The clerestory windows high above allowed light to flood in, even on that dull day, and it illuminated something he had never seen before – a ceiling that soared, so high and delicate that it seemed impossible that it should stay up. At the top of each pillar, stone ribs had been carved in a fan pattern, to intertwine like lace with the ones adjacent to it. Each fan had been given a unique geometric design, executed in a blaze of bright colour. Much was hidden by scaffolding, but enough could be seen through the gaps to show that it was a remarkable achievement.
‘Well,’ said Donwich eventually, the first to find his voice. ‘I knew they had been working to improve the place, but I was not expecting anything so …’
‘Tasteless,’ finished Badew, sniffing his disdain. ‘It is ugly.’
‘It is stunning,’ countered Donwich. ‘As any fool can see. What a pity that the Lady did not live to enjoy it. I imagine it was her money that paid for the project.’
‘Not too much of it, I hope,’ murmured Langelee to his Fellows. ‘I should not like to think she spent so recklessly that there is none left for us.’
Still braying their admiration, Donwich and Pulham went to inspect the murals that covered every wall, prayers forgotten. The Swinescroft men pretended to be indifferent as they perched on a convenient tomb to rest their legs, although even they could not resist surreptitious glances at the glories around them. Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee went to the chancel, where they knelt to say their prayers. As a professional, the monk had more to say to his Maker than the other two, so when they had finished, they withdrew to give him some privacy.
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing upwards at the ceiling with renewed awe. ‘Not even in France.’
‘It is called “fan vaulting”,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘The only other place you will see it is in Gloucester Abbey, but ours is better.’
They turned to see a vicar. He was an Austin friar of middle years, whose fine robes indicated that he earned a good living from his parish. He had a shock of yellow hair and a physique that was almost as impressive as Langelee’s. He introduced himself as Father Nicholas de Lydgate.
‘Who designed it?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing that the priest wanted to brag.
‘An architect named Thomas de Cambrug. If you are in Clare next Tuesday, you will meet him, because he is coming for the rededication ceremony. He is working on Hereford Cathedral at the moment, but has promised to return for the unveiling.’
‘Tuesday?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around doubtfully. The scaffolding would take a while to dismantle, and artists were still working feverishly on several bare patches of stone. ‘That is in six days. Will you be ready by then?’
‘We had better be, because the time and date have been set for months,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It will start at seven o’clock in the evening, and will be conducted by torchlight. I made the arrangements myself, and it will be the most beautiful service that anyone has ever seen.’
‘I am sure it will be impressive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Hereford is a long way away. Are you sure Cambrug will make the trek?’
Nicholas smiled serenely. ‘Yes, because the Queen is coming, and no ambitious man wants to miss his work being praised by royalty. He will be here, of that I am certain.’
‘All this beautification must have been expensive,’ fished Langelee. ‘Did the Lady fund it?’
Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘You have hit upon a bitter bone of contention. It was to have been the town’s project, as it is our parish church, but when the Lady saw what was happening, she wanted to be part of it – which caused a lot of bad feeling.’
‘Did it?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘In Cambridge, the town would be delighted if the castle offered to pay for something.’
‘She funded the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, waving at the section in question, ‘which sounded generous until we learned that the townsfolk were expected to stand in it, out of the way, while she and her cronies took over the nave.’
‘The castle does not have a chapel of its own?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, but it is too small to accommodate everyone, so they have to attend Mass in shifts. This place, however, can hold them all, so they aim to steal it from us. They have already started meddling in parish affairs. For example, they want me to leave my current house and move into a smaller one. But where I live is none of their damned business!’
He continued to rail until the latch clanked and two men entered. The older of the pair reclined on a litter carried by a couple of moon-faced boys; all three were clad entirely in purple. The other was so plump that he barely managed to squeeze through the door. Nicholas broke off from his grumbles to say they were Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym.
‘They will tell you about the Lady’s gall,’ he confided, ‘because they were obliged to deal with most of her infractions – I confined myself to the religious issues that arise from this sort of undertaking. It is never wise for a priest to take sides, although it is hard to remain impartial sometimes.’
‘What religious issues?’ asked Langelee, while Bartholomew thought that Nicholas had not remained impartial at all, and clearly sided with his parishioners.
‘Tending our anchoress while her cell was being refurbished, praying for the work to be finished on time, burying our Master Mason, who was tragically killed a few weeks ago – your three friends over there are sitting on him.’
‘You have an anchoress?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, preferring to discuss a holy woman than the fact that his Swinescroft colleagues had made themselves very comfortable on the final resting place of someone who was so recently dead.
Nicholas smiled. ‘Her name is Anne de Lexham, and she is very religious. I shall introduce you to her after you have spoken to Godeston and Grym. Here they come now.’
The Mayor cut a very stately figure in his litter. His lavender robes were made of unusually fine cloth, and there was silver embroidery on his sleeves. His bearers’ clothes were coarser, but they were obviously proud of the way they looked, because they kept glancing at their reflections in the windows.
‘Robbers,’ Godeston said without preamble, staring up at Bartholomew and Langelee through sharp mauve eyes. ‘Did you encounter any on your way here?’
‘Specifically Simon Freburn and his sons,’ elaborated Grym, identifiable as a barber because his enormous girth was encircled by a belt from which dangled implements to cut hair, shave faces and extract teeth. He had twinkling eyes and a ready smile, and was not ‘grim’ at all.
‘No, we were too large a party to tackle,’ replied Langelee. ‘Although I sensed them watching us as we passed. If we had been fewer, I am sure they would have attacked.’
‘Scum!’ spat Godeston. ‘I would give my right arm to see Freburn and his sons hang.’
Grym changed the subject with a smile. ‘We do not see many scholars these days. Why–’
‘We do not see them because of Freburn,’ interrupted Godeston bitterly. ‘People are loath to use the road as long as he haunts it.’ He scowled at Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘Or have you kept your distance these last few years because the College named after our town is tired of us?’
‘I thought Clare Hall was named after the Lady,’ said Langelee, puzzled.
‘I am sure that is what its Fellows told her,’ sniffed Godeston, ‘but everyone knows the real truth, which is that one of them travelled here fourteen years ago, and thought our town so fabulous that he decided to honour us.’
‘And who can blame him?’ shrugged Grym. ‘It is the nicest place in Suffolk. No, let us be honest about this – in the whole world!’