The priory was centred around its cloisters, which allowed the friars to move between church, dormitory and refectory without being subject to the vagaries of the weather. Stone seats were provided for restful repose during summer, while a tinkling fountain offered not only clean water for washing, but an attractive centrepiece. Its founders were aware that relations between it and the town would not always be peaceful, so there was only one way to reach it: over a small bridge that had its own gatehouse. One of the brothers stood sentry there, ready to repel unwanted visitors.
‘A Benedictine,’ he said, eyeing Michael’s black habit. ‘We do not allow those in here.’
He looked like another old soldier – he carried himself ramrod straight, there was a large knife in his belt, and he wore his habit like a uniform. It was not uncommon for military men to become nervous about the amount of killing they had done in their lives, and large numbers did elect to make amends by taking holy orders in their autumn years, but it seemed to Bartholomew that Clare possessed an unusually high percentage of them.
‘We have important business with your Prior,’ declared Michael, all haughty dignity. ‘He will want to see us, I assure you, so step aside at once.’
At that moment, a bell chimed to announce a meal in the refectory, and friars began to emerge from the surrounding buildings. When they saw their sentry preparing to repel invaders, several came to see if he needed help. Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that all carried daggers, while a few stopped en route to grab pikes and cudgels from what were evidently caches of arms.
‘Is this a convent or a refuge for retired warriors?’ he asked the guard.
‘Or both,’ muttered Langelee. ‘I wager every one has been in France or the Holy Land.’
‘You have a keen eye,’ said the guard approvingly. ‘Prior John was once a captain in the King’s army, and most of his former comrades have asked to serve under him here. Hah! He is coming towards us now – to ask why a Benedictine is trying to infiltrate our sacred confines.’
‘I was a soldier once, too,’ said Langelee, rather more wistfully than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to scholarship. ‘In York and its environs.’
‘So was Prior John,’ said the guard, pleased. ‘Perhaps you will know each other.’
Prior John was a stocky man with a savage scar on one side of his shaven head. He walked with brisk precision, and carried his Bible in a way that made it look like a weapon. His friars were cast in the same mould, and sported an impressive array of battle wounds. Among them was Cofferer Weste, who was snapping his black eyepatch into place over an empty socket.
‘Do not worry about these three fellows,’ Weste informed the guard amiably. ‘They are just some of the scholars from Cambridge. I told you about them last night.’
‘Do they include the one who has your Book of Hours?’ asked the guard. ‘If so, we should buy it back. It is a lovely piece – far too good for academics, who always have inky fingers.’
He tried to see if that was true of the ones whose way he still barred. Bartholomew, by far the cleanest member of Michaelhouse, presented his own for inspection. The guard nodded approval at what he saw, although Michael and Langelee wisely kept theirs tucked inside their sleeves.
‘My word!’ breathed Prior John as he approached. ‘If it is not Ralph de Langelee! What are you doing here, old friend? I thought we had seen the last of each other when I left York.’
Langelee blinked. ‘John? I did not recognise you! Where are all your fine yellow locks? And what happened to that handsome beard you were so proud of?’
‘The years stole my hair,’ replied John ruefully, then rubbed his bare chin. ‘And the whiskers had to go when I took holy orders – my Prior General said they made me look like a pirate.’
‘You took holy orders?’ blurted Langelee. ‘God’s blood! That must have annoyed the Devil – yours was a soul he must have felt was his for certain. When did this happen?’
‘A decade ago, although I have only been Prior here for the last twelve months. Coming to Clare was a good decision, because it is a lovely place. Would you like to join us? There is always room for another old warrior, and it is never too soon to consider one’s immortal soul. You have more atoning to do than most, so I would not leave it too long if I were you. I say this as a friend.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. They had always known that Langelee had done some disreputable things before he had decided to pursue a career in academia, but it was never comfortable to be reminded of it.
‘It is a tempting offer,’ lied Langelee, ‘but I am Master of Michaelhouse now, which is a very prestigious post. At the University in Cambridge.’
‘Really?’ blurted John. ‘How in God’s name did you convince them to take you?’
‘Easy – I impressed them with my intellect,’ explained Langelee. ‘I am a philosopher.’
Neither claim was true. None of Langelee’s colleagues would ever consider him a thinker, and while he did run a basic course in his chosen subject, all he did was read aloud the set texts that his students were obliged to hear.
‘Are you? Goodness! Who would have thought it? Ralph de Langelee, a famous academic!’
‘And you a priest,’ said Langelee, clapping him on the back with genuine affection. ‘When we were lads, you always dismissed friars as a lot of–’
‘That was a long time ago,’ interrupted John quickly, while his brethren exchanged amused glances behind his back. ‘When death felt like something that happened to other people. Now Judgement Day looms, and I find myself wanting to make amends. You are younger, but it will come sooner than you think. I urge you again – do not leave it too late.’
‘I will not,’ promised Langelee, but with the kind of airy insouciance that suggested he set scant store by such concerns. ‘You must have impressed someone important, John, because such appointments are not handed out to just anybody. Brother Michael here has been angling for an abbacy or a bishopric for years, and he is very talented.’
‘No one else wanted it,’ explained John, who apparently knew Langelee well enough not to be offended by the insult implicit in the remark. ‘There is trouble brewing, you see. The last Prior saw it coming and resigned as soon as he could put pen to parchment. I was the only one willing to take his place.’
‘What trouble?’ asked Langelee warily.
‘Unrest – which started when the town began to rebuild its church, and the castle insisted on interfering. My remit is to keep the peace, while simultaneously ensuring that we Austins are not drawn into the spat.’
‘Is that why you are armed to the teeth?’ asked Langelee, gesturing to the listening flock.
John grinned impishly. ‘You will know when we are “armed to the teeth”, believe me. What you see is us relaxing. Taking up arms is not something we expected to do again, but our Prior General gave us permission to defend ourselves as we execute our duties. We are obedient men, ready to obey his commands to the letter.’
Langelee beamed back. ‘You and I have much to talk about, old comrade, so we shall stay with you for the next week. I am sure you can find us a corner somewhere.’
‘If it were anyone else, I would refuse, given that we shall be overrun with royal retainers in a few days. But seeing as it is you …’
A short while later, Langelee, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the Prior’s House, each holding a cup of unusually fine claret. They were being entertained by John and three other Austins. One was Weste, whose post as cofferer meant he was entitled to be there; one was Nicholas, who had come to borrow a Psalter but had decided to linger when he saw a party in the making; and the last was John de Heselbech, the castle’s current chaplain, appointed after Wisbech’s death. All four were much of an ilk – brawny men with missing teeth, although each had one feature that made him distinctive: John was bald, Nicholas was huge, Weste had his eyepatch and Heselbech’s teeth had been filed into points, which made him seem an odd choice to serve a high-ranking noblewoman.