The Habit of Murder

Book 23: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In 1360 a deputation from Cambridge ventures to the Suffolk town of Clare in the hope that the wealthy Elizabeth de Burgh has left a legacy to Michaelhouse. Yet when they arrive they discover that the report of her death is false and that the college seems destined for bankruptcy.

Determined to see if some of its well-heeled citizens can be persuaded to sponsor Michaelhouse, Matthew Bartholomew, Brother Michael and Master Langelee become enmeshed in the town's politics. They quickly discover that a great many other people in Clare have recently met untimely deaths. These killings, combined with the arrogance Lady de Burgh has shown over the refurbishment of the church and the grotesque behaviour of some of her entourage, have created a dangerous restlessness in the town: an atmosphere intensified when yet more murders occur.

One of the victims is a fellow traveller of the Michaelhouse contingent, and Matthew Bartholomew and Brother Michael feel honour-bound to identify his killer. It is a hunt which takes them deep into Clare's murky foundations and which threatens their own survival as well as that of their beloved college.

Release date: August 24, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Cambridge, 28 March 1346

It was the worst day of Richard de Badew’s life. Two decades before, he had founded a new College, which he had proudly named University Hall. It had started out as two cottages, but he had worked tirelessly on its behalf, and it now owned several large houses and a sizeable tract of land. Its membership had grown, too, from three Fellows to eighteen, and Badew ensured they were always paid on time even when it meant hardship for himself. University Hall had flourished under his watchful eye. Or so he had thought. Unfortunately, its Fellows disagreed.

He looked at them as they stood like peacocks in their ceremonial finery. All were young, greedy and ambitious, and thought they deserved the best of everything – a larger salary, a bigger library, newer rooms and smarter robes. Badew had done his best to oblige, but he was not a very rich man, and he had been forced to refuse some of their more outlandish demands. So what had they done? Gone behind his back to the wealthy Elizabeth de Burgh, known as the Lady of Clare, and asked her to take over the role of major benefactor instead.

It was an act of treachery that had wounded Badew to the core.

His first instinct had been to wash his hands of the lot of them and have no more to do with the place ever again, but then he had reconsidered. Why should he make things easy for the damned ingrates? So, in an act of defiant retaliation, he had deployed the only weapon he had left to him: refusing to sign the quit-claim – the deed whereby all rights and claims to the property would pass from him to the Lady. He had become quite an expert at devising reasons as to why he could not do it – the scribe’s writing was illegible, the wording was wrong, an important clause had been omitted, he had lost his seal.

He had managed to stall and dissemble for ten long, gratifying years, but even he had run out of excuses eventually, and the exasperated Fellows of University Hall, sensing victory at last, had arranged for him to put his name to the quit-claim that very day.

Because he had caused them so much aggravation, they had spitefully invited a crowd to witness his final defeat. They included not only the Lady and several members of her household, but a host of scholars and townsfolk as well. Glancing around, Badew saw there were only two he could count as friends among the entire throng – Saer de Roos and Henry Harweden, who stood behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder as a gesture of solidarity.

The ‘ceremony’ was taking place in University Hall’s lecture room, a handsome chamber with tapestries on the walls and a huge fire snapping in the hearth. It was uncomfortably hot, and Badew was not the only one who mopped sweat from his brow as young Master Donwich made a gushing, sycophantic speech about the Lady’s largesse. His mind wandered back to the day when he had founded the place – a whole new College born with a single stroke of his pen. He had been the University’s Chancellor at the time, a man at the height of his powers.

And then Donwich stopped talking and everyone looked expectantly at Badew: it was time to sign. Truculent to the last, Badew picked up the document and began to study it, aware of Donwich exchanging anxious glances with his cronies. Good! Once they had his signature, they would be rid of him for ever, so it was his last chance to be irksome.

As he pretended to read, he was pleased to note that it was not only the Fellows who were becoming riled by his antics – so was the Lady of Clare, who considered herself far too important to be kept waiting by the likes of him. Widowed three times before she was thirty, she had inherited a vast fortune, which had given her an inflated sense of her own worth. Well, it would do her good to learn that money could not buy everything, because he would not be rushed.

Another person made uneasy by the delay was the Lady’s steward, Robert Marishal. Rashly, Marishal had brought his children to Cambridge with him – twins, nine years old. Thomas and Ella looked like angels with their golden locks and blue eyes, but within an hour of their arrival, they had broken three valuable plates, torn a book, and let a pig into the parish church. And now some new delinquency was in the making, because they were nowhere to be seen. Their apprehensive father was desperate for the signing to be over, so that he could find the brats before there was yet more trouble.

‘You have had an entire decade to ponder this quit-claim, Master Badew,’ barked the Lady eventually. ‘Do you really need to go through it again?’

‘I am a lawyer, My Lady,’ Badew replied with haughty dignity. ‘And the law and haste make for poor bedfellows. None of us want to be subjected to this disagreeable rigmarole a second time, just because some facet of the transfer is badly worded.’

‘We both know that is unlikely, given the number of times it has been redrafted,’ the Lady retorted drily. ‘Or would you rather I took my patronage to another foundation?’

‘There is no need for that,’ blurted Donwich in alarm before Badew could tell her to do it. ‘We are all delighted by your offer to save us from financial ruin.’

‘Financial ruin?’ echoed Badew indignantly. ‘I have been more than generous, and—’

‘It takes sixty pounds a year to run a College properly,’ interrupted Donwich acidly. ‘Not the twenty you provide. So unless you can give us what we need, it is time for you to step aside and let someone else help us.’

‘Sixty pounds?’ cried Badew, shocked. ‘That is outrageous! Greedy, even! But regardless, I refuse to be bullied, so either shut up while I read this thing, or I shall go home.’

Everyone immediately fell silent, knowing he meant it. Only when the audience was completely still did Badew bend to the quit-claim again, carefully weighing the implications of each word until he reached the end. And then there was no more he could do – the last battle was over and the war was lost. With a sense of bitter regret, he picked up his pen, acutely aware of the tension that filled the room. He gave the nib a good dunk in the inkpot and started to write … then flung the pen away with an exclamation of disgust. It was not ink in the pot, but thick red blood.

‘You put that in there yourself, Badew,’ snarled Donwich accusingly. ‘You cannot bear to admit defeat, so you resort to low tricks instead. You will do anything to postpone—’

‘How dare you!’ bellowed Badew, affronted. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘I shall offer my purse to Michaelhouse if this business is not resolved today,’ warned the Lady before Donwich could tell him. ‘I have had enough of Badew’s juvenile capers.’

‘Juvenile capers,’ mused Roos, and pointed to a bulge in a tapestry; the cloth trembled as the two small culprits laughed helplessly behind it. ‘I think an apology is in order, Donwich.’

‘I saw the twins at the slaughterhouses this morning,’ put in Harweden with a moue of disgust. ‘I wondered what they were doing there, and now we know. They have been planning this nastiness for hours.’

Mortified, Marishal hauled the guilty pair out of their hiding place, although neither child was contrite.

‘But surely important documents should be signed in blood?’ declared Ella, her cherubic face the picture of bemused innocence, although mischief sparkled in her eyes. ‘It will make them more binding.’

‘And red is a nicer colour than black anyway,’ piped her brother. ‘Black is boring.’

Marishal marched them out in disgrace, while the onlookers exchanged disapproving glances, all thinking that such ill-behaved imps should have been left at home. Then Donwich produced a pot of proper ink, and everyone waited in taut silence again while Badew reread the document. But the prank had unsettled the older man and he was suddenly keen for the whole affair to be over, so it was not long before he leaned forward and wrote his name. When he sat back, the relief among the Fellows was palpable. It was done – they were free of him at last.

‘Now we have something to give you, My Lady,’ announced Donwich grandly. ‘From this day forth, University Hall will be known as Clare Hall, in recognition of your generosity.’

‘What?’ Badew was stunned. He had always assumed the College would be named Badew Hall after his death, in recognition of his vision in founding it, as was the custom in such situations. However, it was clear that the Lady had prior knowledge of the Fellows’ intentions, because she was not surprised at all by Donwich’s proclamation. She merely inclined her head in gracious acceptance of the honour. ‘But you cannot—’

‘Under your patronage, we shall become a centre for academic excellence,’ Donwich went on, rudely cutting across Badew and addressing the Lady directly. ‘University Hall was mediocre, but Clare Hall will attract the greatest scholars from all over the civilised world.’

‘No!’ objected Badew, aghast. ‘I am your founder. She is just—’

‘Your association with us is over, Badew,’ interrupted Donwich curtly, eyeing him with dislike. ‘You may see yourself out.’

While Badew sat in open-mouthed shock, the young Fellow swept out of the chamber with the Lady on his arm. The guests followed, chattering excitedly, and it was not long before only Badew and his two friends were left. Silence reigned, the only sound being the crackle of the fire.

‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Badew eventually, his voice unsteady with dismay. ‘They must name the College after me. I created it – all the Lady will do is throw money at a venture that is already up and running. I did all the hard work.’

‘You did,’ agreed Harweden kindly. ‘And you shall have your reward in Heaven, while the Lady and her newly acquired Fellows are destined for another place altogether. Leave justice to God, and forget about them.’

‘Forget about them?’ cried Badew incredulously. ‘I most certainly shall not! They will not get away with this outrage.’

He was barely aware of his friends escorting him home, so intent was he on devising ways to avenge himself. Unfortunately, none of the schemes that blazed into his fevered mind were very practical. He brooded on the matter for the rest of the day, and then went to bed, hoping a better plan would occur to him in the morning, when he would not be quite so incandescent with rage. None did, but that did not mean he was ready to concede defeat – not when he knew things about the Lady that would tear away the façade of pious respectability she had so carefully built around herself. He went to his church, knelt before the altar and made a solemn vow.

‘I will not rest until University Hall is mine again,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I will do anything to bring it about – steal, beg or even kill. It will be Badew Hall, even if it is the last thing I ever do. I swear it on my immortal soul.’

Clare, Suffolk, February 1360

The parish church of Clare had a unique claim to fame: it was the only one in the country with a fan-vaulted ceiling. Its vicar, Nicholas, gazed admiringly at it – or rather, he gazed at the parts he could see through the scaffolding. Fan vaulting – an architectural style where clusters of ‘ribs’ sprang from the supporting columns to form a fan-shape – was an entirely new invention. It was the brainchild of Thomas de Cambrug, who had first tried it in Gloucester Abbey. But Clare’s roof was better, because Cambrug had still been experimenting in Gloucester, whereas he had known what he was doing by the time he arrived in Suffolk.

It had been expensive, of course, but Clare was wealthy, and its inhabitants had leapt at the chance to transform their rather dull church into something remarkable. Donations had poured in, and work had started at once – removing the old, low roof and replacing it with a tier of elegant clerestory windows and the magnificent ceiling above.

Unfortunately, there was a downside. The Lady of Clare had been complaining for some time that her castle chapel was too small, especially when she had guests, but when she saw Cambrug’s innovations, she realised that a solution to her problem was at hand – the church was not only large enough to accommodate her entire household, but the rebuilding meant that it was now suitably grand as well. However, she was not about to subject herself to the unsavoury company of commoners while she attended her devotions, so she gave Cambrug some money and told him to design a new south aisle. The parishioners could have that, she declared, while she took the nave.

The townsfolk were outraged. It was their church and they resented her gall extremely. They marched to the castle as one, where they objected in the strongest possible terms to her projected south aisle. The Lady refused to listen. She ordered Cambrug to begin work, not caring that every stone laid destroyed more of the harmony that had existed between her castle and their town for the last three hundred years.

As soon as the aisle was completed, Cambrug took a new commission in Hereford Cathedral, relieved to be away from the bitterness and hostility that festered in Clare. He left his deputy Roger to finish the roof, but promised to return and check that all was in order before the church was rededicated the following April.

Unfortunately, Roger was entirely the wrong man to have put in charge. First, he was a rigid traditionalist who hated anything new, so the fan vaulting horrified him. And second, he was a malcontent, only happy when he was grumbling, which was irritating to his employers and downright exasperating for his workforce.

‘I will not answer for it,’ he said, coming to stand at Nicholas’s side and shaking his head as he peered upwards. ‘You should have stuck with a nice groin vault, like I told you. This fan lark is dangerous, and will come to a bad end.’

Nicholas fought for patience. ‘Nonsense! Cambrug’s ceiling will be the talk of the country, and we shall be celebrated as men of imagination and courage for having built it.’

Roger sniffed. ‘Oh, it looks pretty enough, but it should have taken twenty years to raise. We tossed it up in a few months.’

‘Yes, because we had so much money,’ argued Nicholas, although he did not know why he was bothering; he and Roger had been through this countless times already. ‘We were able to hire a huge army of masons and use high-quality stone.’

‘The stone is acceptable, I suppose,’ conceded Roger reluctantly. ‘But the men … well, most are strangers, so their work is shoddy.’

‘Not so, because you dismissed all those you deemed to be unsatisfactory. Of course, the same is not true for the south aisle. The Lady’s donation was niggardly, so corners have certainly been cut there.’

He glared at it, resentful that such an ugly, functional appendage should have been planted on the side of his glorious church, but then his eyes were drawn upwards to the ceiling again. The artists were at work now, painting it with geometrical patterns designed to complement the intricate stonework. It would be a riot of blue, red, gold and green, made all the more impressive for stretching unbroken across both nave and chancel. In Nicholas’s view, this would render it far more imposing than the one in Gloucester.

As the new work made the older parts look shabby, Nicholas had arranged for the whole building to be redecorated, and Clare’s wealth was such that the murals commissioned were the best that money could buy. He could not resist a grin of pride. Here he was, a one-time soldier in the King’s army, now in charge of a church as fine as any cathedral. How fortune had smiled on him since he had taken holy orders!

‘She does not like the fan vaulting,’ grumbled Roger. ‘She told me so herself.’

‘She’ was Clare’s anchoress, a woman who was walled up in a cell attached to the north wall. Her little room had two windows – the squint, which opened into the chancel and allowed her to receive Holy Communion; and a slit opposite that was used for passing in food and other essentials. Anne de Lexham had entered her ‘anchorhold’ two months before the renovations had started, so her life of religious contemplation had not been exactly peaceful.

‘She will change her mind once she sees it with the scaffolding down,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘Besides, she has benefited hugely from Cambrug’s presence here – her poky wooden cell exchanged for a nice new stone one, all designed to her own specifications.’

‘The church will not be ready for the rededication in April,’ declared Roger, who had an annoying habit of never acknowledging that someone else might be right, and always conceded defeat by segueing to a different gripe. ‘The artists are behind schedule, and so are the glaziers.’

‘Only by a few days, and they will make up for lost time when they hear the news I had this morning – namely that the Queen herself plans to be here for the occasion. They will not want to disappoint her.’

‘It is you who will be disappointed,’ warned Roger, looking upwards with a disparaging eye. ‘Because it will take longer than a few weeks to finish this lot, you mark my words.’

Nicholas was glad when the mason went to moan at someone else. He continued to watch the artists swarm over the scaffolding high above, but jumped in alarm when there was a sickening thud, followed by a babble of horror. It came from the chancel, so he hurried there at once. A number of workmen had clustered around someone who lay unmoving on the floor. Nicholas elbowed through them to find out what had happened – there had been surprisingly few mishaps so far, and he had been worried for some time that their luck would eventually run out.

Roger was dead, his skull crushed. A piece of wood lay on the floor next to him, and blood seeped across the paving stones.

‘It is part of the scaffolding,’ said Nicholas, squinting up at the mass of planking, ropes and ladders overhead. ‘It must have come loose somehow.’

‘Our scaffolding does not “come loose”,’ objected one of the carpenters indignantly. ‘I assure you, that plank did not fall of its own accord.’

‘Of course it did,’ countered Nicholas, startled. ‘What else could have happened?’

The workman shrugged. ‘Someone could have picked it up and belted him with it.’

‘You mean one of you?’ asked Nicholas, looking at each one in turn. ‘Because you are tired of his sour tongue?’

‘No, of course not,’ gulped the carpenter. He managed a feeble grin. ‘Ignore me, vicar. You are right – it was an accident. Let us say no more about it, eh?’

April 1360

The acrimony between the scholars began while they were still in Cambridge. The plan had been for all three foundations to leave at dawn, so that the journey to Clare – a distance of roughly twenty-five miles – could be completed in a day. This was particularly important to Michaelhouse, which was short of cash, so a night in an inn was a luxury its members were keen to avoid.

The first trouble came when the Michaelhouse men arrived at the town gate at the appointed hour, mounted and ready to ride out, but those from Clare Hall and Swinescroft Hostel did not.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Master Ralph de Langelee, looking around angrily as time ticked past and there was still no sign of them. ‘They promised not to be late.’

He was a bluff, stocky man, who had been henchman to an archbishop before deciding to try his hand at academia. He was no scholar, but he ran his College fairly and efficiently, while his military bearing and famed skill with weapons meant that tradesmen were disinclined to cheat him.

‘They did,’ agreed Brother Michael, who was not only a Benedictine theologian of some repute, but also the Senior Proctor – a post that had been lowly when he had first taken it, but that he had adjusted to the point where he now ran the entire University. He possessed a very princely figure – tall as well as fat – which he maintained by inveigling plenty of invitations to dine out.

‘I am not surprised, though,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Doctor of Medicine and the last of the three Michaelhouse men who were to travel that day. He had black hair, dark eyes and was considerably slimmer than his companions. ‘Clare Hall men always rise late, while Swinescroft … well, Roos is the youngest of them, and he is well past sixty.’

‘Swinescroft,’ said Michael with a smirk. ‘You know that is not its real name, do you not? It is officially St Thomas’s Hall, but so many vile characters enrol there that it has been Swinescroft ever since it opened its doors fourteen years ago.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I always thought it was because it stands on Swinescroft Row.’

Michael waved an airy hand. ‘I am sure that is what its members believe, but they would be wrong. Of course, with Richard de Badew as its Principal, how could it attract anything other than a lot of disagreeable ancients?’

‘Badew,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘When I first met him, he was a good man – generous, kind and dedicated. But when his Fellows changed the name of his foundation from University Hall to Clare Hall, he became bitter, angry and vengeful, virtually overnight.’

‘Who can blame him?’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It was a disagreeable business, and revealed them to be ungrateful, dishonourable and sly.’

‘It is a pity he let it turn him sour,’ said Michael, ‘because he makes for unpalatable company these days. And yet he is an angel compared to Saer de Roos, who is quite possibly the least likeable person I have ever met – and that includes all the killers and thieves we have confronted over the years.’

‘Gracious!’ murmured Langelee. ‘And he will be travelling to Clare with us today?’

Michael nodded. ‘Along with Badew himself and their friend Henry Harweden, who is another surly rogue. None are known for congenial conversation.’

‘They had better not be uncongenial with me,’ growled Langelee, patting his sword. ‘Because I will not put up with it. However, their characters – whether sullen or charming – will be irrelevant if they fail to turn up.’

‘Yes – where are they?’ Michael looked around crossly, aware that it was now fully light, and well past the time when they should have left. ‘Perhaps you are right, Matt: they are too old for such an excursion, so they decided to stay in bed. They are not like us – men in our prime.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about the last part. There were several grey hairs among his black ones, while Michael had to use a special glass for reading, and Langelee had recently been forced to retire from his favourite sport – camp-ball – because he could no longer run fast enough to avoid being pummelled by the opposition.

‘We cannot afford to dally,’ determined Langelee. ‘If they do not come soon, we shall have to leave without them. We will be safer in a large group, I know, but a lot is at stake here – Michaelhouse’s coffers are empty, and unless we get our bequest from the Lady of Clare in the next few days, we shall have to declare ourselves bankrupt and close down.’

‘I will not allow that to happen,’ vowed Michael. ‘Not after all we have been through over the past decade to keep the place going.’

‘Then let us hope the Lady has been generous,’ said Langelee, ‘because we will not last another month without a substantial donation. Thank God she died when she did!’

Bartholomew winced, still uncomfortable with the true purpose of their mission – not to attend the Lady’s funeral, as Michael and Langelee told anyone who asked, but to collect what they hoped she had left them in her will.

‘Are you sure we will be among her beneficiaries?’ he asked uneasily. ‘I had no idea she had promised us anything until you mentioned it last night. Did she tell you privately?’

‘Not in so many words,’ hedged Langelee. ‘But she liked us, and I often had the impression that she wished she had taken Michaelhouse under her wing, rather than Clare Hall. She loved being generous to scholars, so I am sure she will have remembered us.’

‘Which is why we must reach Clare in time to pay our respects to her body,’ said Michael. ‘It will look grubby if we just appear for the reading of the will – as if we only want her money.’

‘But we do only want her money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As does Clare Hall. I fail to understand why Swinescroft wants to come, though – they and the Lady hated each other.’

‘Probably to dance on her grave,’ shrugged Michael. ‘I told you: they are despicable characters, and gloating over the death of an enemy is exactly the sort of thing they will enjoy.’

For the next hour or so, they watched the little Fen-edge settlement come to life. Scholars and priests hurried to their daily devotions, while townsfolk emerged yawning and scratching for a day of honest – or dishonest – toil. Carts of all shapes and sizes poured through the gates from the surrounding villages, bringing wares to sell at the market – vegetables, sacks of peas and beans, woven baskets, pottery, wooden cages filled with agitated birds. It was hectic, noisy, and over it all came the sound of bells from at least twenty churches and chapels, ranging from the bass boom of St Mary the Great to the tinny clang of nearby St Botolph’s.

‘Here they are,’ said Langelee eventually, as two horsemen rode towards them with insulting insouciance. ‘Or Clare Hall, at least. Damn! They have sent Donwich and Pulham as their emissaries. I cannot abide that pair. I am the Master of a respectable College, but they still make me feel like a grubby serf.’

It was true that Donwich and Pulham considered themselves to be very superior individuals. Both were in their late thirties, and were smug, conceited and pompous, with reputations built on their contribution to University politics rather than their intellectual achievements. They hailed from noble families, and their travelling clothes were cut from the very finest cloth.

‘We overslept,’ explained Pulham breezily, careless or oblivious of the inconvenience this had caused. ‘But we are here now. Shall we go?’

‘We cannot,’ replied Langelee sourly, ‘because we are still missing Badew, Roos and Harweden. Stay here and do not move. I will find out what is keeping them.’

‘Do not bother,’ drawled Donwich. ‘They will have hired nags from some inn, which will never match ours for speed. We shall make better time without them.’

He smirked, because he and Pulham rode young stallions with glossy coats and bright eyes, whereas Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew had elderly ponies with shaggy manes and lazy natures. To emphasise the point, he performed a series of fancy manoeuvres designed to show off his mount’s pedigree. Michael and Langelee watched with grudging admiration, but Bartholomew, who was not remotely interested in horsemanship, wished Donwich would stop fooling around, because their departure would be delayed even further if he was thrown.

‘So why wait for Swinescroft?’ Donwich went on, to prove he could talk and control his horse at the same time. ‘We should leave now.’

‘There is safety in numbers, and the Clare road has been plagued by robbers of late,’ explained Langelee. ‘Simon Freburn and his sons, who have a penchant for cutting off their victims’ ears.’

‘If we are attacked, we shall just gallop away,’ declared Pulham smugly. ‘No thief will ever catch us or our ears. I only hope that you will be able to follow.’

‘Galloping away is exactly what they want you to do,’ retorted Langelee disdainfully. ‘You will ride directly into an ambush, where two men will be much easier to manage than eight. If you want to reach Clare in one piece, I strongly suggest you remain in the pack.’

The Clare Hall men blanched, as well they might, because it was clear from their clothes that they were worth robbing, and neither carried a weapon. By contrast, Michael had a stout staff, Bartholomew had a selection of surgical blades, while Langelee toted a sword, a crossbow, several very sharp daggers and a cudgel. Donwich gave a short, uneasy laugh.

‘My colleague jests,’ he blustered. ‘Of course we will not abandon you, and you can count on us to be at your side in the event of trouble.’

‘Behind us, more like,’ muttered Langelee venomously. ‘Cowering.’

It was some time later that the door to a nearby tavern opened, and the three scholars from Swinescroft emerged, brushing crumbs from their tabards as they did so. The scent of smoked pork and fried eggs wafted out after them. They strolled unhurriedly to the adjoining yard, where they heaved themselves on to three nags that looked older than their riders.

‘Do not rush,’ called Donwich acidly. ‘We are quite happy to sit here, twiddling our thumbs.’

‘We have no intention of rushing,’ shot back grey-haired Badew, the oldest of the trio. There was ice in his voice. ‘Not on your account.’

He had once been a formidable figure in the University – a chancellor, no less – but that had been before his treacherous Fellows had inflicted the wound from which he had never recovered, and that had turned him sour and twisted with hate. His favourite pastime now was suing other scholars, so that barely a month went by when he was not engaged in one lawsuit or another, ranging from disputes over books and money to accusations of theft, assault and damages.

‘Have y