‘I was telling them how the castle insisted on providing us with a new aisle,’ said Nicholas grumpily. ‘Even though we did not want one.’
Godeston’s face hardened. ‘Especially as they think they will shove us in there, out of sight, while they worship in the nave. Well, we are not going anywhere.’ He folded his arms defiantly.
‘But the nave is huge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Surely there is enough room for everyone?’
‘Not at the front,’ explained Godeston. ‘Which is where we all like to be. We refuse to give way to them, so they bring their weapons and give us a poke.’
‘It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt,’ put in Grym, shaking his head disapprovingly. ‘And do not say that should please a man who stitches wounds – it is not the way I like to win new business.’
‘There was talk of a north aisle as well,’ growled Godeston, ‘but we scuppered that plan by making sure the south one cost the Lady a fortune. There is gold leaf in all its murals, and its floor came from Naples. Of course, the stone in the walls is very inferior …’
‘Well, she is dead now, so you are safe from her unwelcome meddling,’ said Langelee.
‘Dead?’ echoed Nicholas, startled. ‘What are you talking about? The Lady is not dead.’
‘More is the pity,’ put in Godeston acidly.
‘Of course she is,’ countered Langelee. ‘A messenger rode all the way to Cambridge with a letter. Her funeral is today.’
‘Then I am afraid you have been the subject of a practical joke,’ said Grym. ‘Because the Lady is no more dead than I am. I saw her myself, not an hour ago.’
‘And there is no funeral today,’ added Nicholas. ‘There is one tomorrow, but not hers. Grym is right – someone is playing games with you.’
Chapter 2
When he emerged from his devotions, Michael was deeply unimpressed to learn that he had had a wasted journey, although Bartholomew was happy to pass a day or two exploring the glories of Clare. Personally, he felt the visit had been worthwhile for the fan vaulting alone.
‘Are you sure?’ the monk asked for at least the third time. He, Bartholomew and Langelee were in a chapel dedicated to the patronal saints – Peter and Paul. It was in a part of the church that had not been revamped, so it was dark, old and rather plain. ‘You did not misunderstand what the vicar and the others told you?’
‘Of course we did not misunderstand,’ snapped Langelee, disappointment turning him testy. ‘The Lady is in fine fettle and has no intention of being buried today.’
‘Then who sent the letter telling us about her funeral?’ demanded Michael. ‘And hired a messenger to take it all the way to Cambridge?’
‘Lord knows,’ replied Langelee, disgusted. ‘But he had better not come to gloat about it, not unless he wants a blade in his gizzard. This jaunt cost us money we can ill afford. The bastard has no idea of the damage he has done.’
Michael was silent for a while. Then his expression turned from irked to calculating, and his green eyes gleamed with the prospect of a challenge.
‘Yet what is to stop us from turning the situation to our advantage? The Lady may appreciate three busy scholars coming here to pay their respects, and it is our chance to ensure that when she does die, Michaelhouse is mentioned in her will for certain.’
‘But I do not like Clare,’ objected Langelee sulkily. ‘There is a nasty dispute between the town and the castle about who has the right to stand where in the church. Oh, you can smile, Brother, but passions are running very high over it.’
‘Probably because so much money has been spent on its refurbishment,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym mentioned a couple of the sums involved, and even the smallest would keep Michaelhouse afloat for a decade.’
‘In that case, we shall certainly stay,’ determined Michael. ‘If Clare folk have so much spare cash, then we must persuade them to put some of it our way. I do not care if they hail from the town or the castle. Merchants, knights, tradesmen, nobles … their gold is all the same colour.’
‘I suppose we can try,’ conceded Langelee. ‘Everyone here is very well dressed, even the paupers. Indeed, I feel like a beggar in my shabby academic attire.’
‘You are a beggar,’ Michael reminded him. ‘But not one who will go home empty-handed if I have anything to say about it. We shall stay for this rededication service next Tuesday – that will be our excuse for lingering. And in the interim, we shall tout for benefactors and court the Lady.’
Langelee regarded him in alarm. ‘But that is six days hence – we cannot afford to dally here that long! And what about the beginning of term? We dare not leave William and Suttone to manage on their own. William will drive off all our new students with his fanatical bigotry, while Suttone is lazy and incompetent.’
‘Term starts on Thursday, so we shall leave first thing Wednesday morning,’ determined Michael. ‘And do not worry about lodgings. We shall find somewhere cheap.’
Langelee frowned unhappily. ‘Very well, if you are sure. I admit that I am loath to return home with an empty purse.’
Bartholomew left them plotting tactics and went to admire more of the church. Yet again, his eyes were drawn to the roof. He could hear rain drumming on it, and marvelled that there were no leaks, as there would be at home. Personally, he was delighted that Michael and Langelee had agreed to stay, as he wanted to see the ceiling without the scaffolding. And, of course, he was interested in meeting Cambrug, as only a genius could have invented fan vaulting.
It seemed that Nicholas had driven the Swinescroft men off the mason’s tomb, because they were now sitting in the porch. Badew was laughing, which made Bartholomew suspect he did not yet know that the Lady was still in the land of the living. He considered breaking the news, but then decided against it: they would be livid, and he had no wish to bear the brunt of their disappointment. He was about to go and admire more murals, when he was intercepted by Donwich and Pulham.
‘Look at Roos,’ said Donwich disapprovingly. ‘The man is a disgrace.’
Bartholomew could see what he meant. While Badew and Harweden chatted to each other, Roos’s eyes were fixed on a young woman who was sweeping the floor. His leer was brazen, and Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she would react if she looked up and saw it.
‘He shames us with his open lust,’ said Pulham, repelled. ‘Someone should tell him to desist before there is trouble.’
‘Well, I am not doing it,’ said Donwich firmly. ‘Indeed, I think I shall adjourn to the Swan for the rest of the day. It is the best inn in Clare, and I much prefer it to the castle. The Lady always insisted that I stayed with her whenever I visited in the past, but now she is dead …’
‘What about the funeral?’ asked Pulham, startled.
‘It is not until tomorrow,’ replied Donwich. ‘The vicar just told me. Where will you stay tonight, Bartholomew? With us in the Swan? Oh, I forgot! Michaelhouse cannot afford it.’
He smirked, which meant that Bartholomew, who had been about to report that the Lady was still alive, decided to let him find out for himself. At that point, Badew and Harweden approached, although Roos did not join them, and continued to ogle the woman.
‘The Swan!’ spat Badew in distaste, overhearing. ‘I would not demean myself by using a garish place like that. The Bell is more to my liking – staid, decent and respectable.’
‘He means dull,’ said Pulham to Donwich, and turned back to Badew. ‘We shall leave you to enjoy it, then. However, you had better hope that the husband of that young lady does not work there, or you may find yourselves stabbed during the night.’