‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘A legal text?’
‘A Book of Hours. It was crafted by John de Weste, who is cofferer at Clare Priory and also one of the country’s finest illustrators. I am sure you have heard of him.’
Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. Books of Hours were devotional tracts, filled with prayers and psalms. He barely had time to study the medical tomes he was obliged to teach, so religious books were a luxury with which he was wholly unfamiliar.
‘It cost a fortune,’ Pulham went on. ‘But the moment I saw it, I knew I had to make it my own. Just look at the pictures – each one is a work of art.’
Bartholomew leaned forward to see an intricate pastoral scene, showing a blue-frocked shepherd tending his flock in attractively rolling countryside. Birds fluttered overhead and the sun shone. Yet darkness lurked, because Satan was watching from behind a tree. The Devil was depicted peculiarly – he had a tail and cloven hoofs, but his head was that of a man with a mane of white hair and snowy whiskers. Something about the face was vaguely familiar, although Bartholomew could not have said why.
‘It is beautiful,’ he acknowledged. ‘But surely you could have left it with a trusted colleague? What happens if it gets rained on? Or lost?’
‘I brought it with me because I have discovered a flaw,’ explained Pulham. ‘In that picture, as a matter of fact. I want Weste to put it right.’
‘What flaw?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the page again. ‘The fact that lambs tend not to be born in high summer, which is what seems to be happening in the left-hand corner?’
‘Is it?’ Pulham peered at it. ‘Lord, so it is! I had not noticed, but I am not a farmer, so it does not matter. No, I refer to Satan, who is far too human-looking for my liking. He should–’
He stopped abruptly when the tome was ripped from his hand by Roos, who peered at the picture briefly, then flung the whole thing into the fire. Pulham gave a shriek of dismay and leapt to rescue it, but Roos grabbed his belt and held him back. Equally appalled – he had never approved of book-burning – Bartholomew darted forward and managed to pluck the volume from the flames. The pastoral illustration was gone, but the other pages were mostly unscathed.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Pulham howled at Roos, snatching the book from Bartholomew and cradling it to his breast. ‘Are you mad?’
‘It is a vile piece of heresy,’ snarled Roos, lunging for it again, ‘and the fire is the only place for it. Give it to me, or I shall tell everyone that you are a warlock.’
‘Roos, stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, thinking this was unacceptable behaviour even by Swinescroft standards. ‘It is a Book of Hours – it contains prayers and psalms. There is nothing untoward about it. Show him, Pulham.’
‘Yes, look at it!’ screeched Pulham, waving the damaged bit at Roos as tears started from his eyes. ‘Look at what you have done to an exquisite piece of art, you damned lunatic!’
Roos peered briefly at it, then turned and stalked away. ‘Just keep it away from me,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he went.
Bartholomew could only suppose that breaking off the altercation so abruptly was Roos’s way of acknowledging that he had made a mistake. Clearly, an apology was not going to be forthcoming.
‘The man is insane,’ sobbed Pulham, hugging the book to him again. ‘I feel like clouting him over the head with it, and continue bashing until his brains fall out.’
Bartholomew started to reply, but was distracted by raised voices from the other side of the room. Badew was ill again, which was small wonder given the amount of food he had just managed to pack away. Unfortunately, he was more inclined to blame his discomfort on someone else rather than admit his greed, and had accused Donwich of poisoning him.
‘You do not want me to go to Clare,’ the old man was declaring, eyes flashing hotly, ‘because you are afraid of what I might tell people there.’
‘I assure you,’ drawled Donwich, with the kind of arrogance that was sure to rankle, ‘nothing you say could matter less to me. You are an irrelevance.’
‘Is that so?’ snarled Badew. ‘Well, you can think again, because I know things – secrets that will put the Lady’s executors in a flutter.’
‘What secrets?’ asked Michael curiously.
Badew smirked tauntingly. ‘You will have to wait and see. Come, Roos, Harweden. The company here has begun to stink, and I can stand it no longer.’
‘Thank God we are nearly there,’ muttered Langelee, as they stepped into the teeming rain for the last leg of their journey. ‘I do not think I can take much more of this bickering – they are worse than fractious children.’
As soon as he saw it, Bartholomew understood exactly why Elizabeth de Burgh had chosen to make Clare her seat of power. It was a jewel of a place, even in the rain with water sluicing down its roofs and tumbling along its gutters. It was dominated by the castle, a vast fortress that occupied a sizeable tract of land, all protected by curtain walls, ditches, ramparts and towers. However, the inner bailey buildings had plenty of large windows, suggesting it was as much a palace as a military garrison. Outside the walls, but still within the encircling moat, were gardens, orchards and vineyards.
The town itself was just as splendid, and Bartholomew looked around with interest as he rode, admiring the decorative plasterwork on the houses of those who had grown rich from Clare’s strategic position on the River Stour and the great castle on its doorstep. There was an atmosphere of conceited well-being among the people he passed, but no indication that the Lady’s death was cause for sorrow. Perhaps they were glad to see the back of her, he thought, recalling her as a domineering woman with firmly held opinions.
They crossed a bridge and had their first glimpse of the parish church. It was unusually large and had been the subject of a recent renovation, as parts of it were still swathed in scaffolding. The top half of the building was new, and so was the south aisle, while the lower half was ancient, dating from the time of the Conqueror.
‘It looks odd,’ declared Langelee, reining in to regard it critically. ‘As if some giant has come along and sliced off one roof in order to replace it with another. The two parts do not fit together properly – they are different colours, for a start.’
‘That will not be so noticeable once the new parts have weathered a bit,’ said Bartholomew, and smiled appreciatively. ‘The nave and chancel are an impressive height, though, so the ceiling must look splendid from within.’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Langelee. ‘But I am unimpressed by that south aisle – it is crafted from cheaper materials than the rest, and is not nearly as handsome.’
‘We should go in,’ declared Michael. Their arrival had attracted attention, and he was keen for his piety to be reported to people who mattered. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’
No one liked to argue, so they dismounted and trooped into the porch. Hoods were pushed back and hats removed, although Roos declined to part with his vile woollen cap.
‘Do you still have earache?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically, wondering if discomfort had been responsible for the unedifying incident with the book in the tavern earlier.
Roos nodded and raised one hand to the side of his head. ‘It throbs like the Devil, and I shall be glad to lie down. Your fat friend knows it, of course, which is why he suggested a prayer – to cause me additional pain by dallying.’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to deny it, but Roos had already stamped away. Pushing the surly old man from his mind, he walked into the nave, aware of the clean scents of wet plaster and fresh paint. Then he gazed upwards in astonishment.