‘And beyond,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I should visit the paroquets, too. The Lady will not give us five marks if she finds out that I only examined them once.’
‘I cannot see the Queen taking to the roads in this weather,’ remarked Michael, wincing as they stepped outside and rain blew straight into their faces. ‘Not even to watch a fan-vaulted ceiling dedicated. She will send word that she is unavoidably detained, and postpone the visit until summer. You mark my words.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The town and the Lady might be friends again by then.’
A thick, drenching drizzle fell as they walked from the priory to the castle, and the River Stour was an ugly brown torrent. People scurried along with their heads down and their hoods up, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rise: the rain would dissuade folk from taking to the streets to protest about the murders, which could only help the cause of peace. Then he heard the hiss of angry conversation drifting from the alehouses they passed, and realised that the malcontents had just taken their complaints indoors.
He and Michael entered the inner bailey and were greeted by a curious sight. Albon had erected the pavilion that he intended to take on campaign with him – a glorious affair of red and gold stripes, with frills around the edges and a large pennant flying from the roof. It was wholly unsuitable for the conditions he was likely to encounter, and the squires, who had been given the task of erecting it, were hot, cross and fractious.
‘Look what they have done to themselves now!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘They have shaved off all their hair except the fringe at the front. What are they thinking? They look absurd!’
‘It is the latest Court fashion, apparently,’ explained Quintone, overhearing. ‘Thomas had a letter about it from London, and he said the Queen would consider them peasants unless they did the same. He declines to do it himself, though, on the grounds that he is only a steward’s brat, whereas the squires are the sons of nobles.’
Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Were they born gullible, or did they learn it?’
‘I am glad I am not going to war with Thomas,’ confided Quintone. ‘If he cannot be trusted not to make his friends a laughing-stock, how can he be trusted to watch their backs in battle?’
‘Why has Albon pitched his tent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure that he has all the right pieces before he leaves for France?’
‘No – because he does not want to sit out in the rain while he waits for the killer to confess.’ Quintone smirked. ‘It took the squires most of the night to get the thing up.’
‘So Langelee wins the wager,’ murmured Michael. ‘We gave Albon until yesterday to persist with this nonsense, whereas Langelee predicted it would last until tonight. Of course, now he has somewhere comfortable, Albon might confound us all by staying put for the next month.’
‘Well, he does look magnificent in there,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the entrance to see Albon on his throne, another fine cloak cascading artistically around him and his gold-grey mane brushed until it shone. His expression was one of pious fortitude, and the physician wondered if he might stay that way not just for a month, but for as long as the army was needed in France.
He stepped towards him, intending to thank him again for the cloak, but found his way barred by the squires. Close up, their heads looked sore, covered in small cuts and grazes, which suggested they had shorn themselves rather than entrusting the task to a professional barber.
‘Your master will not thank you for keeping folk out,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He wants the culprit to go in and confess, which will not happen with you lot loitering outside.’
‘You mean you are the killer?’ asked Nuport, blinking stupidly.
‘Not him,’ said Thomas, regarding the physician with an expression that was difficult to gauge. ‘He is a veteran of Poitiers, and they do not kill women and old men.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but the squires stepped aside to let him pass anyway.
The inside of the pavilion was very luxuriously appointed. Clearly, Albon had an eye for his creature comforts. The knight waved a dismissive hand when Bartholomew indicated his new cloak with a grateful smile, although it was clear that he was pleased his largesse should be appreciated.
‘It is just a trifle,’ he declared. ‘And valour should be rewarded. It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to save a minion. True knightly behaviour.’
‘Speaking of true knightly behaviour, your squires could do with learning some.’
‘I am aware of that,’ said Albon with a pained expression. ‘And I shall teach them, with God’s help. They are not bad lads – just ones in need of a gentle guiding hand.’
‘A guiding hand, certainly,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although a gentle one will be of scant use. I speak from experience – I have students just like them.’
‘I know what I am doing,’ said Albon, although Bartholomew begged to differ, and wondered how long it would be before the knight conceded that his ruffianly charges were beyond him.
As he and Albon were alone, Bartholomew decided it was a good opportunity to ask about the night of the murder, although not with much hope of learning anything useful. Albon was too self-absorbed to be an observant witness. Even so, the knight listened carefully to his questions, and considered each one thoroughly before venturing a reply. At first, Bartholomew assumed he was being conscientious, but then realised that Albon was desperately bored, and an interview represented a welcome distraction.
‘I went to nocturns in the chapel,’ the knight began. ‘I had hoped to be alone, but a woman stood at the back and fidgeted the whole way through, which was very annoying. She left as soon as the rite was over, which allowed me to pray without the distraction of rustling kirtles.’
‘Were you aware that it was Weste, not Heselbech, who recited the office?’
‘No, but what difference does it make? Both are priests. I appreciate that there are some who would prefer the castle chaplain to a friar from the town, but I am not one of them.’
‘Did you see anyone else out and about that night?’
Albon grimaced. ‘I hesitate to mention it, out of loyalty to a fellow warrior, but Langelee was with Heselbech. They made a dreadful racket with the bell ropes, then staggered behind the rood screen, where I heard one of them fall over. It was most unedifying. Then Langelee left, and I saw another shadow glide into the chancel – Weste, according to you.’
‘Will you really stay here until the culprit confesses?’ asked Bartholomew, sorry that Albon was able to tell him nothing he and Michael did not already know.
Albon smiled serenely. ‘Yes, but it will not be for much longer. Today is Sunday, that most holy of days, when everyone attends church. The killer’s wicked heart will be touched by God, so I anticipate collecting a hundred marks before sunset.’
‘And then you will go to France?’
‘I am afraid I cannot, because the Queen will be here. The Lady will need a strong arm during such an eventful time, and I cannot abandon her in her hour of need.’
‘But Her Majesty might stay in Clare for weeks, or even months.’
‘She might,’ acknowledged Albon, not at all dismayed by the possibility. ‘But France will still be there when she has gone. Of course, her husband may have signed a peace treaty by then …’
‘Your squires will be disappointed to miss the slaughter.’
‘It cannot be helped, and I must do as my conscience dictates. I hope the culprit comes to me soon, though, as I fear Lichet might otherwise accuse an innocent person, just to get the reward. It is a pity the Lady offered such an enormous sum.’