A Wicked Deed Page 6

  ‘A sad tale indeed,’ said Michael brusquely, never a man much interested in local stories and folklore. ‘But we escaped from Barchester unscathed to arrive here in one piece.’

  Tuddenham smiled reassuringly at his nervous womenfolk, and nodded to the festivities on the green. ‘Let’s not discuss Barchester while the Fair is in full swing. You arrived at an opportune time, gentlemen. At sunset, we will all eat the food the villagers have provided to mark the Fair’s beginning; on Monday, I, as lord of the manor, will provide the feast that marks the end of the celebrations. It is a tradition that goes back many years.’

  ‘It does not seem to be a religious occasion, Sir Thomas,’ observed Father William, eyeing the villagers reprovingly. ‘It looks more like pagan revelry to me.’

  ‘Roger Alcote took the wrong turning at the crossroads,’ said Michael quickly, changing the subject before the fanatical friar could antagonise their benefactor. ‘But he should be here soon.’

  Tuddenham was concerned. ‘It is not wise for a man to be travelling alone these days. Outlaws are as numerous as the stars in the sky along the roads to Ipswich.’

  ‘He is not alone,’ said Michael to allay his fears. ‘The students are with him.’

  ‘Students?’ asked Tuddenham uneasily. ‘How many Michaelhouse scholars did you bring?’

  ‘We are seven, plus our servant, Cynric,’ said Michael.

  Dame Eva raised her eyebrows. ‘That is quite a deputation,’ she remarked bluntly. ‘We were expecting Alcote, a scribe and the lad who will be our priest when Master Wauncy retires. We had no idea that to draft an advowson would require seven scholars. No wonder honest men avoid the law when they can – it promises to be an expensive business!’

  ‘Mother, please!’ said Tuddenham, embarrassed. He smiled unconvincingly at Michael. ‘It is true that we were not anticipating such a number, but you are all welcome, nonetheless.’

  The number of scholars to visit Grundisburgh had been a matter of fierce debate at Michaelhouse’s high table for several weeks before their departure. If too few people went, it would appear as if the College did not appreciate the magnitude of Tuddenham’s generosity; if too many went, the knight might feel his hospitality was being imposed upon. At the same time, none of the Fellows, with the sole exception of Alcote, wanted to go themselves, but none of them trusted him to draft out the deed without taking the opportunity to negotiate a little something for himself – either to the College’s detriment or to prey on Tuddenham’s kindness.

  In the end, the Master had made a unilateral decision, and had dispatched William and Bartholomew to monitor the avaricious Alcote, and Horsey to keep the nervous Unwin company. Deynman had been an afterthought, to remove him from harm until the temper of Agatha, the College laundress, had cooled over the business regarding her teeth. Michael, meanwhile, had been seconded to the deputation by the Chancellor, to see whether Tuddenham’s generosity might be further exploited in the University’s interests.

  Michael smiled ingratiatingly at Tuddenham. ‘Master Kenyngham dispatched not only his four most senior Fellows to acknowledge your handsome gift, but three of his finest students.’

  Bartholomew winced, hoping Tuddenham would not embark upon any lengthy discussions with the woefully unacademic Rob Deynman. There was not another student in the entire University who was in Deynman’s league for atrocious scholarship, and even after three years of painstaking care and effort on Bartholomew’s part, Deynman remained as cheerfully ignorant as on the day he had arrived.

  ‘And is one of these fine students Unwin?’ asked Tuddenham, flattered, and treating Michael to a display of his long teeth. ‘The man who will become our new priest when the old one retires?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Unwin is keen to make your acquaintance as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Excellent,’ beamed Tuddenham, rubbing his hands together again. ‘This is all working out most agreeably.’

  It was pleasant sitting in the sun and watching the revelry on the green. At noon, the sun became so warm that Bartholomew, drowsy from the ale, fell asleep, and did not wake until well into the afternoon. He looked around for his colleagues, and was disturbed to hear that Alcote and the students had still not arrived. He considered going to look for them, but Cynric did not seem to share his concern, suggesting that Alcote must have stopped for a meal at an inn along the way, and that they should give him a little longer.

  While he had been asleep, a colourful awning had been erected over the Tuddenhams’ table, and Michael sat under it, regaling the knight and his family with stories of life in Cambridge, while devouring a plate of cakes that had been set in front of him. Seeing him awake, Isilia came to fill Bartholomew’s cup with yet more ale. To avoid being caught staring at her again, he studiously watched some jugglers on the green, only looking at her when she left, to admire the way her green dress clung to her slender hips.

  When she had returned to her seat, Tuddenham took Michael’s arm, and led him to where Bartholomew leaned comfortably against the sun-warmed stones of the churchyard wall. William joined them, not wanting to be left out of any interesting discussions. Tuddenham glanced furtively at his wife and mother, both now conveniently out of earshot, and then turned his attention to the scholars.

  ‘Now you have taken some ale and slept a while, can you make a start on the advowson?’

  ‘Tomorrow would be better,’ said Michael, regarding the notion of immediate labour without enthusiasm. ‘We will be rested, and less likely to make mistakes that will later need to be rectified.’

  Bartholomew agreed. Keen though he was to return to Cambridge, advowsons were invariably complicated documents, and mistakes made early in the proceedings usually resulted in delays later.

  ‘He wants to get rid of us as quickly as possible,’ said William to Bartholomew, in a whisper that Tuddenham would have to have been deaf not to hear. ‘I said seven scholars was too many.’

  ‘Then perhaps a little wine might help,’ said Tuddenham to Michael, beckoning to his wife to bring some. ‘Ale is no drink to stimulate the brain.’

  When Isilia presented her guests with the wine, the goblets proved to be enormous, and Bartholomew did not know how he would finish his, as well as the ale, without becoming drunk. He need not have worried: Michael downed most of his own in a single gulp, and then furtively switched vessels with the physician in the hope that he would not notice.

  Isilia sat next to Bartholomew and refilled the cup in front of him, while Father William – no more in the mood for writing legal texts that evening than Michael and Bartholomew – invented a host of spurious reasons why work on the advowson would be better undertaken the following day.

  Isilia frowned thoughtfully before addressing Bartholomew. ‘Grundisburgh Church is a very rich living. Why did Michaelhouse appoint a student to be a priest, rather than a Fellow like you?’

  She smiled at him, green eyes dark against her white skin, and Bartholomew’s hand shook, spilling wine on his tabard.

  ‘Unwin is a deeply religious, compassionate man and a fine scholar,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. Although Michaelhouse was delighted to possess the living, none of the Fellows much relished the notion of being banished to deepest Suffolk to act as parish priest. That was something to be foisted on students, who were not in a position to argue about it.

  She regarded him quizzically. ‘I would expect most friars to be deeply religious, compassionate men.’

  Bartholomew wondered how she had arrived at such a conclusion. It was certainly not one that applied universally to friars from somewhere like Cambridge, where membership of a strong Order like the Franciscans or the Dominicans was often seen as the best path to earthly, rather than heavenly, power.

  Isilia continued. ‘But you make Unwin sound dull. A “deeply religious, compassionate man and a fine scholar”. Is there nothing more interesting to say of him?’

  Bartholomew suspected there was not, and personally considered th
e Franciscan something of a nonentity – unlike his friend John de Horsey. Horsey was tall and striking, with amber eyes and smooth nut-coloured hair. He was also quick-witted, amusing and popular, and would have made a far better priest for Grundisburgh than the timid Unwin.

  ‘So, you are a physician?’ she asked conversationally, when Bartholomew did not reply. ‘That must be an unpleasant occupation.’

  ‘At times,’ Bartholomew admitted. ‘But it can also be very rewarding. For example, physicians are not usually called to childbirths, but a number of women have asked me to attend them since the plague took so many of the skilled midwives. Delivering a healthy baby is very satisfying.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Isilia, clearly scraping the recesses of her mind for something intelligent to say. ‘These are merchants’ and landowners’ wives, I imagine? You must meet some interesting people.’

  ‘Actually, they are usually the town’s poor. The landowners’ and merchants’ wives can afford to pay the high fees of the two surviving midwives.’

  ‘I see,’ said Isilia, trying hard to mask her distaste. ‘But do these women not object to having a man present at such a time? I would.’

  ‘Most of them are so desperate, they would not care if I were a dancing bear, as long as I helped them. Unfortunately, the shortage of experienced midwives has led to a number of unscrupulous women pretending to be qualified when they are not. They concoct dreadful potions that they say will hasten labour or deliver a boy-child rather than a girl, and they often make the mother ill.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ said Isilia. Bartholomew did not see the desperate glance she cast at Dame Eva in the hope that she might be extricated from the disagreeable discussion.

  ‘I caught one feeding a paste of crushed snails, sparrows’ brains, red arsenic and wormwood to her patient, telling her it would prevent fevers,’ he continued, warming to his theme. ‘It killed the unborn child and gave the mother a terrible bleeding …’

  ‘I hardly think descriptions of your dealings with pregnant peasants is a suitable topic of conversation for Lady Isilia, Matt,’ said Michael, gallantly coming to her rescue. ‘You should tell her about your expertise with horoscopes instead.’

  ‘Really?’ said Isilia, suddenly interested as Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look. ‘Then you must cast mine and that of my unborn child. And I will introduce you to Master Stoate, the village physician. He, too, loves astrology.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I am certain he will not want to talk about pastes made of snail brains and crushed sparrow.’

  ‘I am not very good at horoscopes,’ said Bartholomew firmly, wanting to nip that notion in the bud before he became inundated with requests for astrological consultations. Predicting courses of treatment for continued good health from the movements of the heavenly bodies was a time-consuming and tedious business if it were to be done accurately, and Bartholomew was determined not to waste his time on it.

  Isilia seemed as though she would insist, but Michael interrupted with a spiteful chuckle. ‘Here comes Alcote at last. I was beginning to think we had succeeded in losing him completely.’

  ‘Is that him?’ Isilia asked with sudden hope in her voice, astrology and Bartholomew instantly forgotten as a tall student-friar strode towards them. ‘Is that Unwin, our next priest?’

  ‘That is John de Horsey, madam,’ said Michael, trying to hide his amusement at the yearning in her voice. ‘Unwin is behind him.’

  There was no mistaking the bitter disappointment on Isilia’s face when she saw that the comely John de Horsey was not the long-awaited Unwin. To her credit, she rose and went to meet the unprepossessing friar with good grace, offering him wine and a seat in the shade, although Bartholomew noticed that Horsey was given the better place and the larger cup. Scurrying behind the students came Alcote, who contemptuously brushed aside Isilia’s polite greeting, and made straight for Tuddenham.

  ‘Someone should tell Alcote that spurning the lovely wife of our benefactor is not the best way to gain that benefactor’s good auspices,’ remarked Michael, unimpressed by Alcote’s display of poor manners. ‘That man’s dislike of women is unnatural.’

  ‘He is a monk, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He is supposed to be uninterested in women. As are you.’

  ‘As a monk, I love all my fellow men and women with equal fervour, although I find women far easier to love than men.’ Michael nudged Bartholomew in the ribs, and nodded to where Isilia was listening with rapt attention to something Horsey was saying. ‘Handsome John de Horsey is her first choice, but she would settle for you, with your black curls and vile stories of childbirth, over the dull Unwin. He does not interest her at all.’ He took another gulp of Bartholomew’s wine.

  ‘You do talk nonsense sometimes, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He yawned. Even the small amount of wine he had managed to drink before Michael took it all was making him sleepy again.

  ‘Isilia is a very attractive lady,’ Michael continued. ‘Although I can see I do not need to tell you that. You spilled half my wine while you were ogling her.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the monk was less worldly in his observations.

  ‘I expected to find you hanged,’ muttered Alcote unpleasantly to Bartholomew, apparently having decided that a cup of wine was more urgent than toadying to Tuddenham. He flopped on to the grass next to them. ‘And Michael, William and Cynric with you. Next time you want to rescue cut-throatsx, do it when you cannot drag other Michaelhouse scholars into the mire, too.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ warned Michael irritably. ‘Or it will be you responsible for having us all clapped in irons for tampering with gibbets. And where have you been? You should have been here hours ago.’

  ‘No thanks to you,’ snapped Alcote. ‘You let me take the wrong road on purpose. But it all worked out rather well, as it happened. I met a group of travellers who had been attacked by robbers, and one of them lay dying. He paid me a shilling for writing his will, and another two to say masses for him at the shrine of St Botolph at St Edmundsbury on our way home.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in disgust. ‘You took money from a dying man?’

  Alcote shrugged. ‘Why not? And do not be sanctimonious with me, young man. Physicians make their living by charging dying men for their services.’

  ‘It is not the same,’ objected Bartholomew.

  Alcote overrode him. ‘If God had not wanted me to make a profit today, he would not have let me take the wrong road. Now, what about this felon you freed from the noose? Did you save the man? Can we all sleep less soundly in our beds tonight, because you released a convicted criminal to continue a life of villainy?’

  ‘For a man of God, you have a very cold soul,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the Cluniac with dislike. ‘Where is your compassion?’

  ‘My compassion is reserved for those who deserve it,’ said Alcote haughtily. ‘And what I do with it is none of your business.’

  ‘And what I do with mine is none of yours,’ retorted Bartholomew.

  ‘That must be Walter Wauncy, Grundisburgh’s current parish priest,’ interrupted Michael, gesturing with his goblet to a tall, cadaverous-looking man wearing the habit of an Austin canon, who was coming from the direction of the church. ‘No wonder poor Isilia’s hopes were high for a handsome young friar. What with Sir Fang on the one hand, and a priest who looks three days dead on the other, she must be absolutely desperate to set her fair eyes on something pleasant. Even plain Unwin has to be an improvement on the menfolk here.’

  ‘I hope you are not encouraging her to lascivious thoughts, Brother,’ said Alcote primly. ‘It would be most improper.’

  Michael regarded him with hurt expression. ‘I am distressed that you should think such things of me, Roger. I was merely commenting on the variety within God’s creation.’

  They stood politely as the Austin approached. Bartholomew had seldom seen anyone look so unhealthy, and wondered whether Unwin might find himself vicar of Grundisburgh sooner
than he anticipated. Wauncy was gaunt to the point where he appeared skeletal, and there were dark rings under his yellowish eyes. His head seemed uncannily skull-shaped, accentuated by the fact that he was almost completely bald except for a short fringe of hair at the back and sides. Out from this surged a pair of enormous ears that turned a blood-red colour when the sun was behind them.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said the priest in a graveyard whisper to the scholars. ‘You must forgive my lateness in greeting you. I have been saying masses for the dead all day.’

  ‘What is the going rate for masses in these parts?’ asked Alcote conversationally. ‘In Cambridge we can only charge a penny, because it is a place with more than its share of priests, but I have heard that people pay handsomely where clerics are less numerous.’

  ‘I charge a fourpence,’ said Wauncy superiorly. ‘Otherwise I would have all the village’s poor after me to pray for their dead, and I can barely manage the demand imposed by the wealthy.’

  Alcote was impressed. ‘I can see Unwin will make a tidy fortune here, and will have plenty to spare for his old College.’

  ‘Have you travelled far today?’ asked Wauncy.

  ‘From Otley,’ said Alcote. He shuddered. ‘A shabby place that smells of pigs, quite unlike this charming village, Master Wauncy.’

  ‘Then you must have lain in bed a long time this morning,’ said Wauncy, a note of censure in his deep voice. ‘Otley is no great distance from Grundisburgh, yet I hear you have only just arrived.’

  ‘We stopped at the crossroads to pray for the soul of the poor man who was hanged there today,’ said Alcote, before anyone could stop him.

  Bartholomew exchanged a weary glance with Michael. Not only was Alcote’s claim a brazen lie but it was imprudent in the extreme to mention the hanged man when they might yet be in trouble for cutting him down.

  Wauncy looked blank. ‘What hanged man?’