‘Did you see Skynere’s body, as well as Wisbech’s?’ asked Bartholomew.
John nodded. ‘He died at his dinner table. I think he had swallowed too much wine with his last meal, so when the poison struck, he was incapable of saving himself. However, that is a guess on my part, and I cannot prove it. No one can – not now.’
Bartholomew did not want to listen to a lot of ex-warriors recounting deeds of bloody glory – he had heard enough of those from Nicholas the previous night – but Langelee hissed angrily that if the physician wanted a free bed, then the least he could do was feign an interest in his hosts’ exploits.
Time passed slowly, and the tales were still in full flood when the bell rang for vespers. The three scholars joined the Austins in their beautiful church for the ceremony, and as they were hungry afterwards, accepted an invitation to dine in the refectory. Mercifully, John imposed a rule of silence at meals, so Bible readings took the place of grisly stories. Unfortunately, the cantor had selected the Book of Joshua, and the subject was the Battle of Jericho.
By the time they emerged, the sun had set. The cool air smelled of wet soil and spring blossom, and was damp from a recent shower. A blackbird trilled a final song from the roof of the church, clear and sweet, while one of the cooks sang lustily in the kitchens. Other than that, the evening was still, and Bartholomew was aware of a growing sense of peace. Unwilling to lose it, he begged to be excused a return to the Prior’s House for another session of entertainment.
‘Very well,’ said Langelee, although it was clear from his bemused expression that he failed to understand why anyone should choose to opt out of what promised to be a rollicking good time. ‘But have an early night, because I want you and Michael to start recruiting new benefactors first thing in the morning. I shall spend tonight devising a list of who to target.’
But when Bartholomew saw the barrels of ale that were being hefted into the Prior’s House by the bulky Nicholas, he knew Langelee would do no such thing. The Master was about to indulge in the kind of occasion he loved – one in which the tales of his and others’ victories flowed freely, and the drink flowed more freely still. He might make a stab at working on Michaelhouse’s behalf, but it would not be long before the College and its fiscal problems were forgotten.
‘Come on, Langelee,’ bellowed Nicholas cheerfully. ‘The ale will turn sour if you stand there gossiping much longer.’
With a grin, Langelee loped towards him, stopping en route to fling comradely arms around the shoulders of Prior John and Heselbech. Other friars were already inside the house – they could be heard bawling the songs that soldiers sang while on campaign.
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am glad we are to be spared more of that, Brother.’
‘Let me show you to your quarters,’ came Weste’s voice from the darkness behind them. It made them jump, as neither had heard him approach. For such a stocky man, the cofferer possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And when you children are tucked up in bed, we men can make merry.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael primly. ‘But do not forget your calling – priests are not supposed to carouse all night, revelling in the violence they committed in the past.’
‘It will do us good,’ countered Weste. ‘We have been in a state of high alert for months while the feud between castle and town has escalated. It is high time we relaxed for a few hours.’
The sounds of manly laughter faded as Bartholomew and Michael followed him across the precinct towards the room that had been readied for them. Bartholomew breathed in deeply, enjoying the sweet scents of the fading day. The friars were not the only ones who had been busy of late – he himself had worked frantically during the last term, struggling to make enough time for Matilde in his busy schedule. It felt good to retire with the sun, secure in the knowledge that his sleep would not be disturbed by patients, students or a demanding fiancée.
‘You think you will rest easy, do you?’ murmured Michael, reading his mind. ‘When there have been at least five suspicious deaths since Roger was felled by scaffolding in February, and the town is on the verge of some serious civil disorder?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘We should be safe here – the place is full of soldiers.’
‘The hermit does not consider it safe. He told us to wear armour.’
Having met the friars, Bartholomew was inclined to think that Jan was wrong to malign them. Yes, they were warlike, but their desire to atone for the blood they had spilled seemed genuine to him, and meant they would be loath to kill anyone else.
‘It was your idea to ignore his warning and come here anyway,’ he retorted.
‘Only because you and Langelee failed to come up with an alternative. Lord! All that talk of slaughter! I shall have nightmares tonight.’
As Langelee was a friend of the Prior, they had been allocated a very handsome chamber in the guesthouse, although resentful glares from three men carrying hastily packed bags told them that it had not been standing vacant.
‘Albon’s people,’ explained Weste. ‘Billeted here because the castle is full. They claim to be soldiers, but they do not have a single battle scar among them. I cannot see the enemy being overly alarmed when they land on French soil. Not like they were when I arrived with John and the lads all those years ago.’
‘Is that where you lost your eye?’ asked Bartholomew, while Michael shot him an agitated glance for encouraging the telling of yet another bloody tale.
‘In a skirmish near Paris.’ Weste flipped up the patch to reveal the empty socket beneath. Bartholomew examined it with polite interest, while Michael studiously looked in the opposite direction. ‘Would you like to hear about it?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Michael hastily before he could oblige. ‘But does being single-eyed interfere with your work as an illustrator?’
‘It does not help, certainly. Did you see my Book of Hours? Some careless rogue set it alight, so Marishal brought it to me for repairs. I was horrified. How could anyone have treated a book so badly? Especially that page, which was the best in the whole tome.’
‘The one with the shepherd?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And the white-whiskered demon peering out from behind a tree?’
Weste nodded. ‘It was meant to serve as a reminder that Satan is always present. I gave him a human face to underline the point – if I had made him a serpent, it would be patently obvious that we should steer clear of him. But Lucifer looks like us, which is what makes him so dangerous.’
‘Too true,’ agreed Michael, and glanced around uneasily.
The guesthouse was supremely comfortable. The beds were soft and smelled of clean straw, the blankets were freshly laundered, and someone had set a bowl of spring flowers on the windowsill, which released a delicate scent. Michael retreated primly behind a screen to perform his ablutions. He was particular about his privacy, and hated anyone seeing him in a state of undress.
Bartholomew enjoyed a vigorous wash, glad to sluice away the dirt of travel, then rinsed his shirt and hose, and set them to dry in front of the fire. By the time he had finished, Michael had bagged the best bed, and was lying in it with the blanket pulled up to his chin. Bartholomew took the one by the window, which he opened the moment the monk had doused the lamp and could not see what he was doing – he hated stuffy rooms. He closed his eyes, and was just dropping off when Michael began to speak.
‘Roger was the first victim in this turbulent town. He died eight weeks or so ago, killed by a piece of scaffolding. It was deemed an accident, but there were no witnesses and he was unpopular. I suspect he was brained deliberately.’
Bartholomew was barely listening. ‘By whom?’ he asked drowsily. ‘Town or castle?’