Cambrug was of middle height with squat, ugly features, travel-stained clothes and a sulky scowl. He ignored the vicar’s gushing welcome, and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up at his creation with professional detachment. Grym was among the many – townsfolk and castle men – who immediately hurried to fawn over him, so there was an unseemly scrum that resulted in him being very roughly jostled.
‘Get away!’ he snarled, and glowered at Nicholas. ‘I have just been informed by some peasant outside that the Queen is not coming. Could you not have written to tell me? I have ridden all the way from Hereford for nothing.’
‘Hardly nothing,’ objected Nicholas, stung. ‘We still have a lovely evening planned.’
‘Besides, we only had word ourselves this morning,’ added Marishal. ‘By which time it was too late to inform anyone. But we shall make your stay a memorable one, never fear. We have prepared a nice suite of rooms in the castle with–’
‘No, he will stay with me,’ stated Paycock firmly. ‘My house is a lot more comfortable. The company will be better, too.’
‘We took all the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas unctuously, before Cambrug could accept either offer. ‘As you can see. Her Majesty will miss the rededication ceremony, but that is her loss, and at least her haughty priests will not try to make unnecessary adjustments to it.’
‘So you will preside, Nicholas?’ asked Paycock. ‘Good! The castle can piss off home then, because now the Queen is not coming, neither will they. It will be our ceremony and ours alone.’
‘We certainly will attend,’ countered Marishal sharply. ‘The Lady is looking forward to it, and she will be here as soon as she has completed her business in the north of the town.’
‘Her business?’ echoed Paycock scathingly. ‘Her gossiping with friends, you mean. Well, she can stand in the south aisle, because we paid for the nave, and it is our right to use it.’
‘But the ceiling is not yet finished,’ objected Cambrug, who had continued to peer upwards critically. ‘There are several unpainted sections that–’
‘Nonsense,’ stated Grym, and lowered his voice. ‘It is either a ceremony or a battle, Cambrug. You choose – but remember that any blood spilled will be on your hands.’
Cambrug sniffed. ‘I suppose the finishing touches can be added later.’
Grym nodded to Paycock and his cronies, and anything else the architect might have said was lost as the townsfolk hurried away to begin their preparations. Lamps were lit, candles set out, and flower displays lifted on to windowsills. But Marishal and his courtiers had their own opinions about what should be done to beautify the church, and arguments soon broke out. Anne listened from her cell, and Bartholomew was unimpressed that every time she spoke, she invariably made matters worse.
‘Not long now,’ said Nicholas, nodding approvingly as an elaborate arrangement of dried flowers was plonked on the font. ‘Then my ceremony will begin. Heselbech may steal the leading role, but everyone will know that he recites the words I wrote.’
‘Well, I shall not stay for it,’ declared Cambrug unpleasantly. ‘You dragged me here with the promise of a royal audience, but now you–’
‘Go back to Hereford, then,’ called Anne crossly. ‘We are tired of your bleating. If you cannot be genteel, then there is no place for you in Clare.’
Cambrug blinked his astonishment that anyone should dare address him with such brazen disrespect. ‘I am not–’
‘We do not want you here anyway,’ she forged on, getting into her stride. ‘You are a vile old misery – even worse than Roger, and he could not open his mouth without moaning. The ceremony will be much nicer without you.’
‘And it will take place today, because our holy anchoress says that is when the stars are most favourable for it,’ put in Nicholas. ‘Her opinion is good enough for me.’
‘Your holy anchoress is not an architect,’ flashed Cambrug, bristling with outrage at the insults that had been heaped upon him. ‘So do not blame me if the place tumbles about your ears in the middle of your stupid celebrations. You should have let me examine the roof before you ripped the scaffolding down. You did promise that you would wait.’
‘What is this?’ cried Marishal, listening to the exchange in alarm. ‘Are you saying that it is unsafe? That the roof might fall on the Lady?’
Cambrug eyed him loftily. ‘I cannot answer that until I inspect the quality of the work that was done after I left. However, I decline to do it now you have offended me. Not unless you beg.’
‘Please, dear Cambrug, will you kindly help us to–’ began Grym obligingly.
‘No!’ barked Marishal. ‘There will be no begging here. Cambrug will do the job for which he was paid, and inspect the roof with good grace.’
‘Shan’t,’ said Cambrug, folding his arms and putting his nose in the air.
‘Because he knows there is nothing wrong with it,’ called Anne provocatively. ‘And he cannot stand the fact that we have achieved so much without him. It is jealousy speaking.’
The architect bristled anew. ‘I am not staying here to be abused. I am going back to Hereford this very moment – and I wish a plague on Clare and everyone in it!’
When Quintone had been sewn up, bandaged and carried to Grym’s house to recover – much to the barber’s obvious reluctance – Bartholomew gave the fan vaulting his full attention, although it was difficult to see it in detail, as dusk was falling. He wondered why Nicholas had elected to hold the ceremony at night, when even a thousand lamps would be unequal to showing it at its best. Then he reconsidered. Or had the vicar actually been rather wise, as the dark would hide any small imperfections?
‘Perhaps Cambrug was right to say that the scaffolding should not have come down until he had inspected the work,’ he said to Michael. ‘Because those unpainted sections have lots of small cracks, and it will be difficult to fill them with glue now they cannot be reached so easily.’
Michael glanced around uncomfortably. ‘I have a bad feeling about this ceremony. Why must it still go ahead, even though the Queen will not be here, and it will throw together a lot of people who hate each other? There is something not quite right about the whole affair.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have been thinking the same. All the murders – not just Margery and Roos, but Roger, Skynere, Albon and the others – have resulted in one thing: widening the rift between town and castle.’
Michael agreed. ‘The deaths of Roos, Margery and Charer were random events, with no malice aforethought, but someone has been quick to make folk believe otherwise. Something unpleasant is in the offing, and I sense it will happen tonight.’
‘Do you think the ceremony should be cancelled?’
‘Of course, but that will never happen. Nicholas will refuse, and if the Lady or Marishal try to insist, we shall have a riot for certain. The best course of action is to let it proceed, and hope there are enough Austins to prevent too much bloodshed. But who would want the town in an uproar? Paycock? He loves discord.’
Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him to the south aisle, a place shunned by both town and castle, and so somewhere he and the monk could confer without being overheard.
‘Not Paycock, but someone who has a grievance against both sides and wants revenge. Someone who exacerbates the feud with bad advice and loud opinions. Someone who gave wine to the squires, knowing it would prompt them to reckless behaviour. Someone who provided a valued service to troubled girls for years, but was punished for it by being walled up in a cell. Someone–’