone challenged him on one, he deftly segued to another. So when Michael questioned his understanding of Apostolic Poverty, Lichet simply moved to camp-ball, assuming himself to be on safer ground. He was wrong.
‘That would be an illegal move,’ declared Langelee, who loved that particular game more than life itself. ‘You would be disqualified.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Lichet, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I am an expert at curing unsightly rashes. I order them smeared with honey and–’
‘You cannot do it,’ interrupted Langelee, not about to let such an important matter go. ‘And if you did, then you won this fabled victory by cheating. Camp-ball does not have many rules, but not moving the goal lines once the game has started is certainly one of them.’