He glared at it, resentful that such an ugly, functional appendage should have been planted on the side of his glorious church, but then his eyes were drawn upwards to the ceiling again. The artists were at work now, painting it with geometrical patterns designed to complement the intricate stonework. It would be a riot of blue, red, gold and green, made all the more impressive for stretching unbroken across both nave and chancel. In Nicholas’s view, this would render it far more imposing than the one in Gloucester.
As the new work made the older parts look shabby, Nicholas had arranged for the whole building to be redecorated, and Clare’s wealth was such that the murals commissioned were the best that money could buy. He could not resist a grin of pride. Here he was, a one-time soldier in the King’s army, now in charge of a church as fine as any cathedral. How fortune had smiled on him since he had taken holy orders!
‘She does not like the fan vaulting,’ grumbled Roger. ‘She told me so herself.’
‘She’ was Clare’s anchoress, a woman who was walled up in a cell attached to the north wall. Her little room had two windows – the squint, which opened into the chancel and allowed her to receive Holy Communion; and a slit opposite that was used for passing in food and other essentials. Anne de Lexham had entered her ‘anchorhold’ two months before the renovations had started, so her life of religious contemplation had not been exactly peaceful.
‘She will change her mind once she sees it with the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘Besides, she has benefited hugely from Cambrug’s presence here – her poky wooden cell exchanged for a nice new stone one, all designed to her own specifications.’
‘The church will not be ready for the rededication in April,’ declared Roger, who had an annoying habit of never acknowledging that someone else might be right, and always conceded defeat by segueing to a different gripe. ‘The artists are behind schedule, and so are the glaziers.’
‘Only by a few days, and they will make up for lost time when they hear the news I had this morning – namely that the Queen herself plans to be here for the occasion. They will not want to disappoint her.’
‘It is you who will be disappointed,’ warned Roger, looking upwards with a disparaging eye. ‘Because it will take longer than a few weeks to finish this lot, you mark my words.’
Nicholas was glad when the mason went to moan at someone else. He continued to watch the artists swarm over the scaffolding high above, but jumped in alarm when there was a sickening thud, followed by a babble of horror. It came from the chancel, so he hurried there at once. A number of workmen had clustered around someone who lay unmoving on the floor. Nicholas elbowed through them to find out what had happened – there had been surprisingly few mishaps so far, and he had been worried for some time that their luck would eventually run out.
Roger was dead, his skull crushed. A piece of wood lay on the floor next to him, and blood seeped across the paving stones.
‘It is part of the scaffolding,’ said Nicholas, squinting up at the mass of planking, ropes and ladders overhead. ‘It must have come loose somehow.’
‘Our scaffolding does not “come loose”,’ objected one of the carpenters indignantly. ‘I assure you, that plank did not fall of its own accord.’
‘Of course it did,’ countered Nicholas, startled. ‘What else could have happened?’
The workman shrugged. ‘Someone could have picked it up and belted him with it.’
‘You mean one of you?’ asked Nicholas, looking at each one in turn. ‘Because you are tired of his sour tongue?’
‘No, of course not,’ gulped the carpenter. He managed a feeble grin. ‘Ignore me, vicar. You are right – it was an accident. Let us say no more about it, eh?’
Chapter 1
April 1360
The acrimony between the scholars began while they were still in Cambridge. The plan had been for all three foundations to leave at dawn, so that the journey to Clare – a distance of roughly twenty-five miles – could be completed in a day. This was particularly important to Michaelhouse, which was short of cash, so a night in an inn was a luxury its members were keen to avoid.
The first trouble came when the Michaelhouse men arrived at the town gate at the appointed hour, mounted and ready to ride out, but those from Clare Hall and Swinescroft Hostel did not.
‘Where are they?’ demanded Master Ralph de Langelee, looking around angrily as time ticked past and there was still no sign of them. ‘They promised not to be late.’
He was a bluff, stocky man, who had been henchman to an archbishop before deciding to try his hand at academia. He was no scholar, but he ran his College fairly and efficiently, while his military bearing and famed skill with weapons meant that tradesmen were disinclined to cheat him.
‘They did,’ agreed Brother Michael, who was not only a Benedictine theologian of some repute, but also the Senior Proctor – a post that had been lowly when he had first taken it, but that he had adjusted to the point where he now ran the entire University. He possessed a very princely figure – tall as well as fat – which he maintained by inveigling plenty of invitations to dine out.
‘I am not surprised, though,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Doctor of Medicine and the last of the three Michaelhouse men who were to travel that day. He had black hair, dark eyes and was considerably slimmer than his companions. ‘Clare Hall men always rise late, while Swinescroft … well, Roos is the youngest of them, and he is well past sixty.’
‘Swinescroft,’ said Michael with a smirk. ‘You know that is not its real name, do you not? It is officially St Thomas’s Hall, but so many vile characters enrol there that it has been Swinescroft ever since it opened its doors fourteen years ago.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I always thought it was because it stands on Swinescroft Row.’
Michael waved an airy hand. ‘I am sure that is what its members believe, but they would be wrong. Of course, with Richard de Badew as its Principal, how could it attract anything other than a lot of disagreeable ancients?’
‘Badew,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I first met him, he was a good man – generous, kind and dedicated. But when his Fellows changed the name of his foundation from University Hall to Clare Hall, he became bitter, angry and vengeful, virtually overnight.’
‘Who can blame him?’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It was a disagreeable business, and revealed them to be ungrateful, dishonourable and sly.’
‘It is a pity he let it turn him sour,’ said Michael, ‘because he makes for unpalatable company these days. And yet he is an angel compared to Saer de Roos, who is quite possibly the least likeable person I have ever met – and that includes all the killers and thieves we have confronted over the years.’
‘Gracious!’ murmured Langelee. ‘And he will be travelling to Clare with us today?’
Michael nodded. ‘Along with Badew himself and their friend Henry Harweden, who is another surly rogue. None are known for congenial conversation.’
‘They had better not be uncongenial with me,’ growled Langelee, patting his sword. ‘Because I will not put up with it. However, their characters – whether sullen or charming – will be irrelevant if they fail to turn up.’
‘Yes – where are they?’ Michael looked around crossly, aware that it was now fully light, and well past the time when they should have left. ‘Perhaps you are right, Matt: they are too old for such an excursion, so they decided to stay in bed. They are not like us – men in our prime.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about the last part. There were several grey hairs among his black ones, while Michael had to use a special glass for reading, and Langelee had recently been forced to retire from his favourite sport – camp-ball – because he could no longer run fast enough to avoid being pummelled by the opposition.