‘What will you do with it, if you win?’
‘Why, give it to the parish church, of course,’ replied Albon, so promptly it was clear that he had already given the matter exhaustive consideration. ‘The ceiling is magnificent, but it would look better still with a picture of me on it.’
Bartholomew left him contemplating the kind of image that would best do him justice, and went in search of Michael. He found the monk listening to a very testy debate between Nuport and the freckled squire named Mull about a guy rope that had no obvious purpose. Apparently, the tent had not been erected as per the manufacturers’ instructions, and Mull thought they should take it down and start again, when the function of the stray rope might become apparent. Nuport was of the opinion that they had struggled with the pavilion quite long enough, and that the offending line should be snipped off and forgotten.
‘I hope Nuport wins,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Because it would give me great pleasure to see the thing topple down with that lot inside it. And that includes the sanctimonious Albon.’
The two scholars had not taken many steps towards the Constable Tower when they were intercepted by Lichet. The Red Devil’s hair hung in soggy rats’ tails around his face, while his cloak was saturated, suggesting he had been up and about for hours.
‘I have been interviewing witnesses all night,’ he informed them importantly. ‘And I am almost ready to announce my conclusions. The killer will be in custody today, and I shall have the hundred marks while you two continue to flounder.’
‘Perhaps,’ cautioned Michael. ‘But just naming the killer will not do – the Lady wants proof of his guilt. Otherwise I could just say that you are the culprit, and march off with the money.’
Lichet sneered. ‘Oh, I shall have proof, do not worry about that.’
‘Good,’ said Michael briskly. ‘But we want to talk to Marishal now. Is he awake, or have you dosed him with more soporific that will see him sleep the day away?’
‘I offered him another draught, but he refused,’ sniffed Lichet, apparently having forgotten that the Lady had forbidden him to dispense more. ‘He is a fool to reject the medicine that will spare him the agony of grief, but it is not my place to insist. I shall reserve my expertise for people who actually appreciate my help.’
He turned and stalked away, full of arrogant pride. Seeing such a tempting target, Nuport scooped up a handful of mud and lobbed it, hitting Lichet square in the back. The Red Devil whipped around, and the fury on his face was such that the laughter died in the young man’s throat.
‘Do that again, and I will turn you into a pig,’ Lichet snarled. ‘And serve you to your cronies, roasted with an apple shoved in your mouth.’
‘Turn him into a pig?’ murmured Ereswell, as he ambled past with his arms full of clean white linen for the Queen’s private chamber. ‘How, when he already is one? I do not know which of that pair I detest more – Lichet or Nuport. I live in hope that they will dispatch each other.’
‘Nuport might dispatch Lichet,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘His expression is murderous – he did not appreciate being threatened in front of his friends.’
‘And Lichet did not appreciate being humiliated with a fistful of filth,’ said Ereswell. ‘He will not forget such an insult, and Nuport should watch himself.’
As befitted a man who ran a great household, Marishal lived in considerable comfort, and his quarters were almost as luxurious as the Lady’s. The walls were covered with tapestries, the mixture of which suggested they had been chosen because he liked them, not because they went with the rest of the décor. Yet Margery’s hand was also everywhere, from the bright cushions that were scattered along the benches to the light, airy nature of the family solar.
Marishal was standing by the hearth when the scholars were shown in. He wore an exquisite gipon with tight sleeves and flowing skirts, which had been embroidered with silver thread. His belt was silver, too, and on his feet were soft slippers that looked as though they had been imported from the east. His hair had been oiled and he was freshly shaved. All he needed, thought Bartholomew, was a circlet of gold on his head, and he might be mistaken for a prince. He was pale, but the numb shock had gone, and he seemed in control of himself once again.
‘Lichet left me a potion,’ he said, gesturing to a brimming cup on the table. ‘But I have slept enough, and it is time to confront my anguish. Indeed, I would have done it yesterday, but he slipped his “remedy” into my breakfast pottage without my knowledge.’
‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘That was unethical.’
‘We appreciate that this is a difficult time for you, Master Marishal,’ said Michael kindly. ‘Yet I imagine your children must be a great comfort to you.’
Marishal sniffed and did not acknowledge the last remark. ‘Margery will be buried today. Nicholas has offered her the best spot in the entire church, which is good of him. Of course, it is no less than she deserves, sweet saint that she was.’
He talked a little longer about Margery and her life, but told them little they did not already know, other than the fact that he had been devoted to her and now deeply regretted not giving her the attention she deserved. His occupation was a demanding one, but she had always been patiently understanding of the long hours he worked. Eventually, Michael steered the subject around to Roos and his double life as a member of the Lady’s council. Marishal smiled wanly, and remarked that he was surprised it had taken them so long to uncover the truth.
‘Were you aware that Margery sent him a message,’ asked Michael, electing to ignore the criticism of his talents, ‘urging him to come with all possible haste? Indeed, she was so determined that he should answer her summons that she claimed the Lady was dead, and told him to hurry if he wanted to make the funeral.’
Marishal blinked. ‘Well, that would certainly have brought him running! The Lady promised to leave him a little something in her will, and he would have wanted to be on hand to claim it. But why would Margery invent such a terrible lie?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Michael.
Marishal raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I cannot imagine what prompted her to do such a thing. Are you sure it was her?’
Michael showed him the two letters from Roos’s room, and explained how they had come by them. Marishal clutched them to his breast while tears brimmed in his eyes.
‘She wrote these, without question. She nearly always corresponded with the council for me, confirming our Quarter Day gatherings. She hoped that it would allow me to spend more time with her, although it rarely worked out that way.’
‘So there was no extraordinary session,’ pressed Michael, ‘organised to deal with some urgent and unexpected problem?’
Marishal wiped his eyes. ‘If there were, Roos would not have been included. A few minor matters are aired on Quarter Days, and there is always a nice feast afterwards, but all the important decisions are made by the Lady and me alone, as and when necessary. The Quarter Days are essentially a sop to the likes of Roos, Albon and Lichet, who like to feel valued.’
‘And they are unaware of this?’ asked Michael, who would have seen the truth in a trice.
Marishal gave another weary smile. ‘It is easy to deceive self-absorbed men. But to return to Roos: he was not here on council business, and I know of no reason why Margery should have wanted to see him. I wish I did, because then her death might make sense to me.’