‘The College will thrive with you in charge,’ predicted Langelee, gripping his shoulder in comradely affection. ‘And Matilde will make a good wife for Bartholomew. He is a lucky man.’
‘Yes, I believe I am,’ said Bartholomew. He realised he was looking forward to seeing Matilde again, and perhaps Langelee had a point about it being time for something different. But he still had one term left, and the longer he stayed in Clare, the more of it would be lost. He stood abruptly.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael, who still had a full cup of wine.
‘Cambridge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Where we belong.’
Clare, seven months later (November 1360)
The Lady was dying. She felt she had lived a godly life, and had no regrets. Except one.
She had married three times for duty, and then she had fallen in love. Unfortunately, her beau already had a wife, and their unguarded passion had almost been her undoing. Fortunately, Anne had been on hand to prevent the loss of her good name and everything she had held dear.
The Lady sighed when she thought about the old nurse. If only Anne had chosen somewhere other than Grisel’s room for Suzanne de Nekton to recover. Then the scandal would never have broken, the Austins would not have been so horrified, and Suzanne’s father would not have made such a fuss. Of course, once the tale was public, the Lady had had no choice but to condemn Anne, which had precipitated the whole bloody business – Anne’s horrible revenge, the murders, the loss of the church’s roof, and the deaths in the fighting.
She pondered the day when Anne had come with her hook. Had Roos been hiding behind the tapestry, as he had always claimed? She shuddered. It did not bear thinking about – that horrid, salacious little man watching Anne work her magic. She wished she had known he was there, as she would have risen up and plunged a dagger into his black heart herself.
Roos had been quick to come to her afterwards, telling her that he could be useful if she made it worth his while. And so she had. She had given him a place on her council, paid him handsomely for his continued silence, and pretended that she was interested in the reports he gave her about Badew and the University. But the truth was that every time she saw him, she itched to tear out his scheming, rapacious tongue.
She had remarked to Bonde once that Roos’s presence was unwelcome, and the henchman had offered to relieve her of the problem permanently. She had accepted with relief, but Bonde had made a mistake and killed an innocent instead. Terrified that the truth would come out if the matter went to trial, she had spent a fortune on bribes for the judge – which had done nothing for her reputation as a just, God-fearing woman. And Roos had lived on, blithely oblivious of the danger he had been in.
She stared into the darkness. Yet there had always been small inconsistencies in what Roos claimed to have seen, and she had suspected for years that he had lied about being in the chamber himself – that it had actually been someone else watching. But no other blackmailer had come to demand favours from her, so she could only assume that either Roos had killed him, or they had reached an agreement to share Roos’s ill-gotten gains.
She sighed. Of course, she had done poor Margery a grave disservice by condemning her to Roos’s pawing hands all those years, but it could not be helped. Besides, she knew why Margery wore the cheap little ring that Roos had given her, and why the twins had Roos’s golden hair. Margery had only given herself to the man once, but she had been burdened with the consequences for the rest of her unhappy life. The ring had been her penance, a constant reminder of why Roos’s advances had to be tolerated – she dared not repel him too harshly, lest he then ran to her husband with the tale of her betrayal.
The Lady glanced at the man who lay next to her, sleeping peacefully and blissfully unaware that her life was slipping away. Robert Marishal – the only man she had ever truly loved. He would marry Katrina the next day, and although he swore that nothing would change, the Lady knew it would. Katrina was not kind, unsuspecting Margery, and would notice her new husband slipping away with suspicious regularity. The Lady was not about to risk her good name now – not after all the trouble she had taken to keep it pure and free from scandal.
Was it coincidence that she would die on the last night that she and Marishal would ever spend together? She closed her eyes and sighed. Probably not.
Historical Note
Richard de Badew founded University Hall in 1326, but he was not a wealthy man, and his College soon fell into financial difficulties. Within two years, its scholars approached the wealthy Elizabeth de Burgh, begging for help. She responded by giving them a church and the income it would generate. It seems she was willing to do more, but only if Badew relinquished all claim on the place. The Fellows were keen for this to happen, so charters were drawn up in 1338, but Badew delayed signing the necessary quit-claim until 28 March 1346, almost certainly for no reason other than pure bloody-mindedness. Once the quit-claim was executed, University Hall became known as Clare Hall (although it is now Clare College, and a new Clare Hall was founded in 1966). Two of its first Fellows were John Donwich and John Pulham.
Most of what is known of Badew comes from mentions of him in various legal documents, which show that he was involved in several quarrels with younger colleagues – eight lawsuits simultaneously at one point, which must have eaten away at his personal finances and perhaps explain why he was unable to finance University Hall properly. He and Saer de Roos were sued by a woman named Joan de Marishal in 1316, while Henry Harweden, a crony of Badew’s and Chancellor of the University himself, was deposed amid accusations of assault and corruption.
Elizabeth de Burgh liked to be called the Lady of Clare. She was widowed three times before she was thirty, then took a vow of chastity, which effectively prevented her from being married off to anyone else – and she was a good catch, given that she was a very wealthy lady. She owned several large estates, but her seat of power was the castle in Clare, the remains of which still stand in the lovely country park today.
Some of her household accounts survive, and provide a fascinating glimpse into the practical side of running a large medieval household. She lived lavishly, and her ‘court’ was often graced with royal and noble visitors. Her steward was Robert Marishal (or Robert the Marshal), who married Margery and had two children, Thomas and Elizabeth. Marishal is mentioned in the Lady’s will, but Margery is not, suggesting that she had predeceased her mistress. It has been suggested that Marishal was related in some way to Badew. The accounts suggest that Marishal liked to go hawking, a pastime usually reserved for the nobility, indicating that he was rather more than just a retainer.
Many of the characters in The Habit of Murder are based on names in the Lady’s will – Adam the baker, Richard the watchman, Sir William Albon, Katrina de Haliwell, Suzanne de Nekton, Isabel Morley, William Talmach, Peter de Ereswell, Philip de Jevan, Charer the coachman, Justin the forester and John the hermit (called Jan here to avoid too many Johns). Also mentioned is ‘Master’ Philip Lichet, who was probably a clerk or a secretary, and Anne de Lexham the anchorite. Anchorites were men and women who elected to withdraw from secular society, often taking up residence in small, permanently enclosed cells attached to churches. The practice was popular in the Middle Ages, and some of their anchorholds survive today, although there is no trace of Anne’s.
John de Heselbech and Robert de Wisbech were castle chaplains in the 1360s. They were friars from Clare’s Austin Priory, and were ‘lent’ to the Lady in exchange for a generous donation to the convent’s coffers. The Prior at this time may have been a man named John, and there was a cofferer named John de Weste, although he was never an illustrator of books.