‘Then we shall do as you suggest,’ said Langelee, capitulating promptly. ‘There he is now. Hey, you! Red Devil! Come over here.’
Langelee possessed a voice that carried, and it was clear that Lichet was indeed disliked, as several courtiers broke into delighted grins at the disrespectful summons. Lichet scowled indignantly and started to walk pointedly in the opposite direction, but quickly reconsidered this strategy when Langelee bellowed at him a second time, louder than the first, so even more people heard and exchanged looks of amusement.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded testily, stamping up to the Master. ‘I am busy.’
‘So are we,’ retorted Langelee. ‘However, we have been asked to cure the Lady’s paroquets of a malady – one that is beyond your meagre skills. So take us to them at once.’
Bartholomew was impressed by the Master’s uncharacteristic guile: Lichet could not possibly accede to such a ‘request’ without losing face, so a refusal was inevitable.
The Red Devil spoke between gritted teeth. ‘She entrusted them to me, and I do not let amateurs anywhere near them. And for future reference, you will address me as Master Lichet.’
‘Will I indeed?’ said Langelee softly, fingering his enormous sword.
Lichet took a nervous step away. ‘Just stay away from my birds,’ he ordered, before turning on his heel and stalking away, head held high.
He was so keen to escape that he walked too fast, and almost fell when he skidded in mud. There was a gale of laughter from the watching courtiers – louder and longer than was really warranted. Then one came to clap Langelee appreciatively on the shoulder. He was a short but elegant man with a huge moustache, who introduced himself as Peter de Ereswell.
‘For that display, I shall give you a pig,’ he promised. ‘I cannot abide Lichet.’
‘We prefer money,’ said Langelee bluntly. ‘It is easier to transport than livestock.’
‘Then I shall give you the equivalent amount in cash,’ said Ereswell, eyes twinkling with amusement, ‘just for being audacious enough to demand it. Will you see what else you can do to annoy the Red Devil? You will find that baiting the bastard can be very lucrative.’
‘You see?’ asked Marishal, smiling. ‘You could leave here wealthy men.’
But the moment he and Ereswell had gone, Langelee’s bullishness faded. ‘I wish we had never come,’ he said gloomily. ‘The venture has been a disaster from the start. The Lady dead indeed! She is fitter than the rest of us put together.’
‘She is not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Her health is fragile, and she feels old and tired. But look over by the gate. Is that the messenger who delivered the letter about her so-called demise?’
‘It is,’ said Michael, eyes narrowing. ‘And he has some explaining to do.’
The messenger was named Justin, a pimply youth with an eager smile and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. He raised his hands defensively when he saw the Michaelhouse men bearing down on him, and began to gabble an explanation.
‘It is not my fault! I knew nothing of what was in that letter until it was opened and read in Cambridge. I am as stunned as you are to learn it was a lie. Please do not tell anyone it was me who took you the news. Marishal will never use me again, and I love riding.’
Langelee nodded to the stained dressing. ‘But are you any good at it? Or did you fall off your horse, and that explains why we seem to have reached Clare before you, even though we dallied for a day before setting out?’
Justin was indignant. ‘Of course I did not fall off! I was almost home when Freburn appeared out of nowhere and tried to lay hold of me. I was able to escape, but it meant a lengthy detour. I only arrived back an hour ago – to learn that someone has used me to play tricks on you.’ He raised one hand to his head and winced. ‘The Red Devil insisted on binding me up, but now it hurts.’
Bartholomew was not surprised that Justin was in pain when he saw how tightly the filthy, stinking bandage had been tied. He unwrapped it to discover a bruise but no broken skin, which meant the blood belonged to someone else – Lichet had reused the material without washing it first. It was shoddy practice, and one Bartholomew deplored.
‘Who gave you the letter?’ asked Michael. ‘Someone who does not like you, and wants to see you fall prey to Freburn? Or in trouble with Marishal?’
‘Everyone likes me,’ declared Justin confidently. ‘And the letter was just waiting for me on Sunday morning – four days ago now – with a note saying that I was to take it to Water Lane in Cambridge with all possible haste. I rode like the wind, but when I got there, I was not sure which house to knock at …’
‘Whose name was on this missive?’ asked Langelee.
‘No one’s.’ Justin looked sheepish. ‘Unfortunately, it and the accompanying note had been left in a place that my horse can reach, and he loves the taste of parchment. We were lucky that there was anything left for me to deliver at all.’
‘Not really,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would have been better for everyone concerned if he had scoffed the lot with no one any the wiser.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Justin ruefully, and resumed his tale. ‘Anyway, as I was not sure where in Water Lane to go, I waylaid that bad-tempered scholar – Roos. He said it was for him, so I handed it over.’ He shrugged defensively. ‘I had no reason to think he was lying.’
‘Chancellor Tynkell used to live on Water Lane,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps whoever sent the letter does not know that he is dead and his successor now resides in Michaelhouse. Still, these details do not matter, because the prank worked – the lie about the Lady has spread all over Cambridge.’
‘Even so, I am astonished that Roos had the audacity to open it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have been obvious that the intended recipient was the current Chancellor.’
‘Of course it was obvious,’ said Michael tightly. ‘But how could he resist? A message from the lair of an ancient enemy to the University’s highest-ranking scholar? Of course he would seize the opportunity to pry.’
‘He never hesitated for a moment,’ put in Justin. ‘He just broke the seal and read what was written. Then he laughed.’
‘I bet he did,’ muttered Langelee.
Michael became businesslike. ‘There is a way you can make amends for this debacle, Justin. You can ride straight back to Cambridge and inform Chancellor Suttone that we have been the victims of a cruel hoax. Then you can take the news to Clare Hall, who will pay you for your trouble. Go now – unless you want to confess what you did to Marishal.’
Justin hurried to do as he was told, and was galloping through the gate in record time.
‘Roos has no right to open messages intended for the Chancellor – any Chancellor,’ said Langelee indignantly, when the lad had gone. ‘What a rogue!’
‘I quite agree,’ said Michael crossly. ‘And I shall fine him when we get home. But first, he will hand it over so that we can identify the jester who sent it. We shall confront him as soon as we are settled into our new lodgings.’
‘What new lodgings?’ asked Langelee sourly. ‘We do not have any.’
‘We shall stay in the Austin Priory for the rest of our visit,’ determined Michael. ‘It is one of the wealthiest foundations in the county and can afford to keep us for a few days.’
‘But the hermit advised us against it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, they will also be preparing for the royal invasion, and I cannot see them inconveniencing themselves for you – a man from a rival Order.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael serenely.
The Austins had chosen an idyllic spot for their community. It was just south-west of the castle, on what was effectively an island with two arms of the River Stour sweeping around it. It boasted a range of impressive new buildings, along with gardens, fishponds and an orchard, although it was its church that most caught the eye. This was a lovely creation of soft grey stone, with tiers of large windows to let in the light.