‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, shocked. ‘Someone has chopped off his ears.’
Chapter 14
The townsfolk were outraged. Not only had the squires committed an act of violence against a man who had renounced his ties to the castle and declared himself to be one of them, but they had broken one of the country’s oldest and most inviolate laws. Paycock led the way in demanding that they answer for the crime at once, overriding Grym’s meek suggestion that they wait until tempers had cooled.
‘There they are!’ screeched Paycock, stabbing his finger towards the opposite end of the churchyard, where the squires could be seen climbing over the wall. ‘After them!’
Nuport released a jeering laugh as he and his cronies bounded away. One or two of his fellows paused just long enough to make obscene gestures to their pursuers, then they all disappeared across the nearby fields. Their obvious high spirits suggested that they had no idea of the seriousness of the situation they were in. Bartholomew wondered why, and then realised that the answer lay with the wineskins each was clutching.
‘They are drunk,’ he said in disgust. ‘That is why they have thrown good sense to the wind.’
‘It is Anne’s fault,’ said Grym, who had come to stand next to him. ‘Many of the visitors from the villages brought her gifts of food and wine today, and she had so much that she offered to share. I think she was overly generous to the squires …’
‘Then let us hope they are not too inebriated to run fast,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because I doubt they will survive if they are caught.’
‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, suddenly aware that the young man was on the receiving end of some very venomous glares. He had not been involved in violating Quintone’s sanctuary, but the townsfolk were unlikely to make such a distinction, and there would be a fight for certain if he was attacked – his father might not think much of him, but the castle guards would not overlook an assault on their steward’s heir.
Michael strode towards the twin. ‘Go and fetch the Austins. Tell them they are needed here.’
‘I cannot,’ replied Thomas, either careless or oblivious of the danger he was in. ‘Most of them rode off to search for Langelee and Weste, and they have not come back yet. The few who remain will not abandon their priory, lest it is sacked by–’
‘Heselbech and Weste are there,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Tell them what is happening, and urge them to bring as many friars as they can spare. Go! Hurry!’
But Thomas ambled away with such insouciance that Bartholomew knew he was going to be of scant help in the brewing crisis. Michael turned to Marishal next.
‘Send your men to find the squires before the townsfolk tear them to pieces. Tell them to box Nuport’s ears while they do it – that may appease the mob. For now, at least.’
Marishal inclined his head and went to issue a series of low-voiced commands to his men. They saluted and left, although, like Thomas, not very fast. Bartholomew watched them go with some concern. Had Marishal told them to take their time in the hope that the squires would be caught by the townsmen, giving him a pretext to attack in revenge? The steward had scant regard for the young men, so might well consider them expendable. Or had his orders been unintentionally half-hearted, because he was still groggy from Langelee’s punch?
‘Take Quintone inside the church, Matt,’ Michael was saying, ‘and give him something to stop that howling – it is making the situation worse. I expected Grym to do it, but he is just standing there like a great lump of lard.’
Bartholomew fumbled for the poppy juice he carried in his bag. ‘I can help him, but not inside the church – the door is shut again.’
‘Nicholas?’ bellowed Michael authoritatively. ‘Open up.’
‘Never!’ came the priest’s indignant voice. ‘I did it once for Quintone, who promptly claimed sanctuary and all the trouble that entails. Then I let the squires in to pray, and they repaid my kindness by committing a terrible crime. Well, I have had enough. My church stays closed until the Queen arrives.’
‘She is not coming,’ called Grym. ‘Have you not heard? Please let us in, Nicholas. Quintone needs to lie down, and it cannot be out here in all this dirt. And do not suggest taking him home, because he does not have one – he has not yet had time to secure lodgings in the town.’
There was an indecisive pause. ‘Let me consult with Anne. She will know what to do.’
Bartholomew was glad so many of the mob had hared off in pursuit of the squires, because he felt exposed and vulnerable crouching next to Quintone. He was relieved when there was a clank a few moments later, and the church door opened.
‘Anne says a few of you may come in, as long as you behave,’ said Nicholas. ‘No pushing, no swearing and no fighting. Oh, and wipe your feet, please. I spent all night cleaning the floor, and I will not have it marred with filthy boot prints.’
Together, Bartholomew and Grym carried the swooning Quintone inside, and laid him on Roger’s tomb. Bartholomew sewed up the gaping wound where Quinstone’s ears had been, while Grym swabbed away the blood, although the physician could not help glancing up from time to time. Now all the scaffolding was down, the ceiling was revealed in its full glory. It was magnificent, and he hoped there would be a moment to admire it properly before he left.
Yet even the fan vaulting could not distract him from the growing conviction that Clare was about to suffer a calamity that would change it for ever, and which he was powerless to prevent. The streets would run with blood, and the murders that had gone before would be a mere drop in the ocean compared to the carnage that would follow. He felt his stomach churn as he desperately tried to think of a way to stop it.
‘Fasten his ears back on,’ came a voice from the anchorhold, and Bartholomew turned to see beady eyes watching with unabashed interest. ‘I would.’
‘They would fester,’ replied Grym. ‘And we do not have them anyway.’
‘Nuport probably ate them,’ declared Anne, loud enough to be heard by the crowd that milled around outside her other window; they gave a collective growl of anger and revulsion. ‘He can be a dreadful brute on occasion.’
Bartholomew moved to block her view of what he was doing in the hope of avoiding more such remarks, and while he stitched, he listened to the discussion taking place between the others who had managed to slip inside when Nicholas had opened the door. They included Michael, Marishal, a handful of courtiers and several town worthies, the ubiquitous Paycock among them.
‘I understand why you let Quintone in,’ Marishal was saying irritably to the vicar, ‘but why did you then admit the squires? It was a stupid–’
‘Oh, so it is my fault, is it?’ interrupted Nicholas archly. ‘The castle louts come here and commit a dreadful sin, but I am to blame?’
‘Yes, in part,’ Marishal snapped back. ‘Anyone can see they are drunk, so will be more asinine than usual.’
‘They told me they wanted to pray,’ said Nicholas defensively. ‘I assumed they were sincere.’
‘Then you are a fool, too,’ spat Marishal in disgust. ‘Pray indeed!’
‘They had better not show their faces in my town again,’ declared Paycock, bristling with indignation. ‘Because if they do, I shall smash them in – personally.’
He waved his fist to show that he meant it. Then there was an imperious hammering at the door, followed by an angry order for it to be opened at once.
‘It is Cambrug!’ exclaimed Nicholas in startled delight, irritation evaporating like mist in the sun. He beamed happily and ran to let the famous architect in, ushering him over the threshold with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.