‘But we would have been curious, if we had seen Margery and Roos sneaking around in the dark together,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We also would have followed them, and tried to help Margery after she had been stabbed. And we might have shoved Roos away if he had attempted to stop us. Do not be too hard on him.’
‘But we would not have lied about it afterwards,’ snapped Michael.
‘He did not lie. He just did not tell the truth.’
‘Sophistry! His misguided antics have done us immeasurable harm. We should never have allowed him to drink with a lot of ex-warriors. Of course, I do not know how we could have stopped him. He has always been a man to follow his own inclinations.’
‘Shall we see the Lady now?’ Bartholomew did not want to discuss it any longer, torn as he was between sympathy for a friend who had made a bad decision, and concern for how it would impact on Michaelhouse. ‘It will not be a pleasant interview, and I want it over.’
But they entered the palace to find it empty, except for one or two servants and Ereswell.
‘She has gone to dine with a friend, who lives to the north of the town,’ the courtier explained. ‘Then she will attend the rededication ceremony in the church. The Queen may not be coming, but my Lady knows where her duty lies.’
‘Lichet is dead,’ Michael informed him shortly. ‘An accident in the cistern. Will you arrange for his body to be retrieved? I am not sure Marishal is well enough to think of it.’
‘Lichet dead?’ breathed Ereswell, before a delighted grin spread across his face. He winked. ‘Then see me before you leave. I always pay for services rendered.’
‘We did not kill him,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘It was–’
‘Of course you did not, Brother,’ interrupted Ereswell with another wink.
‘This is turning into a nightmare,’ grumbled Michael, as they hurried through the gate, which they were able to do as the portcullis had been raised to let the Lady out, and the guards had not yet closed it again. ‘Clare will think that Michaelhouse is full of assassins and – What are they doing?’
A crowd of townsmen was marching towards the castle. They were led by Grym, who was being forced to waddle faster than was comfortable for him, and his plump face was scarlet and sweaty. Paycock was at his side, urging him on. Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him back through the gate, thinking it would be safer than standing outside at the mercy of an unpredictable mob. The moment they were through it, a deafening rattle sounded as the portcullis slammed down behind them.
‘Please ask Marishal to come out,’ called Grym breathlessly to the castle guards who were busily nocking arrows into their bows. ‘He needs to take control of your squires.’
‘They have accused Quintone of theft,’ elaborated Paycock, thrusting forward belligerently. ‘So he claimed sanctuary in the church. But they are threatening to break it.’
‘No one breaks sanctuary,’ called Richard the watchman from the wall-walk above. ‘Not even them. They know that if they do, they will be damned for all eternity.’
‘Then Marishal must come and remind them of it,’ snarled Paycock. ‘Because Quintone has renounced his ties with the castle, and is now one of us. So if those louts lay one finger on him–’
The rest of his sentence was lost in a roar of fury from the crowd – Marishal had appeared, roused by the sound of the portcullis being dropped with such urgency. The steward was pale and unsteady on his feet. Thomas tried to offer a supportive arm, but Marishal knocked it away with a snarl. Thomas shot him a glower of his own, and came to talk to Bartholomew and Michael instead.
‘I told him everything,’ he said softly. ‘About Roos killing my mother and Langelee trying to help her. He believes me, but it has opened a painful wound and he is deeply angry …’
Bartholomew could see it was true: the steward’s rage was apparent in the way he was glaring at the assembled townsfolk – as if he itched to vent his spleen on them for the hurt he had suffered.
‘Disperse,’ he ordered contemptuously. ‘Or I shall order my archers to shoot. Besides, you should be in the church. You will have to stand at the back unless you get there early.’
‘Not so – the ceremony is postponed until your bloody Lady finishes chatting to her friends,’ shouted Paycock. ‘It is outrageous and an insult! It is our church, so what right does she have to keep us hanging about?’
‘That is high-handed,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And foolish, too, given the unsettled mood of the town. It is begging for trouble.’
‘And now her squires threaten a man who has taken refuge in our church,’ Paycock raged on. ‘So what are you going to do about it, steward?’
‘The squires will not break sanctuary laws,’ declared Marishal scornfully. ‘However, I shall fetch them back – not because you tell me I must, but because I choose to do so.’
His scathing tone did nothing to soothe ruffled feathers, and the mob surged forward indignantly. Then the portcullis clanked up and soldiers poured out, Marishal in the vanguard. The crowd’s advance stuttered to a standstill at the sight of so much naked steel, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable and silent impasse. Grym broke it.
‘We shall walk to the church together, Marishal,’ he said, holding out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Side by side. And while we go, I shall explain the nub of the problem. You see, Quintone was wearing a hat that your boys claim is stolen–’
‘Because it is stolen,’ interrupted Thomas, while his father only stared at the proffered hand until Grym lowered it. ‘It belongs to Nuport.’
The barber gave a pained smile. ‘Regardless, he has been inflaming the situation by taunting them with it. They have never learned to rise above an affront, and there will be a brawl unless you take them home.’
‘Quintone thinks that being cleared of murder gives him licence to behave as he likes,’ said Thomas to his father. ‘And I am afraid Grym is right – there will be a spat unless we intervene.’
Marishal began to issue orders to his soldiers. Some were instructed to remain at the castle, while others were told to form a protective phalanx around him. The townsfolk resented arms being toted openly through their streets, so there was a lot of angry muttering as he and his men set off along the road called Nethergate. Grym waddled along at his side, desperately trying to soothe the situation with appeasing remarks, but Marishal’s face was cold and hard, and he gave no indication that he was listening.
‘When trouble does erupt,’ murmured Michael, as he and Bartholomew trailed along behind them, ‘it will be his fault. Grym is trying his best, but Marishal is determined to be truculent.’
‘A fight may be what he wants,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Katrina had told him. ‘It will allow the castle to defeat the town, after which the Lady’s authority can be stamped on Clare once and for all. And Marishal will win – he may have fewer men, but they carry real weapons. Of course, his victory will come at a terrible price. For both sides.’
They arrived to find the church and its environs thronged with people, because the promised presence of the Queen had attracted visitors from the surrounding villages, as well as the town. There was a good deal of disappointment that she would not now be making an appearance, which Paycock and other malcontents were quick to turn into open disgruntlement.
Then there was a terrible scream. The door was ripped open and Quintone stood there, howling in pain and disbelief. Blood streamed down both sides of his face.