But Michael shook his head. ‘Richard thought it was a priest, and I trust his testimony. He is an observant man.’
The two Austins looked very much like former soldiers as they marched along. Both were armed with knives, which was unusual for men in holy orders, although Bartholomew understood why they were loath to go about unprotected.
‘I have already told you,’ said Heselbech impatiently, when Michael put his question. ‘I went to the castle chapel to say nocturns, but I was too drunk – as Langelee will attest. I rang the bell, but then decided it would be better to sleep than recite the sacred words in a stupor.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed John piously. ‘There is little worse than insincerity. It damages the soul, and should be avoided at all costs.’
‘So who was the second friar?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heselbech raised his hands in a shrug. ‘There was no second friar. I am the castle’s only chaplain, and everyone else stayed at home. Is that not so, Father Prior?’
John nodded. ‘Other than Nicholas, who went to his church, but we know he arrived without making a detour, because Anne heard him. Heselbech is right, Brother: there was no second friar.’
‘Yes, there was,’ insisted Michael firmly. ‘My witness is positive.’
‘Then I shall ask my people,’ said John, ‘but I am sure your witness is mistaken. He mistook a common cloak for a religious one in the dark.’
‘Yes, it was probably a servant sneaking home late after a night with friends,’ said Heselbech. ‘Despite the current trouble, there are plenty of castle folk with connections to the town – Adam the baker and Quintone, to name but two.’
When Bartholomew and Michael reached the castle, they found that Albon had moved to the next stage of his investigation, which entailed him sitting outside the chapel and announcing that he was available for the culprit to confess. Unsurprisingly, the killer had not taken him up on the offer, so Albon remained in splendid isolation. The knight had chosen another throne-like chair to lounge in, and had dressed with considerable care, so he looked like a king holding court.
‘Does he really think that will work?’ asked Bartholomew wonderingly, when Langelee came to explain what was going on. ‘Surely he cannot be that naive?’
‘Oh, I think he can,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘Shall we wager how long he stays there before he realises that he is wasting his time? I think he will persist until the end of tomorrow – it will be Sunday, and he will foolishly expect the culprit’s conscience to prick on that most holy of days.’
‘He will give up tonight,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘It looks like rain, and he will not want to get his pretty hair wet.’
Michael laughed. ‘I agree with Matt. Shall we speak to Thomas and Ella now? They are by the kitchen, whispering to each other as usual. I wonder what prank is in the offing this time.’
He started towards them, but had not covered half the distance before there was a shriek, and Adam hurtled out of the kitchen, trailing fire. Quick as a flash, Bartholomew whipped off his own cloak and knocked the screeching baker to the ground so that he could smother the flames. Adam continued to howl, although Bartholomew’s speedy reaction had saved him from serious harm.
As he applied a soothing balm to one or two patches of reddened skin, Bartholomew glanced at Thomas and Ella. They were struggling to keep straight faces. The squires did not bother with such niceties, and brayed their mirth openly. Servants and nobles alike eyed them in distaste, which served to make them guffaw all the harder – until Albon put an end to it. He stood with all the dignity at his disposal and strode towards the sobbing baker. The laughter faded away, and only when there was silence did the great man speak.
‘You are a brave boy, Adam,’ he said, gazing down with kindly compassion. ‘Here is a groat for new clothes and another groat for your wounds. Go now, and thank God for your deliverance.’
Adam snatched the coins and fled. He hobbled through the gate and disappeared into the town – the twins’ prank had clearly ended any loyalty he might have felt towards his castle employers, and had turned a friend into an enemy.
‘Your mantle, Doctor,’ said Albon, stooping to pluck the garment from the ground. He held it between thumb and forefinger, so as not to soil his soft white hands.
Bartholomew took it resignedly. It was caked in mud, and holes had been burned in several places, which meant some serious needlework would be required before it was functional again. The journey home would be miserable if the rain continued. Then Albon made a second munificent gesture. With a courtly flourish, he removed his own cloak and held it out.
‘Take this,’ he said, more command than invitation. ‘A medicus must be properly clad when he visits his patients.’
Bartholomew did not want to accept it. It was a beautiful garment of scarlet wool, with fur around the hem and black silk lining. He was notoriously careless with clothes and would ruin it in a week.
‘You are generous,’ he said politely. ‘But you will need it in France.’
Albon stood taller and straighter. ‘Zeal for my God, my King and my country keep me warm in the most inclement of weather,’ he announced grandly, then lowered his voice so that only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Besides, I have five more equally nice ones in my travelling chest, so I shall not miss it.’
A murmur of admiration for his gallantry rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew knew that refusing the cloak would not only appear ungracious, but might be construed as offensive. He took it, astonished by its weight and quality, and wondered what Matilde would say when he arrived home in it. He suspected he would be in for a good deal of teasing.
‘Then thank you,’ he said sincerely.
‘You saved an innocent boy from serious harm,’ said Albon, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the whole bailey. He treated the twins to a reproachful glance, and both had the grace to look away. ‘He might have been maimed for life.’
‘It was only a bit of fun,’ objected Nuport, too dim-witted to know when he should have kept quiet. His cronies eased away, unwilling to be associated with him if he was going to challenge their hero. ‘Can no one take a joke?’
‘It was not a joke,’ declared Albon angrily. ‘It was a despicable act – one devised by cowards and fools. Such antics will be punished, although not by me. By God.’
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode back to his throne, where he made a show of sitting in it without the comfort of a nice warm cloak. His sacrifice earned the twins more critical scowls, including from some of the squires. Thomas hid his chagrin with sullen indifference, although Ella was notably subdued. Bartholomew walked over to them, Michael following.
‘I hope you will not do that again,’ he said curtly. ‘Albon is right – it was cruel and stupid.’
Thomas was unrepentant. ‘It was Adam’s own fault for laying dishonest hands on a silver box that he had no right to touch.’
‘It is true,’ agreed Ella. ‘He is a thief and everyone is sick of his pilfering. We expected him to drop the box when he realised that it was full of hot embers – we did not anticipate that he would slyly shove the thing inside his tunic.’
‘Regardless,’ said Michael in distaste, ‘should you really be playing tricks on servants while your mother lies dead? It is hardly appropriate.’
‘We did it for her,’ argued Ella. ‘She worked hard to turn Adam honest, but the moment she died, he reverted to form. It was disrespectful to her memory.’
‘She was an angel,’ said Thomas. ‘Or so everyone tells us. Unfortunately, she was so engrossed in her good works that she never had time for her own children. Anne was far more mother to us than she ever was. More father, too, given that ours was also too busy to bother.’