‘We cannot afford to dally,’ determined Langelee. ‘If they do not come soon, we shall have to leave without them. We will be safer in a large group, I know, but a lot is at stake here – Michaelhouse’s coffers are empty, and unless we get our bequest from the Lady of Clare in the next few days, we shall have to declare ourselves bankrupt and close down.’
‘I will not allow that to happen,’ vowed Michael. ‘Not after all we have been through over the past decade to keep the place going.’
‘Then let us hope the Lady has been generous,’ said Langelee, ‘because we will not last another month without a substantial donation. Thank God she died when she did!’
Bartholomew winced, still uncomfortable with the true purpose of their mission – not to attend the Lady’s funeral, as Michael and Langelee told anyone who asked, but to collect what they hoped she had left them in her will.
‘Are you sure we will be among her beneficiaries?’ he asked uneasily. ‘I had no idea she had promised us anything until you mentioned it last night. Did she tell you privately?’
‘Not in so many words,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But she liked us, and I often had the impression that she wished she had taken Michaelhouse under her wing, rather than Clare Hall. She loved being generous to scholars, so I am sure she will have remembered us.’
‘Which is why we must reach Clare in time to pay our respects to her body,’ said Michael. ‘It will look grubby if we just appear for the reading of the will – as if we only want her money.’
‘But we do only want her money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As does Clare Hall. I fail to understand why Swinescroft wants to come, though – they and the Lady hated each other.’
‘Probably to dance on her grave,’ shrugged Michael. ‘I told you: they are despicable characters, and gloating over the death of an enemy is exactly the sort of thing they will enjoy.’
For the next hour or so, they watched the little Fen-edge settlement come to life. Scholars and priests hurried to their daily devotions, while townsfolk emerged yawning and scratching for a day of honest – or dishonest – toil. Carts of all shapes and sizes poured through the gates from the surrounding villages, bringing wares to sell at the market – vegetables, sacks of peas and beans, woven baskets, pottery, wooden cages filled with agitated birds. It was hectic, noisy, and over it all came the sound of bells from at least twenty churches and chapels, ranging from the bass boom of St Mary the Great to the tinny clang of nearby St Botolph’s.
‘Here they are,’ said Langelee eventually, as two horsemen rode towards them with insulting insouciance. ‘Or Clare Hall, at least. Damn! They have sent Donwich and Pulham as their emissaries. I cannot abide that pair. I am the Master of a respectable College, but they still make me feel like a grubby serf.’
It was true that Donwich and Pulham considered themselves to be very superior individuals. Both were in their late thirties, and were smug, conceited and pompous, with reputations built on their contribution to University politics rather than their intellectual achievements. They hailed from noble families, and their travelling clothes were cut from the very finest cloth.
‘We overslept,’ explained Pulham breezily, careless or oblivious of the inconvenience this had caused. ‘But we are here now. Shall we go?’
‘We cannot,’ replied Langelee sourly, ‘because we are still missing Badew, Roos and Harweden. Stay here and do not move. I will find out what is keeping them.’
‘Do not bother,’ drawled Donwich. ‘They will have hired nags from some inn, which will never match ours for speed. We shall make better time without them.’
He smirked, because he and Pulham rode young stallions with glossy coats and bright eyes, whereas Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew had elderly ponies with shaggy manes and lazy natures. To emphasise the point, he performed a series of fancy manoeuvres designed to show off his mount’s pedigree. Michael and Langelee watched with grudging admiration, but Bartholomew, who was not remotely interested in horsemanship, wished Donwich would stop fooling around, because their departure would be delayed even further if he was thrown.
‘So why wait for Swinescroft?’ Donwich went on, to prove he could talk and control his horse at the same time. ‘We should leave now.’
‘There is safety in numbers, and the Clare road has been plagued by robbers of late,’ explained Langelee. ‘Simon Freburn and his sons, who have a penchant for cutting off their victims’ ears.’
‘If we are attacked, we shall just gallop away,’ declared Pulham smugly. ‘No thief will ever catch us or our ears. I only hope that you will be able to follow.’
‘Galloping away is exactly what they want you to do,’ retorted Langelee disdainfully. ‘You will ride directly into an ambush, where two men will be much easier to manage than eight. If you want to reach Clare in one piece, I strongly suggest you remain in the pack.’
The Clare Hall men blanched, as well they might, because it was clear from their clothes that they were worth robbing, and neither carried a weapon. By contrast, Michael had a stout staff, Bartholomew had a selection of surgical blades, while Langelee toted a sword, a crossbow, several very sharp daggers and a cudgel. Donwich gave a short, uneasy laugh.
‘My colleague jests,’ he blustered. ‘Of course we will not abandon you, and you can count on us to be at your side in the event of trouble.’
‘Behind us, more like,’ muttered Langelee venomously. ‘Cowering.’
It was some time later that the door to a nearby tavern opened, and the three scholars from Swinescroft emerged, brushing crumbs from their tabards as they did so. The scent of smoked pork and fried eggs wafted out after them. They strolled unhurriedly to the adjoining yard, where they heaved themselves on to three nags that looked older than their riders.
‘Do not rush,’ called Donwich acidly. ‘We are quite happy to sit here, twiddling our thumbs.’
‘We have no intention of rushing,’ shot back grey-haired Badew, the oldest of the trio. There was ice in his voice. ‘Not on your account.’
He had once been a formidable figure in the University – a chancellor, no less – but that had been before his treacherous Fellows had inflicted the wound from which he had never recovered, and that had turned him sour and twisted with hate. His favourite pastime now was suing other scholars, so that barely a month went by when he was not engaged in one lawsuit or another, ranging from disputes over books and money to accusations of theft, assault and damages.
‘Have you been waiting?’ asked Saer de Roos, the youngest, sweetly. ‘Oh, we do apologise.’
He was still a handsome man, with blue eyes and fair hair, who continued to win admiring glances from women – although the attraction tended to wane once he engaged them in conversation and they discovered that he was sly, lecherous and cruel. That day, he had donned a peculiar brown woollen hat with flaps that came down over his ears. Donwich regarded it askance.
‘I hope you do not intend to wear that to the funeral,’ he remarked. ‘It would be an insult to the Lady.’
Roos smirked. ‘Would it? Good! However, I was not thinking of her when I put it on this morning. I did it because I have earache.’
‘Would you like a tincture?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘I have one in my bag.’
‘I do not want your rubbish, thank you very much,’ retorted Roos unpleasantly. ‘I would sooner endure the pain than be treated by a man who deals with filthy paupers.’