Ella was silent for a moment, then became decisive. ‘Then he must mend Suzanne’s face,’ she said, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And when she is whole again, we will find her a nice husband in some remote village. My mother’s pearls will be her dowry.’
‘I cannot repair her now,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Suzanne’s growing alarm at the plan. ‘It is eighteen months too late. But I can take her to someone who will teach her how to disguise the mark.’
Matilde championed their town’s prostitutes, where disfiguring injuries were not unusual from vengeful or drunken customers, so she had no small experience with women like Suzanne. Moreover, she would offer far more sensible advice than the girl was getting from her well-meaning but misguided friends.
‘Good,’ said Katrina in relief, before Suzanne could voice her reservations. ‘It is settled then. She will go to the University with the scholars when they leave.’
‘Your future is bright,’ Ella informed Suzanne bitterly. ‘Unlike ours. Katrina will wither away up here with her birds, while I will be married off to another elderly suitor. It is a wretched shame that Albon is dead, because I was looking forward to Paris. So was Thomas. He does not want to be the Lady’s steward when our father dies.’
‘Then go anyway,’ suggested Katrina, as though it was nothing to pack up and decant to another country. ‘What do you have to lose? However, I most certainly will not “wither away” up here – Master Grym smiled at me the other day, and he is a kindly soul.’
‘And too fat to make a nuisance of himself by demanding his conjugal rights at every turn,’ mused Ella. ‘Yes, you could do worse than an amiable and wealthy barber.’
His mind churning, Bartholomew ran to find Michael, although he had been far longer than they had planned, and the monk was not waiting at the agreed rendezvous. Unfortunately, no one was able to tell him where his friend might have gone.
‘Try the kitchens,’ suggested Nuport snidely. ‘Where the food is kept.’
His cronies sniggered. They had been put to work toting blankets to the palace from the laundry, and their revenge for being forced into such menial work was to drop their loads ‘accidentally’ in the mud. Then Nuport’s pugilistic face darkened, and Bartholomew turned to see Quintone strutting towards the gate. The servant was still in his finery, and there was defiance in his every step. Marishal was behind him, his face dark with anger.
‘Come back!’ the steward roared. ‘How dare you walk away while I am talking to you!’
Quintone turned slowly and with deliberate insolence. ‘Things are going to be different from now on, Marishal,’ he called back challengingly, ‘because I am not taking orders from anyone in here – the place where I was very nearly murdered.’
‘Then you are dismissed,’ retorted Marishal shortly. ‘Now get out of my sight.’
‘I was going anyway,’ declared Quintone insolently. ‘I will fare far better in the town than in a castle ruled by an old woman and her monkey.’
Marishal did not dignify the insult with a reply, and only turned on his heel and stalked inside the Constable Tower, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Quintone goes too far,’ remarked Mull, watching the servant swagger away. ‘I have no great love for Marishal, but no minion should cheek the steward.’
‘He stole my hat last night,’ growled Nuport, his brutish face harsh with anger. ‘I tried to grab it back, but he danced away with it, laughing. And I do not believe he is innocent of murder, so he had better stay out of my way, or I shall give him something to remember.’
The other squires murmured their approval, and Bartholomew hoped Quintone would have the sense to moderate his behaviour before he burned too many bridges. He resumed his hunt for Michael, and eventually learned – from Thomas, who was sweeping the stables, resentment in every stroke of the broom – that Lichet had taken the monk to the cistern not long before.
‘Doubtless to view some clue that everyone else has missed,’ sneered Thomas. ‘But I went down there with Ella on Saturday, and there was nothing to see. Ergo, whatever Lichet has “discovered” will be something he has planted himself.’
‘I just met Suzanne de Nekton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have been–’
‘So what?’ demanded Thomas, immediately defensive. ‘Is it a crime to keep someone safe in a room that no one else is using?’
‘I was about to commend your courage and compassion,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘And to ask if your mother knew what you had done?’
Some of the bristling rage drained out of Thomas, and he shook his head. ‘She would have told my father, who would have ousted Suzanne on the grounds that her accusations reflect badly on Bonde. The Lady thinks Bonde can do no wrong, you see, so her faithful steward must share her opinion. My father has always been her creature.’
Bartholomew disagreed. The steward might be loyal, but he was his own man, and it was a pity the twins disliked him, because he was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution that did not entail Suzanne being locked in a tiny cell, living in constant fear of discovery and eating herself into an early grave.
‘My mother was a fool,’ Thomas went on bitterly. ‘She knew what Bonde was like, but insisted on being nice to him, thinking to repair his bad nature with gentleness. What she should have done was use her influence to get him banished. It was ultimately his fault that we lost Anne.’
‘I suppose it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking of the chain of events that had led to the nurse becoming an anchoress. ‘Combined with the shocked reactions of Suzanne’s father and the Austin friars.’
‘Yes, their sanctimonious outrage did not help.’ Thomas sighed. ‘My mother did her best with herbs and practical advice for the girls that fell into trouble after Suzanne, but she could never match the service that Anne provided.’
Bartholomew thought it was just as well, but it was not the time for such a discussion, so he hurried to the cistern instead. Thomas followed, although to escape his sweeping duties, rather than from a desire to be helpful. Bartholomew reached the door and tried to open it, but it was shut fast. He turned to scowl at Thomas, wondering if the twin had lied about Michael and Lichet as part of some new prank.
‘They are unlikely to have locked themselves inside. What are–’
‘Well, they must have done,’ interrupted Thomas shortly. ‘Because I saw them go in, but I did not see them come out again – which I would have noticed.’
‘Would you? Why?’
Thomas shrugged slyly. ‘Because they are two men who annoy me, and so would benefit from being the butt of a jape.’ He rolled his eyes with exaggerated weariness when he saw the expression on Bartholomew’s face. ‘A harmless one, so do not look so worried.’
But Bartholomew’s concern was not for Thomas’s petty plans to settle scores, but because he was suddenly assailed by the conviction that all was not well. He kicked the door, then charged at it with his shoulder, but it did not budge and all he did was bruise himself. He glared at Thomas, who was watching with folded arms and an irritating smile.
‘Will you help me?’ he demanded testily. ‘Michael might be in danger down there.’
‘From Lichet?’ Thomas laughed derisively. ‘If your friend can be bested by a low specimen like that, then shame on him. But wait here. I will send my father to you with the key.’
He sauntered away whistling. Agitated, Bartholomew kicked the door again, but the wood was unusually thick, and all he did was add stubbed toes to his sore shoulder. He persisted, though, until he heard an angry voice a few moments later.
‘There is no need to damage castle property,’ snapped Marishal, shoving him out of the way, key in his hand. ‘This door was freshly painted last week.’