A Wicked Deed

Chapter 2

The pathway to Grundisburgh wound downward, and soon the scholars emerged in a pleasant, shallow basin, surrounded on all sides by gently rolling hills. The fertile valley bottom had been cleared of its scrub for farming, and neat, thin strips showed where crops of wheat and barley had been sown. It was rich land, with sandy soil that was far easier to plough than the clays to the north. The distant hillsides were dotted white with sheep, while the trees that marked the parish boundaries were still sprinkled with the pinks and creams of late blossom. In the morning sunlight, set against a clear, pale blue sky, the scene that stretched before them was one of peace and prosperity.

It was not long before Grundisburgh’s Church of Our Lady came into view. Initially, Bartholomew thought it unattractive: its flint tower was squat and sturdy, and only just taller than the pitched nave roof, while the main body of the building had narrow lancet windows punched into it, like arrow-slits in a castle. Yet the more Bartholomew looked, the more he appreciated its stark simplicity, and the timeless, brutal strength of the Norman belfry. It stood at the heart of the village, overlooking a swath of grass that formed a pleasant green, dwarfed by towering elm trees in which rooks cawed.

The green provided the villagers with communal grazing land, and straddled both sides of a shallow brook. There were no bridges, and the paths that met in the village centre dipped down to three muddy fords. Willow-tree branches cascaded to the water’s edge, offering cool, shady spots away from the glare of the sun. Opposite the church was a line of reed-thatched wattle-and-daub houses, some of which had smoke seeping from their chimneys as meals were prepared. The homely scent of burning wood mingled with rich soil and cooking food.

Michael was waiting for him in front of the church, smiling, while Father William pursed his lips in disapproval. Cynric had been right; the Pentecost Fair was in full swing. It centred on the green, which thronged with people, some sitting in groups under the trees, others gathered near a makeshift stage on which four enthusiastic musicians played energetic reels on a rebec, two pipes and a drum.

Near the church a pole had been erected, and children were skipping around it holding strips of coloured material. Bartholomew imagined the pole was supposed to end up neatly wrapped in the cloth, but the children were having far too much fun for anything so organised, and pelted round the tottering pillar at a speed that had most of them reeling with dizziness. Shrieks of laughter and the admonishing tones of an ignored adult drifted across the green. Someone darted forward as the pole began to list to one side, and rapidly became entangled in the children’s gaudy bands. His struggles to extricate himself made the pole more unstable than ever and in a shower of dirt the bottom flicked upward so that the whole thing toppled to the ground, and delighted children ran to fling themselves on top of it.

Bartholomew dismounted and stood next to Michael, content to watch the villagers at their revels for a while, before seeking out the generous Sir Thomas Tuddenham. Michael’s attention, however, was elsewhere. Bartholomew saw his keen gaze firmly fixed on a line of trestle tables, almost invisible under mounds of food – pyramids of bread loaves; a huge, golden – crusted pie surmounted by an oddly shaped pastry bird; a vat of something that looked like saffron custard; massive platters of meat delivered by a team of women who chattered noisily as they hacked up two roasted sheep; and a mound of brown-shelled eggs that stood higher than a man was tall. Bartholomew had not seen as much food in one place – including the market at Cambridge – since before the plague.

‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as he assessed the quality of the fare with a professional eye. ‘We should make ourselves known before this feast starts, so that we can join in.’

Away to one side was a smaller table, covered by a spotless white cloth that was almost dazzling in the bright sun. Behind it sat a man, fifty or sixty years of age, with bristly grey hair, who wore a handsome blue capuchin and matching hose, and a shirt that was almost as brilliantly white as the tablecloth. He wore a somewhat fixed smile as he watched the children’s antics with the pole, revealing some of the longest yellow teeth Bartholomew had ever seen. His seat of honour led Bartholomew to suppose he was Sir Thomas Tuddenham, the lord of Grundisburgh manor, and the man who was to give Michaelhouse the living of his church.

Tuddenham had a woman on either side of him. The one to his right was elderly, and had almost as outstanding an array of amber fangs as did Tuddenham; Bartholomew assumed she was his mother. She had kindly eyes that went in slightly different directions, and her creased, walnut-brown face was framed by a wimple that had seen better days – no longer crisp and white, but cream-coloured and worn. Her shabby brown dress, offset by an unashamedly ostentatious brooch, suggested that she cared nothing for appearances, and set more store in personal comfort.

The woman to the left was young and had raven-black hair that cascaded down her back, topped by a simple, but delicate, bronze circlet. Her dress was deep green, and the way it glittered as it caught the sun indicated that it had been shot through with gold thread. She turned to whisper something to Tuddenham, laughing as she did so. Bartholomew realised she could be no more than twenty. He found himself staring at her in admiration; with the possible exception of Matilde, he thought he had never seen a woman quite so lovely.

He was still gazing at her when Tuddenham noticed the three scholars standing at the edge of the green. His fixed smile became genuine, and he strode forward to greet them, his kinswomen in tow. William gave Bartholomew a sudden jab in the ribs, although whether it was because Michael was introducing him to Tuddenham, or because his inquisitor’s nose had detected a hint of inappropriate admiration for Tuddenham’s wife, Bartholomew could not tell.

Tuddenham held his hands apart, palms upward, to indicate they were welcome, and presented them with an impressive display of his dental armour to underline the sentiment.

‘At last!’ he cried with pleasure. ‘I was beginning to believe you would never come. I expected you days ago.’

‘Our arduous journey took us a good deal longer than we anticipated,’ said Michael, blithely omitting reference to the three-day sojourn at St Edmundsbury Abbey. ‘The roads are fraught with danger, and thieves and murderers lurk in every village.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. With the exception of the previous day the journey had been tediously uneventful – mainly due to Cynric’s skill in avoiding situations that might have proved unsafe.

‘Well, it is most gracious of you to come all this way to accept the living of my church,’ said Tuddenham sincerely. ‘Especially since it seems there was considerable risk to yourselves.’ He turned to gesture to the elderly woman who stood at his side. ‘My mother, Dame Eva, once visited Cambridge. She is looking forward to hearing news of it during your stay here.’

‘It will be my pleasure, madam,’ said Michael, favouring her with one of his courtly bows.

‘And this is my wife, Lady Isilia.’ Tuddenham smiled at the scholars’ surprise as he introduced the dark-haired woman. ‘You think Isilia is too young to have a husband my age. She is my second wife – my first was taken by the Death, as were my three sons.’

‘A sad, but common, tale,’ said Michael. ‘There is not a soul in the kingdom who has not lost someone he loved to the pestilence.’

‘But your wife is with child,’ said Bartholomew, whose training as a physician meant he noticed such things. He smiled at her. ‘So you may yet have sons to inherit your estates.’

Tuddenham nodded. ‘My current heir is my nephew, Hamon. He is overseeing the Pentecost Fair celebrations at my other manor this morning. I own two manors, you see: this one, and one just over those trees. I allow Hamon to run the smaller of the two, to gain experience for managing both in the future.’

‘Our estates will not prosper under the rule of that young oaf,’ said Dame Eva with sudden feeling. ‘My husband – God rest his soul – spent all his blameless life building these lands into something worth having, but Hamon will destroy everything in weeks with his weakness and foolery if you are rash enough to entrust them to him.’

Tuddenham sighed, and Bartholomew suspected that the argument was not a new one. ‘You malign the lad – there is some good in him. But I have no choice: Hamon is the only male Tuddenham in his generation to have escaped the Death.’

‘But he will not inherit over my children,’ said Isilia, smiling reassuringly at her mother-in-law. She slipped her arm through that of her husband, and addressed Bartholomew. ‘Poor Thomas has been so long without children of his own that he still cannot believe that he is to be a father again.’

Tuddenham smiled, rather sadly. ‘My wife is right. It is strange for a man at my stage in life to be contemplating fatherhood again, but the plague changed all that.’

‘Is that why you are giving us the living of the church?’ asked Michael. ‘Bestowing a gift on our College to ensure the heavens look favourably on your unborn child?’

Since the plague, such benefactions had become increasingly common as the wealthy sought to put themselves in God’s favour by making donations of land and money to the Church or a College. There was nothing like a brush with death to make people generous.

Tuddenham considered. ‘In a sense, I suppose. But Isilia’s dowry included land at Otley, and it is because of this that I am able to donate the church to Michaelhouse. Speaking of which, shall we make a start on drafting out the deed that will make the living legally yours?’

‘What, now?’ asked Michael, taken aback, and looking meaningfully at the food-laden tables.

Tuddenham did not seem to notice the monk’s reluctance. He beamed and rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. ‘Why not? I have always believed in getting on with things. Did you bring the licence from the King that will allow me to grant you the advowson?’

‘We did,’ said Michael. ‘It was signed in Westminster on the sixth day of May, so you can legally pass the living of the church to Michaelhouse any time you like.’

‘Good, good,’ said Tuddenham, still rubbing his hands. ‘And then you can write my will for me, and act as my executors after I die?’

‘I understand that is part of the informal agreement you made with Master Alcote when you first discussed this matter,’ said Michael, his eyes still fastened on the food. ‘Our College has some excellent lawyers, and acting as your executors will be the least we can do to show appreciation for your generosity.’

‘Do not talk about deaths and wills on such a day,’ protested Isilia, clutching at her husband’s sleeve. ‘It is the first day of the Pentecost Fair, and we should be feasting and enjoying the music, not talking about boring old deeds and legal rubbish.’

‘Quite so, madam,’ said Michael quickly.

‘No time like the present for these matters,’ said Tuddenham, as if they had not spoken. ‘Did you bring your own writing materials, or shall I send for some?’

Dame Eva stepped forward and rested a frail hand of bones and soft skin on her son’s shoulder, shaking her head indulgently. ‘Really, Thomas,’ she said, affectionately chiding. ‘I know you are anxious to have the deed signed and sealed as soon as possible, but we should not forget our manners. Our guests must be weary after their travels. Tomorrow will be soon enough to start.’

‘Thank you for your consideration, madam,’ said Michael graciously. ‘We are indeed tired.’ He eyed the food tables again. ‘And hungry.’

With clear disappointment, Tuddenham dropped the subject of the advowson, and gestured that the scholars should sit on a bench, while he called for a servant to bring them ale. When it arrived, Isilia poured it into pewter cups. It was warm from the sun, and tasted sour and strong. As she handed him his, Bartholomew found himself gazing at her again, admiring her delicate beauty. He blushed when she glanced up and caught him. Unabashed, she gave him a patient smile that suggested she was used to such responses, and then politely turned her attention to Michael’s account of their journey, flagrantly exaggerated to ensure Tuddenham would fully appreciate the gesture the Michaelhouse men were making by undertaking such a long and dangerous mission.

Listening to the conversation with half an ear, Bartholomew sipped his ale and began to relax, grateful that the journey was at an end at last. All they needed to do now was to draft the advowson – which might take as long as several days, if Tuddenham’s personal affairs were complex – and then go home. He pushed the dull prospect of legal documents from his mind, and turned his attention to the merrymaking on the green.

The villagers seemed in high spirits, something that had been conspicuous by its absence in most of the settlements they had passed since leaving Cambridge. The plague had hit rural England hard, and many people, tied by law to the lord of the manor in which they were born, were no longer able to scrape a decent living from the land. To see folk well fed and adequately clothed, and even with spare pennies to squander on the useless trinkets that a chapman was hawking on the green, was a pleasant and unexpected change.

Bartholomew’s teaching, his patients and his half-finished treatise on fevers seemed a long way away as he watched Grundisburgh’s villagers celebrate their Pentecost Fair. Some of the younger people were dancing to the musicians’ furious music, skipping and weaving around each other playfully, and calling for others to join in. Bartholomew was about to yield to the persistent demands of one pretty flaxen-haired girl and be her partner in a jig, when a sharp cry from Dame Eva made him glance at her in surprise.

‘Barchester? You came through Barchester?’

The old lady and Isilia exchanged a significant glance, and Isilia shifted closer to her mother-in-law, as if for the comfort of physical contact. Michael, who had been about to describe the clothes in the otherwise deserted village, regarded them uncertainly, while Bartholomew’s golden-headed maiden backed away hurriedly at the mention of the plague village, and ran to find another man with whom to dance.

‘That was the way the path ran,’ said Michael, watching the girl leave with unmonklike interest. ‘Have we done something wrong? Trespassed unknowingly on someone’s land?’

‘Barchester belongs to no one,’ said Isilia, in a hushed voice.

‘No one would have it,’ added Dame Eva, crossing herself vigorously.

‘Actually, it stands on my land,’ said Tuddenham, a touch impatiently. ‘Near the boundary with Otley. It was abandoned after the plague, and all sorts of silly stories have grown up about it. The only people who visit it these days are travellers, like you, who do not know that the locals use the new track to the east, to avoid it.’

‘It is a village that the plague destroyed,’ whispered Isilia, her eyes wide as she moved closer still to Dame Eva. ‘It is a haunted place, and no one from around here would set foot in it under any circumstances.’

‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Tuddenham. ‘It is just like any other of the plague villages in the shire – a poor, sad place that the Earth is slowly reclaiming.’

‘It is one of the gateways to hell,’ announced Dame Eva uncompromisingly, crossing herself again. ‘Only the damned willingly go there – in the darkest hours near midnight, in order to commune with the Devil.’

‘There was nothing to be afraid of,’ said Michael, not entirely truthfully, since, by his own admission, the village had unnerved him. ‘Matt even looked in one of the houses, and there was nothing amiss.’

‘You went into a house?’ asked Isilia, aghast. She flinched away from Bartholomew, as though his very presence might prove contaminating. ‘You touched a threshold?’

‘I looked inside,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing sinister or terrifying there – just a few old vegetables on the table, and some clothes in the doorway.’

Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged more frightened glances. ‘They must have been Mad Megin’s clothes,’ said Dame Eva. ‘She drowned herself last winter because Barchester sent her insane.’

‘She drowned herself because she was a lonely old woman who had lost her family and friends,’ explained Tuddenham impatiently. ‘You see how these stories become exaggerated? Megin was the only Barchester resident not taken by the pestilence, and one of our villagers – Tobias Eltisley, the landlord of the Half Moon – found her floating in the river just after Christmas.’

‘He buried her in Barchester’s churchyard,’ said Isilia fearfully, ‘and it is said that she leaves her grave each night to wander the village, calling for her loved ones.’

‘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 the 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-throats, 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?’

‘The criminal who was hanged at the crossroads today,’ pressed Alcote. ‘On the gibbet.’

‘The gibbet at Bond’s Corner?’ asked Wauncy, looking from Alcote to Michael in confusion. ‘But no one has been hanged there for weeks.’

A wave of rough laughter from a group of men sitting under a willow tree gusted towards them, as a pig made off with a loaf of bread belonging to a man who was determined to have it back. A fierce tussle ensued, after which the pig emerged victorious with the larger piece. Bartholomew, Michael and Alcote stared at Wauncy, who gazed back in confusion.

‘I can assure you, gentlemen,’ said the parish priest, ‘no one has been hanged on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner since Easter. Are you sure about what you saw?’

‘It was a man wearing a blue doublet embroidered with silver thread,’ said Alcote impatiently. ‘And a fine white shirt, and shoes that looked new. He had not been there for long. Matthew thought he might even still be alive. He was not, of course, and we made no attempt to interfere with the King’s justice by cutting him down.’

Michael closed his eyes. ‘That man is beyond belief,’ he muttered to Bartholomew. ‘Talk about incriminating himself.’

‘Or worse still, incriminating us,’ Bartholomew whispered back.

‘But no one was hanged there today,’ insisted Wauncy. ‘We do not hang people during the Pentecost Fair. It would spoil the festivities.’

‘It looks as though you were right after all,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘The man was not executed legally, or people would have known about it. What a curious turn of events!’

Seeing Alcote did not believe him, Wauncy beckoned Tuddenham over. The knight had been cornered by Father William, who was regaling him with one of his rabid diatribes on heresy. Clearly relieved by his timely rescue, Tuddenham came toward them, hauling his wife away from the handsome Horsey as he passed. Bartholomew did not blame him. Horsey might well be a friar in major orders, and forbidden physical relations with women, but so was Michael, and Bartholomew was certain the fat monk was no more celibate than was Matilde the Prostitute.

‘Our guests claim there was a man hanging on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner today,’ said Wauncy to Tuddenham. ‘I have just informed them that is not possible.’

‘Wauncy is right,’ said Tuddenham, surprised. ‘No one has been sentenced to the gibbet for at least six weeks.’

‘Well, someone was hanging there,’ said Michael.

Tuddenham shrugged, bemused. ‘I cannot imagine what has happened. I will send my steward to find out as soon as the festivities are over.’

‘Do you not think he should go now?’ suggested Michael. ‘If you say no one has been lawfully hanged on your gibbet, then the man we saw was unlawfully executed, and a murder surely merits immediate investigation?’

Tuddenham was clearly torn: the feast was about to begin, and it was already late in the day, with the sun casting long shadows across the green. Yet he did not want the scholars to consider him a lax landlord, who turned a blind eye to violent crimes committed on his land. After a moment, he sighed and agreed to look into the matter in person. He yelled to a servant, who was trying to prevent a group of children from stealing boiled eggs from one of the tables. ‘Siric! Saddle up a couple of horses. I have business at Bond’s Corner.’

Siric hurried away to do his master’s bidding, reluctantly leaving the eggs unsupervised. The children, however, hesitated to take advantage of the situation: Dame Eva was watching them with her bright, intelligent eyes. But, within moments, one leathery eyelid had dropped in a conspiratorial wink, and the children’s dirty faces broke into gap-toothed grins. Clutching their booty, they scampered away while Dame Eva turned her attention to making polite conversation with Father William.

‘This corpse you found was probably that of an outlaw,’ said Tuddenham. ‘It has not been unknown for travellers to catch would-be thieves on the road, and then dispense their own justice rather than wait for the Sheriff. I am sure the body belongs to none of my villagers – they are all here, enjoying the fair.’

‘The dead man wore a fine dagger,’ said Alcote, who invariably noticed such things. ‘It was gold with an emerald in the hilt, and there was also a belt decorated with silver studs.’

The colour drained from Tuddenham’s face, and his jaw dropped. Isilia rushed to his side, and helped him to sit on the wall, while Dame Eva abandoned William and came to stand next to him, laying a motherly hand on his shoulder and peering into his face in flustered concern.

‘Are you unwell, Thomas?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Shall I summon Master Stoate? Perhaps Doctor Bartholomew can bleed you, or give you a potion?’

‘A gold dagger with an emerald?’ whispered the knight, clutching at Isilia’s hand. ‘And a belt with silver studs?’

Alcote nodded triumphantly. ‘You do know that a man was hanged there!’

Tuddenham seemed appalled at that notion. ‘I know no such thing, Master Alcote! Are you certain this man was dead?’

‘Who was dead?’ cried Dame Eva, bewildered. ‘What has happened, Thomas?’

‘The man was dead according to our physician,’ Alcote replied, ignoring her and gesturing to Bartholomew. ‘Although he has some peculiar theories about health – for example, he believes people should wash their hands before they eat.’

‘How very odd,’ mused Walter Wauncy. ‘But what of this hanged man? Are you sure he was not some lad playing a joke on you by pretending to be dead?’

‘He was dead,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Alcote would keep his nasty opinions to himself. ‘But it seems you know him from his dagger. Who was he?’

Tuddenham exchanged a glance with Wauncy, and hesitated. It was Wauncy who spoke.

‘You must understand that we cannot be certain until we see the body, but there is only one man near here who owns anything as frivolous as a gold dagger and a silver-studded belt. But he has not been sentenced to hang. All this is most distressing!’

‘Especially for the man on the gibbet,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But who is it who owns this distinctive gold dagger?’

Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘My neighbour from the manor of Burgh – Roland Deblunville. I saw him wearing it at the Lord Mayor’s Feast at Ipswich last year. None of my other neighbours have the funds to waste on such frippery.’

‘Does this mean that someone has hanged Deblunville?’ asked Dame Eva, bewildered.

Tuddenham leaned forward and rubbed his hands across his face, while she patted his shoulder in a distracted sort of sympathy. Isilia’s face was unreadable as she stood behind her husband. After a moment, the knight looked up at his priest.

‘Wauncy, you know what will be said if Deblunville really is hanging at Bond’s Corner?’

Wauncy nodded. ‘But we should ascertain the facts before we leap to conclusions, Sir Thomas. We will ride to Bond’s Corner immediately, and try to find out what has happened.’

‘What will be said?’ asked Michael, interested.

Wauncy gnawed on his lip uncertainly, while Tuddenham stared at his boots and did not reply.

‘They will find out sooner or later, Thomas, regardless of whether Deblunville is dead or alive,’ said Dame Eva practically. ‘Your feud with the wretch is not exactly a secret.’

Tuddenham sighed. ‘You are right. I just did not want our guests to be burdened with what is just a silly border dispute.’

‘It is a good deal more than that,’ said Dame Eva. She looked at the Michaelhouse men. ‘This villain – Roland Deblunville – has been invading almost every aspect of our lives recently. When we go to Ipswich, he is there selling his goods at absurdly cheap prices, so that it is difficult for us to trade ours; when sheep go missing from our meadows, they are always last seen near his fields; and he even purchased that lovely length of peach-coloured satin I had been saving to buy for Isilia since Christmas.’

‘I will find her something else,’ said Tuddenham tiredly.

‘What does he want peach satin for anyway?’ said Dame Eva, shaking her head. ‘He must have seen me admiring it, and bought it out of sheer spite.’

Tuddenham’s eyebrows drew together angrily at that notion. ‘Then I shall ensure his satin will pale beside the piece Isilia shall have. He will not win that battle!’

It seemed a petty state of affairs, but Bartholomew knew only too well how quickly little aggravations could escalate into serious quarrels in isolated communities. He had seen men kill and be killed for far less than a length of peach-coloured satin.

‘You must wonder what you have wandered into,’ said Tuddenham, with a strained smile. ‘Please allow me to explain. As I have mentioned, there are two manors in Grundisburgh parish, both of them mine. Deblunville’s manor borders my estates, and he claims that Peche Hall – where my nephew Hamon lives – is on his land.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Boundary disputes are common all over the country. Take your case to the county assizes at Ipswich, and let the lawyers decide the outcome.’

Tuddenham fixed him with a determined look. ‘The case is clear-cut, Brother: I do not need to pay lawyers to tell me I am right. The land near Peche Hall is mine. It came to me from my ancestor Hervey Bourges, who was granted it by the Conqueror himself. Hervey’s daughter founded our fine church, and her sons built Peche and Wergen halls. My family’s roots are as deeply entrenched in this village and its land as are these ancient buildings themselves.’

‘If the case is so clear-cut, then why does Deblunville press his claim?’ asked Michael. It was a reasonable question, but not one that Tuddenham seemed inclined to answer directly.

‘The man is an opportunist. He came into possession of Burgh by marrying a woman twice his age – and she died within a week of the happy event in very suspicious circumstances. So, Deblunville is a young man with a tidy fortune, and a burning ambition to make himself one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the county.’

‘I see,’ said Michael noncommittally. ‘But you have not yet told us what it is that people will say when they hear Deblunville has been hanged.’

‘The gibbet is on my land,’ said Tuddenham flatly. ‘People will say I had him killed.’

‘No!’ cried Isilia, appalled. ‘No one would say such a vile thing.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘You would hardly string him up on your own gibbet if you intended to dispense with him. Any rational man wanting to commit murder would be a little more circumspect.’

‘But we do not know that murder has been committed,’ Wauncy pointed out. ‘Or even that it is Deblunville who is dead. We know only that the scholars saw a body on the gibbet with a dagger that might or might not belong to him. We should not speculate further until we have the facts.’

‘And we are not the only ones to have trouble with Deblunville,’ Tuddenham continued, apparently unwilling to end the conversation before he had completed his list of gripes. ‘Robert Grosnold of Otley has had cattle stolen by him, while John Bardolf of Clopton lost his daughter.’

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean by “lost” exactly?’

Tuddenham glanced prudishly at his wife and pursed his lips. ‘Suffice to say that Janelle’s marriage prospects are not what they were.’

‘You mean she is with child?’ asked Michael. ‘And you believe Deblunville to be the father?’

‘I would not have put it so bluntly myself,’ said Tuddenham primly, regarding his wife with such concern that Bartholomew wondered if he might clap his hands over her ears to prevent her from overhearing such ribaldry. ‘Deblunville offered to marry her, but that would make him Bardolf’s heir. Bardolf was agreeable to the match at first – he said the damage had already been done, and he needed to make the best of the situation – but Grosnold, Hamon and I reminded him how Deblunville’s first wife had come to a sudden and unexpected end once he had no more use for her, and Bardolf prudently changed his mind.’

‘The sooner we satisfy ourselves that our guests have been mistaken, and that Deblunville is safe in his fortress like a spider in its web, the sooner we can return to enjoy this feast the villagers have provided,’ said Wauncy practically. ‘Come, Sir Thomas. We should leave now.’

‘And if they are not mistaken?’ asked Tuddenham uncertainly. ‘What then?’

‘Then you have two hundred people who will attest that you were at the Fair all day, and not hanging a man at Bond’s Corner,’ said Wauncy soothingly. ‘Including your priest’

Isilia looked uneasy, and Dame Eva took her hand reassuringly. ‘I told you it was only a matter of days before Deblunville would die after he saw – well, you know what he saw,’ she said, looking at Tuddenham and Wauncy accusingly. ‘You did not believe me, but now who is right?’

‘Not that superstitious nonsense again!’ sighed Tuddenham.

‘You cannot simply ignore these things and hope they will go away,’ said Dame Eva firmly. ‘Deblunville saw… that thing, and now he is dead. Just as I told you he would be.’

‘It is wrong to place your faith in superstitions,’ said Wauncy sternly. ‘I have told you that before.’

‘Maybe he saw the evil of his ways at the Pentecost celebrations, and was so overcome with remorse that he hanged himself,’ suggested Isilia hopefully.

‘That does not sound like Deblunville,’ said the old lady. ‘He is too convinced of his personal worth to take his own life. He is more likely to hang every lord of the manor he can lay his vile hands on, and steal their lands and titles for himself.’

‘What exactly did he see?’ asked Michael, intrigued by the turn the discussion was taking.

‘Nothing,’ said Tuddenham before Isilia or Dame Eva could answer. ‘My mother merely refers to an old country yarn from these parts. There is nothing to it but superstition.’ He looked reprovingly at the women, daring them to contradict him.

‘Oh,’ said Michael, immediately losing interest. He was never particularly keen to hear about local customs and folktales, preferring current intrigues and scandals to ancient ones. ‘Some evil spirit haunts the roads near here, I suppose?’ he added politely, when he saw Dame Eva look disappointed by his response. She seemed kindly enough, and Michael, who approved of old ladies who turned a blind eye to hungry children stealing eggs, did not want to hurt her feelings.

‘If you like fairy tales, I will tell you some this evening,’ said Tuddenham, not altogether pleasantly. ‘But we should not be here chatting while Deblunville might lie dead. Siric! My horse!’

He strode away, his priest scurrying at his heels. Dame Eva and Isilia went to sit in the shade again, where the old lady was solemnly presented with a daisy chain by a small child with egg yolk around her mouth.

‘This Deblunville sounds quite a character,’ remarked Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity he is dead – I would have liked to meet him.’

‘Whenever someone is described to me as “quite a character”, it usually means that he has some offensive or unappealing quality about him that is being passed off as entertaining,’ replied Bartholomew, watching Siric bridle Tuddenham’s horse. ‘Experience has taught me that I nearly always do not like him. Will you go with Tuddenham to the gibbet?’

‘We both will,’ said Michael. ‘And it will be as much to ensure that we have not unwittingly left some clue regarding our role in all this, as to see justice done.’

Once Tuddenham had made the decision to ride to Bond’s Corner, there was a flurry of activity. Cynric saddled Bartholomew’s horse, and then started to prepare his own mount, which was munching the buttercups that grew among the grass by the churchyard. Bartholomew stopped him.

‘There is no need for you to come, Cynric. Stay here and keep an eye on William. He has been drinking wine too fast for his own good, and you know what he can be like if he becomes intoxicated. We do not want him regaling Lady Isilia with tales of the Inquisition.’

‘She would probably prefer them to tales of childbirth, boy,’ said Cynric, smiling. He looped the reins of his pony over the church gate. ‘Are you sure you do not need me? These are dangerous roads to travel, and it will be dark soon.’

‘I will be safe enough with Tuddenham,’ said Bartholomew. They looked to where the knight was donning a metal helmet and a boiled leather jerkin, and buckling a sword belt around his waist. ‘Although it looks to me as though he thinks he is heading for the battlefields of France, not some part of his own manor.’

‘That is probably because he knows a lot more about this place than you do,’ said Cynric. ‘And all the more reason for me to come.’

‘It is probably just for show,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Anyway, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

Cynric’s snort of derision was drowned by Michael’s exclamation of disgust as he watched Bartholomew climb on the low wall that surrounded the churchyard, and leap on to his horse’s back in a way that made the animal rear and kick in shock. The monk himself swung into his saddle with the ease of a born horseman.

‘This affair has an unsavoury feel to it,’ said Bartholomew, following him as he rode across the green. ‘It seems village life is not so different from the University – all petty feuds and enmity.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘I thought I was going to be bored in this rural desert, but matters are definitely looking up: we have three lords of the manor united against the fourth, who is an opportunist and who did away with his elderly wife; we have some curious folktale that the ladies believe has some relevance to this Deblunville’s demise – assuming it was Deblunville we found; and we have suspects galore as to who wants him dead.’

‘Just a moment, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘This is not Cambridge, and you have no legal authority to start probing around in all this. If one of these lords really has dispensed with a hated rival, you would be well advised to stay clear of the whole business.’

‘Where is your spirit of enquiry and thirst for the truth?’ asked Michael playfully. ‘Come on, Matt! This might prove interesting.’

‘That is not what the Master will think if you interfere with these people and return to Michaelhouse without the advowson,’ warned Bartholomew.

‘Tuddenham is a nobleman,’ said Michael. ‘He will not renege on his promise to give us his church simply because we are curious.’

‘He might consider doing exactly that if you start investigating a murder he may have committed, or that involves his neighbours or his nephew.’

‘So you believe we should start to draw up the deed tonight, then?’ said Michael, nodding thoughtfully. ‘That is prudent thinking, Matt. Once we have it, we can do what we like.’

‘That was not what I meant at all,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Anyway, if Grundisburgh is as seething with intrigue and murder as you seem to hope, then Michaelhouse should decline anything Tuddenham offers. We do not want the good name of the College besmirched by tainted gifts.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Michael. ‘Most gifts to the University are tainted in some way or another. No one gives out of the goodness of his heart, you know. There is always some catch.’

‘The advowson of Barrington church is ours, and that does not have any unpleasant catches,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael gave a short bark of laughter. ‘In that case, why do you think it took four years for Michaelhouse to get the grant executed once the licence had been issued? Negotiations, Matt! Surely you must have noticed that all the priests we have appointed have been personal friends of the Bishop of Ely, who just happened to decree its appropriation? Or did you consider that pure coincidence?’

Bartholomew had considered it pure coincidence, and the thought that some nepotistic mechanism was at work behind the scenes had never crossed his mind. ‘Well, the advowson of Cheadle, then,’ he said, thinking of the second of Michaelhouse’s four properties. ‘No friends of the Bishop have been appointed there.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Michael. ‘But some of the income generated by that transaction is “donated” to the Guild of Weavers, the leader of which pressed the lord of Cheadle manor to grant it to us in the first place.’

‘And Tittleshall?’ asked Bartholomew weakly. ‘Was that not a simple act of generosity made by a grateful student to his former College, as we are always informed on Founder’s Day?’

‘Of course not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘That was given to us because the said student, now a powerful lawyer in Westminster, tampered with one of the nuns at St Radegund’s Priory while he should have been reading his Corpus Juris Civilis. It was the price he had to pay the then Master of Michaelhouse not to make his misdeeds public.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted and disillusioned, as he often was when he talked to Michael about the affairs of the University and its Colleges.

‘The only one of our four advowsons that is straightforward is the one that grants us St Michael’s Church in Cambridge, given to us by our founder. But even that is not entirely without strings – we are obliged to say a set number of masses for his immortal soul each year, and you know what a nuisance that can be when we are busy.’

‘So why do you think Tuddenham is granting us Grundisburgh?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you believe it is to ensure the health of Isilia’s unborn child, as you asked him, or is there another reason – such as to atone for an incestuous relationship with his mother, or in anticipation of his murder of Deblunville?’

‘You have a nasty imagination, Matt,’ said Michael, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘But this advowson is important to us. It will make us the third richest College in Cambridge, with only King’s Hall and Clare above us. Would you sacrifice such power on mere principle?’

‘Yes, probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if Tuddenham has his own reasons for granting us the advowson, I would like to know what they are before we accept it. If some of his land is in dispute with his neighbour, this church might not be his to give.’

‘I checked that at St Edmundsbury Abbey,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I saw copies of documents proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that Tuddenham is the lawful recipient of the church tithes here. However, I did see deeds that indicate that his claim on the eastern side of his manor – his nephew’s land – is not entirely clear cut.’

Bartholomew shook his head in awe. ‘So that is why you spent so long closeted away with the Abbot. I should have known you were up to something. William was under the impression you were praying to atone for your greed at the inn the night before. I thought that sounded unlikely.’

‘I do not have time to waste on false confessions,’ said Michael loftily. ‘But you are right to ask what prompts Tuddenham to make this offer to Michaelhouse. He has no connection to the College, and it is a most generous gift. However, a country knight like Tuddenham will not best two of the finest legal minds in the country – mine and Alcote’s. Do not look astonished, Matt: Alcote is very astute when it comes to business matters. How do you think he has become so wealthy?’

‘So much for leaving intrigue and treachery in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh.

Michael nodded cheerfully. ‘I was beginning to think I had wasted my time with this journey. Now I hear you voicing your usual complaints about the deception and plotting that comes naturally to most people, and I am beginning to feel quite at home.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew flatly.

He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The sun was hot and red as it sank over the horizon, and he was thirsty from drinking Tuddenham’s warm ale and strong wine. He dismounted, and went to a brook that bubbled along the side of the road for some water. It was clean and clear and tasted of river weed, quite different from the brown-coloured, peaty stuff he drank in Cambridge with its occasionally sulphurous taste that he preferred not to think about.

A blackbird sang sharply in the tree above his head, while another answered from further away. In the shadows, a kingfisher flitted brilliant blue as it dropped almost silently into the bubbling water and emerged in a flurry of droplets with a minnow in its beak. The wind hissed gently through the trees, twitching the leaves and bending the long grass and nettles that grew along the bank. It smelled sweet, flowers mingled with the earthy scent of rich earth.

It was peaceful by the stream, and Bartholomew did not feel inclined to leave it in order to go to the body of a man who had probably been murdered. He sat in the grass and waited for his horse to finish drinking, watching it take great mouthfuls of water with loud slurping sounds. The blackbird continued to call, while on the opposite side of the brook a bright male pheasant strutted and pranced, trying to attract the attentions of a dowdy hen.

Finally, feeling he could delay no longer, he took the reins of his horse and led it up the hill toward the crossroads. Tuddenham and Wauncy stood together, while Michael poked about near the foot of the gibbet in the dying light. From the stony expressions of the knight and the priest, Bartholomew sensed that something was amiss.

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Wauncy in a tone that was not entirely friendly. ‘I have heard that the scholars of Cambridge have a reputation for savouring fine wines.’

‘Are you implying we were drunk?’ asked Michael coldly, pausing in his prodding to favour the priest with the expression normally reserved for students who tried to lie to him.

Wauncy clearly was, but he folded his hands together and forced a smile. ‘All I can say is that you must have been mistaken in what you thought you saw. Look around you, Brother. There is no hanged man here now. And from what I can see, there never was.’