A Wicked Deed Read online

  He ran faster, breath coming in ragged gasps, stumbling as his foot caught on the root of a tree. The undergrowth was becoming more dense, so that it was harder to move in a straight line, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the robbers drew close enough to hack at him with their swords. With a strength born of desperation, he raced on, trying to force a final spurt of speed in the vain hope that his pursuers might give up the chase if he were able to increase, even slightly, the distance between them.

  He saw a silvery glint as something dropped into the ferns ahead of him. One of the robbers had thrown a dagger, aiming to bring him down before they wasted more energy in tearing through the scrub. A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind supposed it was the sight of his heavy bag that made them so determined: they were not to know it contained only salves, potions and a few surgical instruments, none of which would be of much value, even to the most destitute of thieves. He plunged into the ferns where the knife had fallen, but they were tangled and thick, and he tripped almost immediately, sprawling forward on to his hands and knees.

  He saw the dagger on the ground, and snatched it up as he struggled to his feet to face his pursuers. There were three of them. They slowed when they saw he was run to ground, and began to spread out, making it difficult for him to watch them all at the same time. One of them feinted to his left, while another darted behind him. Even through their bandaged faces, Bartholomew could sense they were grinning, confident that they would make short work of him and make off with the contents of the intriguing leather bag that bulged at his side.

  Suddenly, one of them dropped to his knees, clutching his upper arm. An arrow protruded from it, and for an instant all three robbers and Bartholomew did nothing but stare at it in surprise. Then the stricken outlaw gave a tremendous shriek of pain and fear that almost, but not quite, drowned out the hiss of a second quiver that thudded into the ground at the feet of one of his companions. Leaving the injured man to fend for himself, the other two promptly fled, smashing through the scrubby vegetation every bit as blindly as Bartholomew had done. The wounded man staggered to his feet and followed, leaving Bartholomew alone.

  ‘Never run into a place you cannot escape from, boy,’ said Cynric admonishingly, as he stepped out from behind a tree, still holding his bow. ‘I have told you that before.’

  ‘It was not intentional,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a shaking hand through his hair. ‘What, happened to the other two thieves?’

  ‘Run off down the Old Road like a pair of frightened rabbits,’ said Cynric, fingering his bow as he glanced around him. ‘We should leave here before they regroup and come after us again.’

  On unsteady legs, Bartholomew followed Cynric through the woods to the small clearing where they had left their Michaelhouse colleagues. The Franciscan friar, Father William, sat with his two students – Unwin and John de Horsey – under a spreading oak, reading from a psalter in an unnecessarily loud voice. The third student, Rob Deynman, was minding the horses, while the Cluniac, Roger Alcote, who as Senior Fellow considered himself to be in charge of the deputation, paced impatiently in the centre of the glade. Lastly, Brother Michael lounged comfortably with his back against a sturdy tree-trunk, his jaws working rhythmically and the front of his black Benedictine habit sprinkled with crumbs.

  With the exception of Michael and Cynric, none of the Michaelhouse scholars were travelling companions Bartholomew would willingly have chosen. In fact, he had not wanted to make the journey at all, preferring to remain in Cambridge with his patients and students. But the Master of the College had been adamant, and Bartholomew had been given no choice but to join his colleagues for the long trek to the village of Grundisburgh in east Suffolk, to the home of Sir Thomas Tuddenham. This knight had generously offered to give Michaelhouse the living of his village church, and the scholarly deputation was to draw up the deed that would make the transfer legal.

  The gift of the living of a church – especially one in a wealthy village like Grundisburgh – was something greatly valued by institutions like Michaelhouse. Not only would it provide employment for their scholars – because owning the living meant that they could appoint whomever they liked as village priest – but if it chose Michaelhouse could pay that priest a pittance to act as vicar, while pocketing for itself the lion’s share of the tithes paid to the church each year. Such gifts were therefore taken seriously, and the large deputation from the College was not only to pay tribute to Tuddenham’s generosity, it was also to ensure that the transfer was completed so meticulously that no future Tuddenham could ever try to claim it back.

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael, looking up from the crust of a pie he had been devouring. ‘Was Cynric right? Were there outlaws on the road waiting to rob us of our meagre belongings? Or have we been lurking in this miserable hole all evening for nothing?’

  Bartholomew flopped on to the grass next to him, and rubbed his face with hands that still shook. ‘You know Cynric is always right about such things, Brother. He thinks we should stay in Otley tonight, rather than continue along the Old Road.’

  ‘But I wanted to be in Grundisburgh by this evening,’ objected Roger Alcote, with a petulant scowl. ‘Tuddenham was expecting us to arrive there three days ago. He has been most generous in giving Michaelhouse the living of his village church, and it is ungracious of us to arrive so much later than we promised.’

  ‘He will understand,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is a long way from Cambridge to Grundisburgh, and the roads are dangerous these days.’

  Alcote was not in a mood to be placated. ‘Cynric said the journey would take five days at the most, and we have been travelling nine already,’ he complained.

  ‘That was because we spent so long in that disgracefully luxurious Benedictine abbey at St Edmundsbury,’ said Father William, favouring Michael with a disapproving glower. The austere Franciscan claimed to despise anything vain or worldly, although Bartholomew had noticed that he had declined none of the Benedictines’ generous hospitality, despite roundly condemning them for their wealth and comfort.

  ‘“Disgracefully luxurious”,’ mused Michael, his green eyes glittering with amusement as he tossed the remains of the pie crust over his shoulder into the bushes. ‘I found it rather primitive, personally. Particularly when compared to my own abbey at Ely.’

  ‘We can travel the last few miles to Grundisburgh at first light tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could goad the humourless Franciscan into an argument. He glanced up at the sky. ‘But we should leave here now if we want to reach Otley before it is completely dark.’

  ‘Well, do not just sit there, then,’ snapped Alcote impatiently, thrusting the reins of Bartholomew’s horse at him. He put his head on one side in the way that always reminded the physician of a bad-tempered hen, and fixed him with his sharp, pale eyes. ‘We would have been in Grundisburgh by now if your servant had not been so nervous. We have been loitering in this wretched place for hours waiting for the two of you to come back.’

  ‘Lead on, Cynric,’ said Michael, as he swung himself up into his saddle with surprising ease for a man of his immense girth. ‘Let Matt and Roger stay here and argue about outlaws if they will, but take me to a decent inn where I can enjoy a good meal and a soft bed.’

  ‘You have not stopped eating since we left Cambridge,’ remarked Father William critically, looking around for his donkey. The brawny friar refused to ride anything except a donkey, loftily maintaining that to mount a horse, like the others, would be succumbing to earthly vanity. The animal that had been provided, however, was one of the smallest Bartholomew had ever seen, and the friar’s feet touched the ground on either side as he rode.

  ‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew, as he saw Michael’s eyes narrow, a sure sign that the monk was assessing which of several pithy replies that doubtless came to his quick mind would most antagonise the sanctimonious friar. ‘There are five outlaws at large, and we should not be here when they pull themselves together and c
ome back seeking revenge.’

  Cynric nodded fervent agreement, and began to lead the way through the undergrowth toward the Old Road. The others followed, while Bartholomew, still uneasy that the robbers might yet be skulking in the deepening shadows, brought up the rear. He rummaged in his medicine bag for the small knife that was part of his surgical equipment, and kept twisting around in his saddle so that he could see behind him. Cynric crossed the Old Road, before heading up the path that wound through the darkening woods to the north.

  The evening air was still, and smelled of grass mixed with the richer scent of sun-baked earth. The scholars had been lucky on their travels – the ground had been hard and dry, and there had been none of the struggling through morasses masquerading as roads that Bartholomew had encountered on other journeys. Even so, he was tired. It had been several years since he had ventured so far outside Cambridge, and he had forgotten quite how exhausting travelling could be.

  Memories of his days as a graduate student at the University of Paris came flooding back to him, when he had traipsed miles through France, Italy and Castile with the Arab physician with whom he had chosen to study. While his fellow students learned their medicine in dimly lit halls, Ibn Ibrahim had taken Bartholomew with him as he rode far and wide to tend interesting cases. But Bartholomew had been younger then, and Ibn Ibrahim’s enthusiastic discourses on healing had taken his mind off the miseries of the journey. Not surprisingly, Alcote’s complaining and William’s dogmatism had done nothing to alleviate the boredom and discomfort as the scholars had ridden eastward into Suffolk.

  Bartholomew stifled a yawn, looking from side to side into the now impenetrably black bushes that flanked the path. Something rustled and he tensed, anticipating another attack, but it was only a blackbird rooting about in the dried leaves for grubs. It fixed him with a bright yellow glare before flapping away, twittering in alarm.

  Ahead of him, he could hear Alcote and William arguing about something, their voices growing louder and louder as each tried to put forward his own point of view without listening to the other. Michael rode behind them, and Bartholomew could see his plump shoulders shaking with mirth as he listened. Knowing Alcote’s mean-mindedness and William’s uncompromising opinions, Bartholomew could well imagine why Michael was finding their ill-tempered exchange amusing, but he was still too shaken by his encounter with the robbers to feel much like being entertained by his colleagues’ bigotry.

  Horsey and Deynman began to sing ‘Sumer is icumen in’, and Michael, never averse to a little impromptu music, switched his attention to providing a bass part. He tried to persuade the third student to join in, but Unwin declined and fell back to ride next to Bartholomew.

  ‘Did you sleep easier last night?’ Bartholomew asked him, still peering behind at the darkened track. He thought he saw something move, and was on the verge of shouting for Cynric when a pair of amber eyes blinked at him, and he realised it was only a fox.

  The Franciscan student-friar gave a strained smile. ‘A little. The draught you gave me helped, but I will only be better once we reach Grundisburgh and I know what is expected of me.’

  ‘Grundisburgh already has a parish priest, and it might be years before he dies or retires and you have to take over his duties,’ said Bartholomew, not for the first time since the Master of Michaelhouse had announced that he had chosen the studious Unwin to become Grundisburgh’s next vicar.

  In order to express to Tuddenham that his gift was truly appreciated, the Master had appointed Michaelhouse’s most brilliant student to the post of priest-elect of Grundisburgh. He reasoned that not only would Unwin learn the parish’s ways before taking up office permanently, but the villagers would be assured that Michaelhouse intended to take its obligations seriously, and would provide them with the best the College could offer. Bartholomew had been surprised when Kenyngham had selected Unwin to serve as Grundisburgh’s vicar-elect: an excellent student he might be, and there were few who could best him in a theological debate, but he was far too timid and unworldly to make a good priest for a large rural parish.

  ‘I know I shall have time to learn from the present incumbent,’ said Unwin, shoving a thumb that had already been gnawed raw into his mouth. ‘But supposing I am not what Grundisburgh expects? What if they want a more …?’ He faltered, chewing on his thumb in agitation. ‘… A more charismatic priest?’

  Then they would be disappointed, thought Bartholomew. The diffident, bookish Unwin was one of the last people who could be considered charismatic. He did not even look inspiring. Although barely twenty, his fair hair was already thinning, and his pale blue eyes were weak and watery from reading in bad light. He stooped, too, and had a peculiar habit of looking over people’s shoulders when addressing them, instead of meeting their eyes. Although Bartholomew knew this resulted from shyness, those who knew him less well invariably considered him shifty. And shiftiness was not a character generally sought after in a parish priest.

  He smiled encouragingly. ‘You can always confine yourself to saying masses for the plague-dead until you feel confident enough to take on other duties.’

  Unwin brightened. ‘I had not considered that.’ He pulled his thumb from his mouth, and smiled thoughtfully. ‘I will not have to hear confessions that will shock me, or deal with adulterers, thieves and sinners if I am praying for the souls of the dead, will I?’

  He lapsed into silence, leaving Bartholomew more certain than ever that a less scholarly and more practical student might have better served Grundisburgh’s pastoral interests.

  It was not long before the acrid smell of wood-fires added their pungent aroma to the scent of late evening, and Cynric called out that they were nearing Otley. Dominating the village was a castle, comprising a compact bailey ringed by a palisade of sharpened posts, a stone house with a reed-thatched roof, and a grassy motte topped with a wooden watchtower. The bailey gates stood open, and a flurry of activity indicated that the owner had recently returned from a hunt. Dogs milled around the legs of the stable boys who rubbed down the sweating horses, and scullions spirited away a dead stag for butchering.

  A heavy-set guard, with a bushy beard and one of the filthiest boiled-leather jerkins Bartholomew had ever seen, had stopped Cynric and was asking his business in Otley. Impatiently, Alcote jostled the Welshman to one side, and began to berate the guard for daring to question the representatives of the University of Cambridge in so abrupt a manner, adding darkly that the villagers of Otley should consider the state of their immortal souls for hunting on a Holy Day.

  ‘Hunting is no more wicked on the Feast Day of St John the Evangelist than is travelling,’ retorted the guard immediately, eyeing Alcote with dislike. ‘You are sinning just as much as we are.’

  Alcote’s head tipped to one side. ‘But we are on God’s sacred business,’ he announced, wholly untruthfully, given that the journey was being undertaken solely because Michaelhouse wanted the living of Grundisburgh church. ‘You only seek to gratify your greedy appetites with fresh venison.’

  Bartholomew saw Brother Michael raise his eyes heavenward, and then hurry to intervene before Alcote’s arrogant self-importance could have them escorted out of the village and thrown back on the perils of the Old Road for the night.

  When Bartholomew looked behind him for Unwin, he was alarmed that the student-friar was nowhere to be seen. Leaving Michael to negotiate with the guard, he turned his horse and rode back the way he had come, straining his eyes in the darkness to try to see whether the Franciscan was still loitering on the track. There was no sign of him. Perplexed, he returned to the others, wondering whether the terrifying notion of becoming a parish priest had finally caused Unwin to flee once and for all.

  With some relief, he eventually spotted Unwin emerging from one of the outbuildings in the castle bailey. He was closely followed by a knight dressed entirely in black, whose bald head gleamed whitely in the gloom. The knight suddenly reached out and grabbed Unwin’s arm, so fiercely that the friar
all but lost his balance, and whispered something in his ear to which the friar nodded. Bartholomew frowned, puzzled by the exchange. What was Unwin doing in the bailey talking to a knight? As far as he was aware, Unwin had never been to Suffolk before, and knew no one in the area – and he was certainly not the kind of man to go exploring alone.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asked curiously, as Unwin rejoined him.

  Unwin shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, glancing behind him in a way that could only be described as furtive. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Explaining to the guard who we are,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar doubtfully, perplexed by his odd behaviour.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ came a booming voice, so close behind them that it made Unwin start backward and frighten his horse. It was the knight in black. ‘Use your wits, Ned: here are monks, friars and men in scholars’ tabards. It is obvious that these are the scholars from Cambridge – Sir Thomas Tuddenham has been expecting them over at Grundisburgh for the last three days.’

  The guard acknowledged him with a sloppy salute, and gestured that the scholars were to pass into the village.

  ‘I am Sir Robert Grosnold, lord of Otley Manor,’ said the black knight grandly. He was powerfully built, with dark beady eyes and no neck, and his black leather armour gave him a rather sinister appearance, accentuating the whiteness of his hairless pate. He gestured to the stone house in the bailey. ‘This is Nether Hall, granted to me by the King himself in recognition of my bravery at the Battle of Crécy in ‘forty-six.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, uncertain what else he could say.

  ‘Great day for England, that,’ continued Grosnold with unconcealed pride. ‘And I was there.’

  Bartholomew nodded politely, still wondering what had induced Unwin to slip away from his companions to the outhouse in the bailey with the boastful lord of Otley Manor.