Ella’s eyes flashed angrily, and it was clear that she would never dare. She went on an offensive to disguise her annoyance. ‘Although why she agreed to wear an heirloom from that disgusting old lecher is beyond me. He was all pawing hands and will not be missed.’
‘What about Talmach?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Is he missed?’
‘Terribly,’ replied Ella coldly. ‘His death turned me into a widow. I know there is a rumour that Thomas and I made an end of him, but it is a lie. We never touched him or his saddle.’
‘Ask Anne the anchoress,’ put in Thomas. ‘She knows us better than anyone, and will tell you that we are no killers.’
‘I miss Anne,’ sighed Ella, sadness replacing her ire at Michael and his questions. ‘She was more fun than everyone else put together, and the castle is dull without her. It is a pity the Austins made such a fuss about Suzanne. If they had controlled themselves, Anne would still be here.’
‘They did not make nearly as much a fuss as that wretched tanner, though,’ said Thomas, and glanced at the scholars before explaining. ‘Suzanne’s father. The Austins were all righteous indignation, but Nekton was poisonous, and it was he who really forced the Lady’s hand. That vicious-tongued hypocrite has a lot to answer for.’
‘We have not met Nekton yet,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if the aggrieved tanner was responsible for some of the murders – Margery, Roos, Talmach, Charer and Wisbech had associations with the castle, where Anne had done her work. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Not in Clare,’ smirked Thomas vengefully. ‘After all, who wants to reside in a house that is always infested with rats and fleas? And who wants to tan hides that no one will buy? He took himself off to London in the end, where I hope he will be miserable.’
‘But what father would not object when he discovered that the castle’s nurse had carried out an illegal and dangerous procedure on his daughter?’ asked Michael reasonably. ‘He could hardly pretend it did not happen and look the other way.’
‘Why not?’ asked Ella coolly. ‘Other fathers did – lots of them. And because of Nekton’s mean spirit, we lost our beloved nurse and Clare lost a woman with a very useful skill.’
‘It is difficult to know what to make of them,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked away a few moments later. ‘They care for no one but themselves, and they are certainly callous enough to dispatch their mother and a kinsman to suit themselves. And yet what would be their motive? Not a string of pink pearls, surely?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? I do not understand them either.’
‘It is hard to blame Margery and Marishal for declining to dote on them,’ the monk went on. ‘I imagine their stupid japes and arrogance were a cause of shame and embarrassment to two such respectable, hardworking people. Did you notice Marishal’s reaction when I remarked that the twins must be a comfort to him? He does not love them, and I suspect Margery found it difficult, too.’
‘So what now? A word with the squires? I know Adam told us that they went to bed at midnight and did not stir again until morning, but he cannot have watched all their doors and windows. One may have slipped out quietly on his own.’
‘You mean Nuport,’ surmised Michael. ‘The most loathsome and vicious of the pack. But does he have the wits to commit such a serious crime and leave no clues or witnesses?’
‘No, but there is always an element of luck involved. And perhaps there was a witness anyway – the hermit, who you think has been dispatched in his turn.’
The squires were struggling to stabilise Albon’s pavilion. The wind was no more than a whisper that day, but even that was enough to make it billow alarmingly, and Bartholomew was under the impression that it might take to the skies at any moment. As they passed, Ereswell whispered that it leaked as well, so its owner would be in for a wretched time if, God forbid, he should ever be compelled to use it on a military campaign.
Like Thomas, the squires wore shoes with ridiculously long toes, although theirs were so extreme that they were able to tie the ends to their belts. Combined with their harlequin hose, flowing sleeves, oiled beards and part-shaven heads, they looked worse than absurd, and Bartholomew wondered how much more preposterous they would make themselves before Albon put an end to it. However, while Nuport strutted about proudly, clearly delighted with himself and the way he looked, his friends were now aware that they were a laughing-stock, and were obviously uncomfortable.
‘What, again?’ groaned Nuport, when Michael ordered them to recount their movements on the night of the murder. ‘We have already told you, Brother – we spent the evening in the Bell Inn, and came back here at midnight.’
‘After which we all flopped into our beds and went to sleep,’ finished Mull. ‘Except Thomas, who went to visit his sister.’
‘Flopped into your beds alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did you have company?’
‘Alone, unfortunately,’ sighed Mull. ‘Sir William made us promise to remain chaste until we reach France, lest God punishes us for lechery. It is very hard, which is why we are forced to drink so much ale and wine – to suppress our natural appetites.’
‘I must remember that excuse for the next time I have a drop too much claret,’ murmured Michael, fighting down the urge to laugh.
‘I shall not deny myself for much longer, though,’ warned Nuport, and leered at a passing milkmaid; she dropped the pail she was carrying and fled. ‘It was fine when it was only going to be for a few days, but now he says we might be delayed for weeks. Well, bugger that for a lark!’
‘But we took a vow to abstain until we touch French soil,’ Mull pointed out. ‘You cannot break it – not if you do not want dire things to happen to you. But I agree with one thing, though: we cannot deny ourselves for much longer, so unless Sir William takes us away soon, we might have to make our own way there.’
‘Lord! That would be dangerous,’ said another lad worriedly. ‘We need a knight to guide us or we are likely to be dispatched by the first Frenchmen we meet.’
The squires exchanged anxious glances – all except Nuport, who scoffed his disdain for their faint-heartedness, and then informed them that if they felt the urge to take a girl they should do it and the consequences be damned.
‘Did you know Roos, who called himself Jevan?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject abruptly, much to Nuport’s annoyance and the others’ relief.
‘The white-haired ancient from London?’ asked Mull. ‘Yes, we heard he and the scholar were one and the same, although none of us knew it before today. He was on the Lady’s council, but he was an unfriendly devil, and the only person he liked was Mistress Marishal.’
‘You saw them together often?’
‘Just at the Quarter Day meetings,’ replied Mull. ‘They were kin, which explains why she did not send him packing when he pawed at her with his sweaty old hands. If it had been me, I would have punched him in the face. But she was a lady.’
‘I learned a lot from observing him,’ grinned Nuport. ‘How to corner lasses without them realising until it is too late; how to lure them to my bed; how to snatch a grope as they pass without anyone else seeing … He was a master.’
‘I am sure he was,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, recalling Roos’s unsavoury antics when they had first arrived in Clare – his near-assault of the woman sweeping the church, and then his brazen ogling of Margery. ‘There was a–’
He stopped abruptly when he heard an urgent shout. It was Langelee, striding towards them with an expression that told them something was badly amiss.