‘He does not seem overly distressed about his dam,’ remarked Michael.
‘Then shame on him,’ said Prior John, lips pursed in disapproval. ‘She was gentle, kind and loving, and the world will be a sadder place without her. She will be missed more than anyone else in Clare – and that includes all us priests.’
‘The artists in the church certainly admired her,’ said Michael. ‘When painting their murals, it was her face they used to depict the Blessed Virgin. She is carved in the rood screen, too.’
‘As they should. She was a saint.’
A number of folk were sobbing, women and men alike. Bartholomew recalled his own reaction when he had met Margery the previous day – how he had been struck by her sweetness and had hoped to talk to her more. He glanced at her family. Marishal had tears streaming unheeded down his face, which was as white as snow. Ella was also pale, but her eyes were dry. Thomas had stepped into the shadows, so was now virtually invisible.
‘Who is in charge?’ asked Langelee. ‘The Lady? Why is she not here, leading her people in their hour of need? Her steward is understandably incapable at the moment.’
‘She does not enjoy the best of health, and mornings are difficult for her,’ explained John. ‘Even so, she should have detailed one of her council to oblige – Albon, Lichet or Jevan.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot expect much of poor Albon, while Jevan is away, and it would be a mistake to appoint the Red Devil – no one will heed any instructions he issues.’
‘But she has a whole court of retainers,’ Langelee pointed out. ‘Hundreds of them. Surely one is capable of stepping up and taking control?’
‘You give them too much credit,’ muttered John. ‘But Ereswell is over there – he has a loud voice and is malleable, so I shall stand behind him and murmur advice in his ear. If we do not impose order on this mêlée soon, there will be more trouble with the town.’
He started to stride towards the courtier, but it was too late, as Lichet had emerged from his quarters in the Cistern Tower. The Red Devil had taken considerable trouble with his appearance. His clothes were the best money could buy, his hair was brushed, and his beard had been fluffed out to impressive proportions. Every head turned towards him, so he drew himself up to his full height, and looked around with an imperious gaze. The hubbub gradually faded into silence.
‘There has been a great tragedy,’ he boomed in a voice that radiated confidence and self-importance. ‘Margery Marishal is dead. So is one of the scholars from Cambridge – both stabbed.’
He paused when Marishal whimpered his distress, and there was a flutter of movement as several ladies hastened to murmur words of comfort – Margery’s friends, eager to help him for her sake. Only when silence reigned again did Lichet continue.
‘The Lady has appointed me to run the castle while her steward is … indisposed.’ He raised his hand to quell the immediate clamour of objections, but it was ignored.
‘But you are a stranger,’ shouted Ereswell angrily. ‘Why should you rule over us?’
‘Because it is the Lady’s wish,’ replied Lichet sharply. ‘And besides, who else is able? You? If you were, you would have done it when all this fuss began. Instead, you retreated into a huddle and cooed with your cronies.’
‘Go on then, Red Devil,’ challenged someone from the back of the crowd. ‘Show us your superior leadership skills. What do you want us to do?’
Lichet thought fast. ‘Go to the chapel and listen to Heselbech celebrate Mass. That should keep you quiet for a while. Then I will–’
‘How?’ shouted one of the watchmen. ‘The chapel is too small for us all to fit inside.’
‘Just the courtiers then,’ determined Lichet. He glared angrily when none of the brightly glittering throng moved. ‘Now, please, not next week.’
‘We do not want–’ began Ereswell indignantly, but Lichet swung around to address the servants, cutting across the nobleman in a way that was sure to annoy.
‘Cooks and scullions,’ he boomed authoritatively, ‘return to the kitchens and start baking the bread for our breakfast.’
‘We did that hours ago,’ called a young baker with floury arms, disbelief thick in his voice. He had a deformity in one leg, which gave him a lopsided gait. ‘The loaves are cooked and the ovens are raked out ready for tomorrow – as they always are by this time in the morning.’
‘Then peel some vegetables instead,’ Lichet snapped, and before the lad could argue, he whipped around to scowl at the squires, who were sniggering because Nuport had just aped the baker’s limp. ‘And you lot can exercise the horses and polish the saddles.’
‘Us?’ asked Nuport, grin disappearing. ‘But that is what the grooms do. We are squires–’
‘Do as I say or face the consequences,’ snarled Lichet, obviously irritated that his authority should be questioned at every turn. ‘Everyone else will wait in the hall, where breakfast will be served in one hour.’
‘One hour?’ cried the castle cook. ‘Do you have any idea how long it takes to prepare a meal for three hundred people? Not to mention those greedy paroquets, which requisition all my best–’
‘It will be ready or else!’ roared Lichet. ‘And when you have finished, you can wash all the pots until they gleam. I shall inspect them later, and if I see so much as a speck of black, I shall want them all done again.’
‘But some are meant to be black,’ objected the cook. ‘They are–’
‘Enough!’ screeched Lichet. ‘The next person to defy me will answer to the Lady. Now, do as you are told – all of you. Well, what are you waiting for?’
Despite the threat, it was still some time before the onlookers deigned to obey. Servants dragged their feet, and the courtiers took a deliberately long time to file into the chapel. Then Lichet saw the scholars with John.
‘You can go home,’ he told the Prior. ‘You are not needed, because we have Heselbech. The rest of you can collect your colleague from the cistern and put him in the chapel when Mass is over. But do not lay a finger on Margery. I shall make the arrangements for her myself.’
Obediently, Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee walked to the Cistern Tower. The door was closed, and Bonde was standing guard outside. The henchman was pale and there was a moistness around his eyes that suggested tears – Margery’s death had upset even that warlike ruffian.
‘Step aside,’ ordered Michael, while Bartholomew was grateful for Langelee’s reassuring presence, as there was something about Bonde that unnerved him profoundly. ‘We are here at Lichet’s behest, and he carries the Lady’s authority.’
Bonde moved away. ‘As you wish.’
Michael reached for the handle, only to find the door locked. ‘Do not play games with me, Bonde,’ he snapped, holding out his hand for the key. ‘It is neither the time nor the place.’
‘I am not playing games,’ retorted the henchman. ‘Marishal took the key with him, as he did not want his wife to become the subject of ghoulish scrutiny. He told me to stay here and stop anyone from entering by force, so that is what I am doing.’
‘Very laudable,’ said Michael. ‘But we only want Roos – we will not disturb Margery, I promise. Now fetch the key, if you please.’
‘I cannot abandon my post on your say-so,’ argued Bonde. ‘But I imagine Lichet will be along in a moment, so he can let you in.’
He looked away, and there was enough light in the bailey for Bartholomew to see a fresh glitter of tears. Michael smiled predatorily.
‘Then while we wait for him, you can answer some questions. Start by telling us what happened here from your perspective.’