A Wicked Deed

Chapter 3

‘I can assure you, Sir Thomas, that there was a man hanging at Bond’s Corner yesterday morning,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Someone must have returned after we left, and taken the body away.’

Tuddenham was clearly sceptical. He gestured to Siric to refill the scholars’ goblets, but Bartholomew noticed that the steward was being more cautious with the portions than he had been the previous day. Michael noticed, too, and was not amused.

It was the day after the mysterious disappearance of the corpse on the gibbet, and the scholars and Tuddenham’s household were sitting at a large table in the knight’s handsome two-storey manor house of Wergen Hall, which stood about a mile to the south of the main village. Outside, a moat and two sets of earthen banks provided basic protection against attack, although these had apparently been added when Roland Deblunville moved to the neighbouring village of Burgh, and had nothing to do with the continuing wars with the French.

Wergen Hall’s main chamber was a pleasant room with brightly painted window shutters that had been thrown open to the golden morning sunlight. Hand-woven tapestries adorned the walls, depicting hunting scenes and a rather alarming vision of Judgement Day in scarlet and emerald, which Isilia told them had been sewn by Dame Eva while her husband was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land many years before. The rafters above it were stained black with decades of smoke from fires burning in the central hearth, while the wooden floor had been liberally sprinkled with dried grass and fragrant herbs.

Bartholomew considered the oddly empty scaffold of the day before, as Michael continued to try to convince a disbelieving audience that he had not been drunk. With Tuddenham and his priest Wauncy looking on, Bartholomew had knelt in the grass below the gibbet and inspected it closely. Some of the blades were flattened where the body had lain, although with four horses trampling about it was flimsy evidence at best. He had presented Tuddenham with the rope Cynric had cut, but the knight claimed it had been left from the previous hanging. Bartholomew had discovered only one other thing: in the fading light, something had glinted dully, and he saw it was one of the silver studs from the belt the dead man had worn. Tuddenham shrugged, unimpressed, and pointed out that it might have been there for weeks, and provided no incontrovertible evidence that Deblunville had been hanged there earlier that day.

It had been an uncomfortable ride back to Grundisburgh. Tuddenham was clearly relieved that the scholars had been mistaken, but was not pleased that he had been dragged away from the Pentecost Fair on a wasted errand. His priest, meanwhile, hinted darkly about the widely known penchant of Cambridge scholars for strong wines. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, the timely disappearance of the corpse added credence to his initial claim that the hanged man had been murdered, while Michael fretted about whether the incident would make Tuddenham rethink his intention to grant the advowson to Michaelhouse.

Michael need not have been concerned. As soon as they entered the grassy courtyard of Wergen Hall, the knight had asked yet again whether they were inclined to begin sifting through the pile of deeds that needed to be read before the advowson could be drafted. Michael pounced on the opportunity – uncharacteristically declining an invitation to attend the villagers’ feast on the green – and summoned Alcote so that they could begin immediately. The rest of the evening was spent painstakingly sorting through the mass of scrolls and deeds that proved Tuddenham’s legal ownership of various plots of land and buildings.

Michael and Alcote, with William and Bartholomew helping, toiled well into the night, working in the unsteady light of smoking tallow candles. Eventually, eyes stinging from the fumes and from the strain of reading poor handwriting in the gloom, they were obliged to sleep where they sat, hunched over a trestle table piled high with documents, because all the best places by the fire had been taken by Tuddenham’s servants hours before. The scholars were woken, stiff and unrested, before dawn the following morning by Tuddenham himself, eager to know how much progress had been made.

Later, over a breakfast of hard bread and salted fish, during which the usual topics were aired – it was indeed mild for the time of year, the scholars had heard that the Pope had died the previous December, and food prices had risen alarmingly since the plague – Dame Eva turned the conversation to the mysteriously absent hanged man. Tuddenham pursed his lips, reluctant to resurrect a subject he considered closed, but the old lady persisted, claiming she was concerned that the outlaws on the Old Road might have dipped south on to Tuddenham land.

As she spoke, Bartholomew wondered how old she was. Although she possessed almost all her long yellow teeth and her eyes were bright and alert, she seemed so small and frail that he thought a gust of wind might blow her away. But elderly though she might be, she was astute and far too wary of her neighbours to make light of the odd disappearance of a corpse on her son’s manor. Given the seemingly precarious state of his relationship with Deblunville, Bartholomew thought her concerns were probably justified, and that Tuddenham would do well to pay heed to her.

‘The hanged man was about thirty years of age,’ said Alcote, looking up from where he was prising the bones from his herrings with a delicate silver knife, ‘with brown hair and a red face.’

‘He had a red face because he had been suffocated,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘I cannot imagine it was that colour in life.’

Tuddenham raised silvery eyebrows. ‘It is not much of a description, gentlemen. Can you recall nothing else about him? Did he have any marks or scars?’

‘Not that I saw,’ said William. ‘He was just an ordinary sinner.’

‘And you are certain he was dead,’ said Walter Wauncy, chewing slowly and deliberately on a piece of bread, as if he imagined his teeth might drop out if he were too vigorous. ‘Because dead men do not cut themselves down from gibbets and walk away.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’ asked Isilia, her green eyes round and sombre as she regarded the cadaverous priest. ‘Strange things have been happening here since the Death.’

‘Not that strange!’ said Tuddenham, with a bemused smile. He shook his head at his mother. ‘Have you been telling her silly tales again?’

‘Do not mock things you do not understand, Thomas,’ said the old lady sharply. ‘Isilia is right: strange things have happened here since the Death.’

She exchanged a glance with Isilia, and they instinctively moved closer together as if for protection. Bartholomew noticed that the old lady’s gaudy brooch had been exchanged for a heavy gold cross, which she clutched at with bird-like fingers.

‘But dead men do not walk,’ intervened Michael firmly, never a man to exercise patience with superstition. ‘The solution to all this is perfectly clear: someone removed the body after we left.’

‘Why would someone do that?’ asked Wauncy, tearing off a fragment of crust with bony fingers and cautiously placing it in his mouth. ‘If the man were dead, why bother to spirit the corpse away?’

‘To claim his jewels and dagger, of course,’ said Alcote impatiently. ‘And to steal his clothes.’

‘But that does not explain why the whole body disappeared,’ said Michael. ‘A thief would have stripped the corpse where it lay, not removed the whole thing.’

‘It is more likely that the body was stolen to prevent an investigation into its death,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is difficult to solve a murder when there is no corpse.’

‘True,’ said William, anxious to join in the conversation and demonstrate his deductive skills – skills he hoped Michael would report to the Chancellor when they returned to Cambridge, and that would see him appointed as the University’s Junior Proctor. ‘But it seems that the killer was interrupted before he had finished his business. When Matthew cut the body down, the man was still alive – just for a few moments. We–’

He jumped suddenly, and leaned down to rub his shin. Michael glared at him, while Bartholomew felt his heart sink.

‘You cut down the body of a man who might, for all you knew, have been lawfully executed?’ asked Tuddenham, shocked. Isilia and Dame Eva exchanged a look of horror, and Wauncy shuddered. ‘That is scarcely a wise habit, gentlemen!’

‘Professional hangmen do not abandon their victims before they are dead,’ said Bartholomew curtly, deciding there was little point in denying what they had done. ‘It was clear this man had not keen killed legally.’

‘Nor do hangmen abandon their victims’ clothing,’ added Michael. ‘They usually consider those part of their payment. As Matt says, there was something peculiar about the man’s death, and we sought only to avert a possible miscarriage of justice. We were right: whoever we saw die was not executed after a fair trial.’

‘Perhaps he took his own life,’ said Wauncy, still chewing slowly. ‘And then, when you saved him, he just walked away, seeing his rescue as an act of divine intervention.’

‘He was dead,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I am a physician – I know a corpse when I see one.’

‘But there are certain illnesses and potions that make a man appear to be dead when he still lives,’ observed Wauncy. ‘I have heard stories where grieving families were delighted to discover that a loved one was not dead after all.’

Bartholomew had been wrongly accused of misdiagnosing a dead man in the past, and was not prepared to let it happen again. ‘His neck was broken, so he could not have walked away even had he wanted to. And he was not breathing. The only plausible explanation to all this is that someone took the corpse away, so that it would not be found.’

Tuddenham scratched his scalp through wiry grey hair, and gave a heavy sigh. ‘I can see this business has distressed you, and I sense you will not give your full attention to my advowson until it has been satisfactorily resolved.’

‘That is not true,’ began Alcote hurriedly. ‘This incident is wholly unimportant to us–’

Tuddenham raised a hand to silence him. ‘I am a fair and law-abiding man, and I shall do all in my power to investigate this affair. I will send my steward, Siric, to Peche Hall later this morning to tell my nephew Hamon to meet me near the river with six armed men.’

‘Do not involve that oaf!’ advised Dame Eva with feeling. ‘He will do more harm than good with his short temper and lack of common sense.’

Tuddenham overrode her. ‘Meanwhile, Master Wauncy can ride to our neighbours – Grosnold at Otley and Bardolf at Clopton – and tell them what has happened. Then, while Master Alcote and Father William remain here to work on my advowson, Doctor Bartholomew and Brother Michael will ride with us to visit Deblunville, so that we can satisfy ourselves, once and for all, that nothing terrible has befallen the man.’

‘But today is Sunday, Sir Thomas!’ protested Wauncy immediately. ‘I have masses for the dead to say.’

‘You seem to do nothing but say masses for the dead these days,’ said Tuddenham accusingly. ‘It is just as well Unwin will soon be able to help you, since you spend far more time with your deceased parishioners than your living ones.’

‘The plague-dead need my prayers,’ said Wauncy in a superior tone of voice. ‘They will never escape from Purgatory without them.’ He gave Tuddenham a sepulchral look that was about as comforting and friendly as a greeting from the Grim Reaper. ‘All mortals should take heed: unless they wish to spend an eternity in Purgatory, they should leave a decent endowment so that masses can be said for their sinful souls.’

‘And at fourpence a mass, the endowment needs to be decent indeed!’ muttered Michael under his breath.

‘Say your masses later, Master Wauncy,’ said Tuddenham. ‘This morning you will tell Grosnold and Bardolf that I plan to visit Deblunville today.’

Wauncy was unrelenting. ‘I do not believe that is wise, Sir Thomas. Deblunville will not take kindly to a dozen soldiers from neighbouring manors appearing on his doorstep unannounced – particularly if one of them is Hamon. You know they do not like each other.’

‘And who can blame Deblunville,’ mumbled Dame Eva. ‘Hamon is an ill-mannered lout.’

‘According to our guests, Deblunville is not a man we need be concerned about again,’ said Tuddenham. ‘With the exception of saying masses for his soul, of course. Let us hope he has left a suitable endowment.’

‘But there is no real evidence that it was Deblunville the scholars saw,’ objected Wauncy. ‘They cannot know him because they have never met him.’

Tuddenham nodded. ‘Nevertheless, I will satisfy myself that Deblunville is alive, and that one of my neighbours has not grown weary of his black deeds and taken the law into his own hands.’

‘But what about the Pentecost Fair?’ asked Wauncy desperately, wringing his skeletal hands. Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Did the priest have hidden reasons for not wanting Tuddenham to visit Deblunville, or was his agitation genuinely the thought of losing the opportunity to earn fourpences for his masses?

‘The villagers do not need you or me to enjoy the Fair,’ said Tuddenham dryly. ‘In fact, I imagine you will find they will welcome relief from our watchful eyes for a few hours.’

‘Very well,’ said Wauncy stiffly, in the tone of a man who still feels he is correct. He reached bony hands behind his head and drew his cowl over it, so that his skull-like face was in shadow. The whiteness of his skin and the metallic glitter of eyes from deep inside the hood was the stuff of which nightmares are made, and Bartholomew wondered whether the priest deliberately cultivated his death’s-head look in order to remind people of their own mortality, so that they would be sure to put money aside to pay him for his prayers when they died.

Tuddenham treated the scholars to a flash of his long teeth. ‘As soon as we return, having satisfied ourselves that Deblunville is alive, I will recommence work on the advowson with you.’

William glanced up from his salted fish disapprovingly. ‘It is Sunday, Sir Thomas. We men of God do not sully a Holy Day by labouring.’

‘But the advowson is God’s work,’ Alcote put in quickly. ‘While Bartholomew and Michael resolve this business concerning your neighbour, I will continue work on the deed.’

Tuddenham was pleased. ‘Good, good. I want it ready as soon as possible.’

‘You seem very keen to have the deed completed,’ observed Alcote. ‘I do hope the reason is not because the Master sent too many scholars and you feel we are an imposition on your hospitality.’

Tuddenham shook his head. ‘I can assure you that is not the case, Master Alcote. But you were doubtless uncomfortable here in my hall last night, so I shall secure you more spacious quarters today or tomorrow. Tobias Eltisley at the Half Moon runs a clean and respectable establishment – you would be better with him than here. And, as regards my advowson, I have long wanted to make a gift to a foundation like Michaelhouse; I am simply impatient to see my hopes come to fruition, nothing more.’

He displayed his teeth again, and left to give orders to his steward. Bartholomew watched him go, not sure that he was telling the truth. As far as he could tell, Tuddenham was not a man who particularly encouraged scholarship, and Bartholomew was growing increasingly suspicious of the unseemly speed with which Tuddenham wanted matters signed and sealed. Was it because he genuinely wanted to share his fortunes with ‘a foundation like Michaelhouse’, or was it to encourage the saints to give Isilia a healthy boy-child? Or was there a darker reason behind Tuddenham’s desire to relinquish his property – a reason that necessitated some very expensive atonement?

Later that morning, with Michael and Bartholomew in tow, Tuddenham cut across the fields to meet his neighbours at the boundary between Grundisburgh and Deblunville’s manor of Burgh. Larks twittered in the air high above them, black specks in the blue sky. In the distance, a cuckoo called, reminding Bartholomew of his happy childhood at his brother-in-law’s home just outside Cambridge. It was difficult to believe he was chasing vanished corpses on such a fine day, while the birds were singing and the azure heavens were flecked with fluffy white clouds.

By the time they reached the river a number of armed men were waiting, along with the lord of Otley, who was clad entirely in black armour and sat astride an ugly charcoal-grey destrier. His bald head was hidden by a bucket-shaped helmet, and he carried a monstrous two-handed sword. His attire seemed a little excessive for visiting a neighbour, but Bartholomew suspected that there were not many occasions that called for such finery, and that Grosnold probably tended to seize any opportunity that arose, appropriate or otherwise.

‘Who is that, the Prince of Wales?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, regarding the curious figure in amusement, and referring to the penchant of King Edward the Third’s eldest son for black armour.

‘That is Sir Robert Grosnold,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘We met him in Otley two days ago, remember? He must like that colour.’

Grosnold nodded a greeting to Bartholomew, and Tuddenham gestured to a younger man who stood at his side, introducing him as Hamon, his nephew and heir.

Bartholomew regarded Hamon with interest. Like his uncle, he possessed a formidable array of long teeth, although Hamon’s were whiter. He was sturdily built, with short brown hair that had been carefully slicked down for the Pentecost Fair, and his well-honed sword and battered shield contrasted oddly with what were clearly his best clothes. He was in his mid-thirties, although a life spent outdoors had given him a leathery complexion that had aged him beyond his years.

‘I have been overseeing the festivities at Peche Hall,’ he explained in a thick local accent. ‘But I was planning to come to meet you as soon as they were over – a visit by scholars from Michaelhouse has been the talk of the village for weeks.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Michael, bowing. ‘And I am sorry we should meet in circumstances such as these.’

‘You mean finding Deblunville dead?’ asked Grosnold bluntly. ‘Believe me, Brother, that would add a little extra zest to our celebrations! Deblunville is not a popular man around here.’

‘So I understand,’ said Michael. ‘It seems he is surrounded by people who do not like him.’

‘It is all his own doing,’ said Hamon. ‘The moment he arrived at Burgh two years ago to marry poor Pernel – she was a widow old enough to be his grandmother and he seduced her into marrying him with his viperous tongue – he started to make enemies. He tried to claim Peche Hall was on his land, and then he diverted the stream that we use to water our cattle to run his mill.’

‘And I am certain it was he who stole my bull to breed with his cows,’ added Grosnold. ‘Not to mention offering my freemen higher wages during last harvest, so that they all went to work for him and I was obliged to hire labour from outside.’

‘And then, of course, there was poor Bardolf’s daughter, Janelle,’ said Tuddenham, pursing his lips. ‘That was a terrible business.’

Hamon’s wind-burned face became angry, and he turned away abruptly, fiddling with his horse’s reins with his back to everyone.

‘The lass who carries his child?’ asked Michael.

Wauncy nodded, and Bartholomew saw Hamon gave his horse’s harness a vicious tug. The animal flinched.

‘She would have made a fine match for any of the lords around here,’ said Grosnold. ‘But who will take her now that she is carrying Deblunville’s bastard?’

‘No one would have taken her anyway,’ said Tuddenham. ‘She is pretty, but she is a shrew.’

Hamon spun round, breathing hard. His uncle waved an admonishing finger at him. ‘It is about time you ceased to hanker after that woman, Hamon. Even before she gave herself so willingly to Deblunville she would not have made you any kind of wife. Now, where is Bardolf?’

Wauncy, who was supposed to have fetched him, shrugged. ‘His house was empty, and all his villagers were drunk without him there to keep them in order. I could not find him.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘I hope you are wrong.’

‘That Bardolf murdered Deblunville and then fled?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If so, then I recommend we leave Grundisburgh today – without the advowson, if necessary – before the whole area erupts in a frenzy of revenge killings.’

‘We can manage this perfectly well without Bardolf,’ said Grosnold to Tuddenham. ‘He is probably off with his sheep – the man is obsessed with the beasts these days.’

‘Only since Deblunville stole some of them,’ said Tuddenham. ‘But time is passing. Let us solve this mystery as quickly as possible, so we can all return to our Pentecost Fair celebrations. I resent spending time away from them because of Deblunville.’

Grundisburgh’s eastern parish boundary marked the division between Tuddenham’s and Deblunville’s manors, and was formed by the River Lark, a meandering stream that wound down from the higher land to the north. Trees hugged the banks on both sides, but there was a clearing where the river was shallowest that had evidently been used as a ford in more friendly times. The ground on the far side rose in a gentle slope to a crest. On it stood a church with a flint tower, while behind was a series of ramparts leading to a haphazard collection of shabby wooden buildings.

‘That is Deblunville’s “stronghold”,’ said Grosnold disdainfully. ‘He thinks that trifling wooden palisade and that little knoll will keep his enemies at bay. I fought at the Battle of Crécy, next to the Prince of Wales, and those defences would not pose much of an obstacle to a professional soldier like me.’

He raised his right arm, military fashion, to indicate that they were to cross the river. It was deeper than it looked, and murky water lapped around his knees as he led the way, holding his sword above his head. The others sloshed after him and cantered up the slope that led to Deblunville’s encampment. First they passed the church, a silent, dour building, with a substantial lock on the door and closed shutters on the windows. It looked to Bartholomew the kind of place that would have armies of spiders in every corner and desiccated flies on the sills. There were mounds in the graveyard, and a few rough wooden crosses. In one corner, under an ancient yew tree, was a much larger knoll and Bartholomew did not need a local to tell him that this was where Burgh’s plague-dead had been buried. They had been lucky: in Cambridge, there had been too many dead to bury in the churchyards, and pestilence victims had been tossed into pits dug outside the town gates.

‘St Botolph’s,’ said Michael, looking at the church. ‘The Abbot of St Edmundsbury told me about this church. It was named for the saint whose bones once rested nearby.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I read that the relics of St Botolph used to be in a chapel near here, until the monks of St Edmundsbury came one night and stole them for their abbey.’

‘The monks did not steal them,’ said Michael defensively. ‘They merely removed them from a place where they were all but forgotten, and placed them in a fine chapel where they would be freely available to the populace as a whole. Hundreds of people come to pay homage to those bones each year. Would you deny them that privilege?’

‘You Benedictines certainly stick together,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Why not let a little village keep its relics? Why do they all have to be in great abbeys and monasteries?’

‘The monks had the permission of King Canute to remove them from here to St Edmundsbury,’ protested Michael. ‘It was all perfectly legal.’

‘Then why, according to the historical documents I read, did they choose a dark night to do their “removing”? Why not come in the daytime and ask nicely?’

‘Asking nicely gets you nowhere in this life,’ said Michael, regarding Bartholomew as though he were insane. ‘If you want something, you just have to take it.’

‘And this is the philosophy expounded by the Benedictine Order, is it? No wonder all your monasteries are so rich!’

‘The relics of one of England’s most venerated saints should not be left to rot in some godforsaken settlement on a road that leads to nowhere,’ said Michael testily. ‘St Botolph deserves to be somewhere splendid.’

‘Did the Abbot tell you about the golden calf, too?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing he would not be able to make the monk see his point of view, and disinclined to waste his energies in pointless debate.

‘No,’ said Michael curiously. ‘What was it? Some sort of pagan idol the villagers made to replace their lost bones?’

‘A statue of a cow was also in the chapel, but the monks missed it when they “removed” St Botolph’s bones. This statue was said to have been made of solid gold, and was thought to have been of great value. The villagers were afraid the monks would come back and “remove” that, too, so they buried it for safekeeping. And there it remains to this day.’

‘You mean there is a lump of solid gold buried here somewhere?’ asked Michael, looking around him as though he imagined he might see a glittering hoof protruding from the ground.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘So the legend says. It is supposed to be near the chapel.’

‘And where is the chapel?’ demanded Michael keenly. ‘I might set Cynric to a little digging if we have time.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that Michael, who was usually scornful of such tales, believed this one. ‘If you want to root about for gold, you can do it yourself; you are not to use Cynric. Anyway, with no relics to house, the chapel gradually fell into disrepair and collapsed. No one knows exactly where it stood. It was all a very long time ago.’

‘Before the Conqueror came, according to the Abbot,’ agreed Michael. ‘But how do you know all this? You said you had never been here before.’

‘I read it in the Abbey while you were checking up on Tuddenham. Did you visit the monks’ library? It has all of Galen’s works, plus two copies of Honeien ben Ishak’s Isagoge in Artem Parven Galeni. And there were treatises by Theophilus, Nicholas and even Trotula.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Now, about this calf…’

‘And there were texts by great Arab philosophers, like Averroes and Avicenna, including little-known commentaries on Galen that I have never read before,’ continued Bartholomew enthusiastically, not to be deterred by Michael’s apathy. ‘One of them suggested a cure for Anthony’s Fire that I intend to try on my next patient who is afflicted with that disease, and a–’

‘There are flowers around the door of the church,’ interrupted Michael. ‘How very quaint. I thought this was just another one of those depressing decommissioned places that does not have enough of a congregation to keep it going. Look, Matt! Blue and yellow things.’

‘Violets and oxlips,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at them absently. ‘And in one of the Greek translations of the Arab surgeon Albucasis, there was a technique for incising fistulae that–’

‘You will end up in trouble with the Guild of Barbers again if you persist in practising surgery,’ warned Michael. ‘You are a physician, not a surgeon, and you are not supposed to chop and slice people about.’

‘And you are a monk, not a lawyer, but you still study deeds and writs and haggle over legal details,’ Bartholomew retorted.

Michael inclined his head. ‘Point taken. But let’s not talk about such things as incising fistulae. Most men would be discussing horseflesh, or how the beautiful Isilia rates against the exquisite Matilde, not stolen bones and lancing boils. There must be something wrong with us, Matt.’

Close up, Deblunville’s encampment was better fortified than Grosnold had led them to believe. There were parallel ditches surrounding a rectangular outer bailey, while a second set of ramparts and a neat palisade of sharpened stakes defended an inner bailey. At the heart of the complex was a row of huts and a low motte topped by a timber building.

They had not taken many steps towards it, when Bartholomew heard the unmistakable clicks of crossbows being wound. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked around him wildly, hoping that Deblunville’s men were not trained to shoot first and discuss visiting hours later. Tuddenham dismounted, and raised his hands in the air to indicate that he held no weapon. He did, however, have a hefty broadsword strapped to his waist, as well as at least two daggers that Bartholomew could see, not to mention Grosnold, six alert archers and Hamon, who breathed heavily in anticipation of violence like a trapped boar.

‘We come in peace,’ Tuddenham declared in a loud, confident voice. He gestured to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘These are scholars visiting from Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge. They claim to have seen a man hanged at Bond’s Corner yesterday, and, since all our villagers are accounted for, I felt obliged to ensure that Burgh’s people were similarly safe.’

No one answered.

‘If it was Deblunville we saw dead on the gibbet, he is unlikely to come out to greet us now,’ Michael whispered to Bartholomew. ‘And his people will be leaderless.’

Receiving no response, Tuddenham started to move forward again. He stopped short when an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. He looked at it quivering, and took several steps back. He was prevented from taking several more only by the fact that Grosnold was in his way.

‘I have already told you that we have not come with any hostile intention,’ he said, his voice tight with anger. ‘I demand to speak to Deblunville immediately!’

More silence greeted him, and he turned to Michael and Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘You see what the man is like? He will not even speak in a civilised manner. I have had enough of this nonsense. If he is dead, then all I can say is good riddance! Hamon, lead the way home.’

‘Wait!’

It was a woman’s voice that came from the outer ramparts. There was a pause, and then a figure appeared, climbing lithely on to the top of the bank. A hand grasped firmly around one of her ankles suggested that someone in the ditch behind did not share her confidence in her balancing skills and was trying to ensure she did not fall. For the second time in two days, Bartholomew found himself gazing in admiration at a woman. This one was small and delicate, with corn-fair hair knotted into a thick plait that reached almost to her knees. Even from a distance, he could see her eyes were a startling blue and that her cheeks were pink and downy, not brown and weathered from too much sun. She wore a dress of fine peach-coloured material that shone in the sun as she moved.

‘My God,’ breathed Tuddenham. ‘There is my poor Isilia’s piece of satin. I wondered why Deblunville wanted that.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Bartholomew, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

A clatter to one side made him jump. Hamon had dropped his sword, and was standing open mouthed as he stared at the woman on the earthwork.

‘It is my Janelle!’ he cried in anguish. ‘Deblunville has taken her hostage!’

Tuddenham’s little army, Bartholomew and Michael all continued to stare at the small figure standing on the earthen bank. Hamon took several steps forward, as though he would race up and snatch her away, but an arrow snapped into the grass to one side of him and he faltered, standing helplessly with his hands dangling at his sides. Tuddenham and Grosnold were shocked into silence, while Walter Wauncy’s expression was unreadable.

‘Janelle!’ cried Hamon in despair. ‘Has Deblunville harmed you? I will kill him if he has!’

‘Of course he has not harmed me!’ she snapped. ‘I am carrying his child! Why should he want to harm me?’

In Bartholomew’s experience as a physician, a woman carrying a child was not necessarily cause for a man to celebrate, and he had attended several patients where prospective fathers had decided to prevent an unwanted birth by attempting to dispatch the mother.

Janelle ignored Hamon and addressed Michael, whose distinctive habit marked him as a Benedictine monk. ‘Please forgive our wariness, Brother, but not all visits from Grundisburgh and Otley over the past two years have been friendly.’

‘Watch your tongue, Janelle!’ said Tuddenham sternly. ‘And what are you doing here anyway? Have you been abducted? Do not worry, we will soon have you safely home.’

‘Of course I have not been abducted,’ said Janelle scornfully. ‘I came here of my own free will. Roland Deblunville and I were married yesterday in St Botolph’s, just after dawn. Did you not notice the wild flowers around the church door?’

‘No!’ cried Hamon in horror. ‘You cannot have done!’

‘That is preposterous!’ exploded Tuddenham. ‘You have no right to wander off and marry the first man you encounter. What will your father say?’

‘Ask him,’ said Janelle defiantly. ‘He is here, in the house. He attended our wedding, and is delighted that hostilities between his manor and Roland’s are finally at an end. Now we can devote our energies to something more meaningful than perpetuating silly squabbles – such as making our farms more profitable.’

‘No wonder Bardolf did not answer our summons and all his villagers were drunk,’ muttered Grosnold. ‘The man was busy marrying off his only daughter to the greatest scoundrel in Suffolk.’

‘Perhaps this is not such a terrible thing,’ suggested Wauncy carefully. ‘At least the child will be born in wedlock.’

‘Of course it is a terrible thing!’ shouted Tuddenham. ‘And never mind the wretched brat! What about us? What will Hamon do when Deblunville inherits Clopton from Bardolf and becomes the most powerful landowner north of Ipswich?’

‘Hamon will have your two manors,’ snapped Grosnold, pulling off his heavy black helmet to reveal a head crisscrossed with red marks where it had rubbed. ‘It is I who will be vulnerable. My cattle will never be safe now!’

‘No self-interest here, Matt,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘At least our colleagues at the University are a little more subtle in their ambitions and desires.’

‘Janelle!’ yelled Hamon heartbrokenly. ‘What have you done?’

‘Well, I do not believe you married Deblunville!’ yelled Grosnold to Janelle after a moment’s reflection. ‘You are just making mischief. Your father would never betray us in so foul a fashion.’

‘And why should allowing his daughter to marry the man she loves be an act of betrayal?’ demanded Janelle. ‘It is my business who I marry, not yours. You had no right to attempt to prevent it in Lent, and you have no right to claim you have been betrayed now. It is none of your affair!’

‘Your father has been cruelly misled!’ shouted Tuddenham. ‘He has been misguided by that beast who seduced you. I will talk to him and we will have this marriage annulled. These Michaelhouse men are scholars – they will find a way to put an end to this vile union.’

‘We do not have the authority to meddle with that sort of thing,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, afraid that Michael might agree to help for the sake of the advowson.

‘My colleague is correct,’ said Michael, to Bartholomew’s relief. ‘You will need to apply to a bishop for that.’

‘We will apply, then,’ determined Grosnold, ramming his helmet on his head again. ‘I will show Deblunville that we mean business. I will not have my neighbours’ women married off with gay abandon.’

‘We should ascertain that Deblunville is still alive first,’ said Wauncy thoughtfully. ‘Janelle was married at dawn yesterday, but the scholars claim they saw a man wearing Deblunville’s dagger hanging on the gibbet by mid-morning. She may already be a widow.’

Hamon’s eyes lit with sudden hope, and Grosnold nodded keenly.

‘Perhaps you will allow us to question this lady,’ said Michael, sensing that if Deblunville was still alive he might not stay that way long, given his neighbours’ reaction to his choice of bride. ‘She can harbour no ill-feelings towards a harmless Benedictine monk.’

‘Then you do not know her,’ said Grosnold with feeling. ‘That is no lady, that is a vixen!’

‘She is an angel,’ whispered Hamon, gazing across at her. ‘And Deblunville has poisoned her innocent mind.’

Grosnold gave a snort of derisive laughter. ‘Lust has made you blind, Hamon. She has never possessed an innocent mind!’

Hamon stepped towards him threateningly, but Tuddenham pushed his nephew away. The young knight was strong enough to have taken exception to this rough treatment, but he yielded to his uncle’s stern glare, and stalked away to stand sulkily with the archers. Grosnold clicked his tongue, and shook his head in disapproval at Hamon’s behaviour.

‘May I offer you my congratulations, madam?’ called Michael. ‘Please accept the prayers of a humble monk for a happy and fecund union.’

‘It is already fecund,’ muttered Tuddenham. ‘That was the problem.’

‘I would like to speak to your husband,’ Michael continued. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Why?’ demanded Janelle. ‘So that Hamon’s archers can shoot him down in cold blood as soon as he makes an appearance? I do not think so!’

‘Madam!’ said Michael, sounding suitably shocked. ‘I am a man of God and abhor violence. I came here only so that I could be assured of your husband’s safety.’

‘And how do I know I can trust you?’ she demanded. ‘You have come to Grundisburgh solely to see what you can inveigle out of Tuddenham for your College.’

Bartholomew looked down at his feet so no one would see him smiling. She was astute, and would not easily become a victim of Michael’s smooth charm.

‘Hardly inveigle, madam,’ said Michael, offended. ‘I am here on God’s business, not my own. I do not know your husband, so cannot wish him harm. I desire only a few moments of his time.’

Janelle appeared to waver. Michael opened his mouth to add more, but then hesitated, and Bartholomew knew the monk was uncertain what else to say. If it had been Deblunville they had found hanging on the gibbet, and his expensive dagger suggested it was, then there were gentler ways of informing Janelle that she was a widow the day after she became a bride than howling across a field that someone had murdered him.

‘Please,’ Michael called. ‘Allow me and my colleague to come a little closer, and we will discuss this rationally. You can see we carry no weapons.’

‘All right, then,’ she conceded after a moment’s thought. ‘But walk slowly, and no tricks! I have archers with arrows aimed at Grosnold, Hamon and Tuddenham. Their lives depend on you being exactly what you say you are.’

‘Let’s go home,’ said Tuddenham, plucking at Grosnold’s chain-mailed sleeve. ‘We came here out of neighbourly concern, and we do not have to play silly games with that harlot.’

‘Just give us a few moments,’ said Michael. ‘Remember that if Deblunville is dead, all your actions now will be reconsidered later, if you become a suspect for his murder. Standing here while we go to talk to her will say more for your innocence than if you leave.’

Tuddenham glanced at Wauncy, who indicated with a shrug of his skeletal shoulders that the logic was sound. With a gusty sigh, the knight waved his hand to indicate that Michael and Bartholomew should move forward. Wisely, he led his nephew some distance away, where the younger man would not be tempted to undertake some rashly conceived rescue mission.

‘Come on, Matt.’

Assuming that no mere physician would dare to disobey the imperious tone of Michael, the University of Cambridge’s Senior Proctor and valued agent of the Bishop of Ely, the monk began to walk toward Janelle, holding his hands above his head. Unhappily, Bartholomew followed, anticipating an arrow slicing through him at every step.

With misgivings that grew with each passing moment, Bartholomew moved closer to the ramparts. Michael was a monk, and even the most lawless of men were usually loath to harm men of God, lest they pay for it in the fires of hell. But Bartholomew – although he had taken minor orders that meant if he committed a crime he would be tried under canon, rather than secular, law – was no priest, and he imagined that Janelle’s archers would not hesitate to kill him if they felt threatened. He swallowed hard, wondering how a pleasant journey to a pretty part of rural Suffolk had ended with him at the mercy of hidden archers and a pregnant woman in peach-coloured satin.

‘That is far enough.’

With relief, Bartholomew stopped short of the first rampart. Closer, Janelle was even more attractive, although she was also older, than his initial impression had suggested. From Tuddenham’s description of her careless pregnancy, he had imagined her to be in or near her teens, like Isilia, and her fair hair and delicate figure had made her appear childlike from a distance. But it was no child that glared down at him from her vantage point. It was a woman in her late twenties with a no-nonsense face and a determined expression in her eyes. He forced himself to look away, knowing it was not wise to admire other men’s wives openly when there were crossbows and arrows trained on him from all directions.

Michael spoke in a low voice, trying to be gentle. ‘I hope you will forgive me mentioning such unpalatable matters, madam, but as we rode past Bond’s Corner yesterday we found a man hanging on the gibbet. My colleague here did all he could to revive him, but it was too late. His neck was broken, and he breathed his last as we gave him absolution.’

‘You are right – that is not the kind of tale I like to hear,’ said Janelle. ‘Who was he? And why have you come here, at considerable risk to yourselves, to tell me about it?’

‘This hanged man was wearing a blue doublet sewn with silver thread, a fresh white shirt and new shoes. He also wore a studded belt, and there was a jewelled dagger at his side.’

‘I wondered what had happened to those,’ came a man’s voice from behind the wall. A moment later, a head poked up next to Janelle’s ankles. ‘I am Roland Deblunville, gentlemen. I assume you believe your hanged man was me?’

Judging from Tuddenham’s agitated pacing, he was not comfortable with the notion of his guests disappearing inside Deblunville’s enclosure. Hamon simply sat on the grass with his head in his hands, while Walter Wauncy leaned over him and whispered bleak words of comfort. Grosnold slouched against the trunk of a tree, his lips moving in agitation as he muttered to himself all the things he would do to Deblunville, if the opportunity came his way. But Tuddenham need not have worried. Bartholomew and Michael were invited only to the small barbican, and not the house, so that Deblunville could speak to them without needlessly exposing himself to his neighbours’ archers.

From all he had heard of Deblunville, Bartholomew had anticipated a great hulking figure with a bristling black beard, missing teeth and plenty of scars. Deblunville, however, was not much taller than his elfin wife; he had a mop of fine, fair hair that flopped boyishly when he walked, and had no scars at all that Bartholomew could see. Only the lines around his eyes and one or two strands of silver in his beard suggested he was no youngster. And he was most definitely not the man who had been hanged on the gibbet.

‘I am sure Tuddenham has explained to you that relations between us are not all they might be,’ said Deblunville, with a spontaneous grin that revealed small, white teeth. ‘And I am also sure that he insists it is all my fault.’

‘Is it?’ asked Michael.

Deblunville gazed at him for a moment, before throwing back his head and laughing. Michael exchanged a furtive glance with Bartholomew, not at all certain what was funny. His wife certainly was not amused: she raised her eyes heavenward and folded her arms, presenting quite a formidable figure for one so slight.

‘I imagine I am totally to blame, Brother,’ said Deblunville, still smiling. ‘According to Tuddenham, I am a wife-killer, rapist and land-thief. However, go to the courts in Ipswich, and you will see documents that show I am the legal owner of the land near the river that Tuddenham says is his. He even built himself a house there – Peche Hall – to try to strengthen his claim. But he will live to regret spending his money, because I will have what is rightfully mine.’

‘Tuddenham said Peche Hall was an ancient house, not one he raised himself,’ said Michael.

Deblunville waved a dismissive hand. ‘There was an old house there, but he pulled it down and built a new one. Peche Hall is a modern mansion – go and see it for yourselves.’

‘But there was an old house there,’ pressed Michael, ‘so he was telling the truth.’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Deblunville, leaning against the rampart and chewing on a blade of grass. ‘But take your fine Benedictine robe. If I were to replace all the old material and sew it with new thread, would it be an old garment or a new one? You are intelligent men – you can see that it would be a new one. That is what Tuddenham did with Peche Hall.’

‘No, the issue is not quite so straightforward, my son,’ said Michael patronisingly. ‘And the analogy you posed has room for considerable debate. But we did not come here to argue about houses and land – we are simple scholars and know little of such matters. We came to–’

‘Simple scholars?’ interrupted Deblunville, his blue eyes glittering with merriment. ‘I am sure you will haggle long and hard, and with every ounce as much lawyerly skill as that crafty Walter Wauncy when you negotiate for the living of Grundisburgh’s church.’

‘I am sure Wauncy will appear a mere novice when compared to Brother Michael of Cambridge,’ said Janelle, appraising the monk coolly. Bartholomew was sure she did not intend the remark to be complimentary.

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael with a faint smile. ‘But we did not come here to discuss our advowson, either. I am relieved to see you fit and well, Master Deblunville, but how do you explain the fact that your clothes and dagger were on a corpse? Have you lost them? Have you missed a member of your household, who might have borrowed them and been killed instead of you?’

‘That is a sobering thought,’ said Deblunville. ‘I noticed the clothes were missing a few days ago, but I merely assumed I had misplaced them.’

‘Do you know of anyone who might have taken them?’ asked Michael.

Deblunville shook his head. ‘No, and I am certain no one is missing from my household. Usually, the people of Burgh are scattered all over my estates, tending the sheep. But we are still celebrating our wedding day, and all the villagers have gathered here to wish me well.’

‘And to drink your wine,’ added Janelle dryly.

Deblunville laughed and, as she smiled back, Bartholomew could well understand what had captured the man’s heart. The harsh lines around her mouth softened and her eyes lost something of their piercing, forceful quality. He wondered how she had stayed unmarried for so long, particularly given that Hamon clearly adored her and the Tuddenhams were a powerful force in the area.

‘What clothes have you missed, exactly?’ Michael asked.

Deblunville tore his attention away from Janelle, and scratched his head. ‘A blue doublet and red hose that belonged to my father. They have always been too big for me, and I seldom wear them. There was also a dagger – purely ornamental and so blunt it would not slice through warm butter. You will understand when I say such a weapon is of no use to me, given that I have neighbours who want me dead. I always carry something a little more practical. It is not real gold, by the way, just gilt. But it looks good, and I know my neighbours are jealous of it, thinking it to be valuable. They are foolish men, Brother, and they covet foolish things – like a dagger with no cutting edge.’

‘When was the last time you could say, with absolute certainty, that these things were in your possession?’

Deblunville shrugged. ‘I really do not know. I missed the doublet when I went to church last Sunday. I wanted to wear it so that I could keep this one clean for my wedding. Before that, I could not say when I last saw it. The same goes for the dagger.’

‘And you have no idea why a man wearing your clothes and knife should be hanged on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner?’ queried Michael.

Deblunville shrugged again. ‘None at all. I can give you a list of a dozen men – all lords of manors and their henchmen – who would dearly love to see me dead. The only thing I can suggest is that someone stole my belongings and was rash enough to wear them. He was then mistaken for me and paid the price.’

‘For a man who has so many enemies, including one who may well believe he has killed you, you seem remarkably calm about all this,’ observed Michael.

Deblunville raised his eyebrows. ‘What else can I do? I am not a man to skulk in his house like a frightened cat, and there is nothing I can do about the way my neighbours feel about me. All I can do is go about my business, and ensure I never travel anywhere alone or unarmed.’

‘Well,’ said Michael, preparing to leave. ‘Please accept my congratulations once more. I am delighted to find you not a corpse but a bridegroom.’

‘Nicely put,’ said Deblunville. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You are a physician?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I do not conduct astrological consultations,’ he added quickly, before he was invited to provide a horoscope for the bridal couple.

Deblunville looked taken aback. ‘That is a peculiar thing for a physician to say. Your colleagues are usually desperate to get patients alone for an expensive afternoon with their charts.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘No matter,’ said Deblunville. ‘I had a fairly lengthy consultation last week with Master Stoate, Grundisburgh’s physician. I needed to know whether yesterday was a good time to marry, and Stoate assured me it was, because Jupiter is ascendant. He seems to have been correct.’

‘But, more importantly, yesterday was convenient for me,’ Janelle pointed out. ‘It would not have mattered whether Jupiter had dropped out of the sky, you still would have wed me then.’

Bartholomew gazed at her with open admiration. Here was a woman after his own heart, who cared not a fig for the mysterious movements of the heavenly planets, and was certainly not prepared to allow them to rule her life.

‘Do you need my colleague’s services for anything?’ asked Michael. ‘If not, we had better return to Tuddenham before he tries to attack you. He is becoming increasingly agitated, and I do not want our discussion to jeopardise the advowson.’

‘I am sure you do not,’ said Deblunville, winking at the monk. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Janelle is with child, and she has been feeling sick in the mornings. Stoate said the feeling would pass when Jupiter became ascendant over Mars, but he miscalculated. She is not feeling better at all.’

‘How long?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The sickness?’ Deblunville shrugged. ‘Two months.’

‘About three weeks,’ Janelle corrected.

‘Well, it seems like two months,’ grumbled Deblunville.

‘And when did you know you were pregnant?’ asked Bartholomew.

Janelle shot an imperious glance at Michael, and declined to answer until the monk had sauntered out of hearing, pretending to inspect the revetted walls of the embankment. ‘I noticed… matters were not all they should be at the beginning of Lent.’

‘That was when I first tried to marry her,’ announced Deblunville. ‘I thought we might avoid a scandal if we did it straight away. Unfortunately, Tuddenham put an end to that, although how he, of all people, discovered Janelle was pregnant, I cannot imagine.’

‘Mother Goodman, probably,’ said Janelle carelessly. She explained to Bartholomew. ‘She is the only midwife in these parts, and not much escapes her eagle eyes. She has an uncanny talent for spotting a pregnancy – sometimes she knows it before the mother herself.’

‘She sounds as if she knows her business.’

‘She does,’ said Janelle, ‘but she is fiercely loyal to Tuddenham, and I cannot call on her now that I have married Roland. She might slip me some wormwood, and that would be the end of the child.’

‘You had better arrange to have it in Ipswich, then,’ said Bartholomew. He considered, thinking that a woman of her age might well have had children from a previous liaison. ‘This will be your first child, will it?’

‘Of course it will!’ exploded Deblunville angrily. ‘We were only wed yesterday.’

‘Being unmarried does not prevent women from having babies,’ retorted Bartholomew curtly. ‘Unfortunately for most people, including you it seems, it does not work that way.’

Deblunville drew breath to argue, but then conceded the point. ‘The boy will be Janelle’s first child. We will name him Roland, after me.’

‘And what if it is a girl?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They make appearances from time to time, too, you know.’

Deblunville looked as though that thought had not crossed his mind.

‘It will not be a girl,’ said Janelle firmly. ‘I have already prayed to St Margaret of Antioch about that, and she will see I have what I want.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether even a saint would have the audacity to turn a deaf ear to the forceful requests of an expectant mother like Janelle. ‘But about this sickness. Did Master Stoate prescribe anything for you?’

She nodded. ‘He said I was of a choleric disposition, and so I should drink poppy juice and pennyroyal three times a day for as long as Mars remained ascendant, and then switch to betony in mint water when Jupiter became ascendant.’

Bartholomew tried not to show his alarm. Betony and pennyroyal were herbs often used to end unwanted pregnancies, and if Janelle had been taking Stoate’s concoction three times a day, she was lucky not to have lost the child already.

‘I would recommend you do not take any more of that,’ he said carefully. ‘Try cumin in milk, if you like, but the feeling will pass soon anyway.’ Although whether Jupiter or Mars was ascendant had nothing to do with it, he thought to himself. All midwives knew that queasiness in the mornings eased off by the end of the third month of pregnancy, and whatever planet happened to be dominant in the sky made not the slightest bit of difference.

‘I should really examine you,’ he said. ‘To make certain there is nothing other than the child that is making you ill.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Deblunville uneasily. ‘Examine her with what?’

‘I will check the rate of her pulse, test for areas of tenderness around her chest and stomach, and perhaps inspect her urine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing to be alarmed about.’

‘Is that what they do in Cambridge, then?’ asked Deblunville doubtfully. ‘I was told that was an odd part of the country. All right, very well, then. Carry on. Do what you will.’

‘Here?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at Deblunville’s archers, who had Tuddenham fixed in their sights, and at Michael, who was leaning against the revetment, humming softly to himself.

‘Why? What is wrong with here?’ demanded Deblunville.

‘I usually conduct these examinations somewhere a little more private,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not usually with half the male members of the household watching.’

‘You mean you want my wife to go into some chamber alone with you?’ asked Deblunville, aghast. ‘What kind of physician are you?’

‘Just let me measure her pulse rate, then,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s barely concealed amusement. He reached out and grabbed Janelle’s wrist, trying to block out Deblunville’s nervous exhortations to be careful, so that he could count the steady beat in her hand. It was the contention of the Greek physician Galen that subtle variations in pulse rates revealed a great deal about a person’s health. Janelle’s was rather fast for a person of her size, so he made her sit on the ground while he felt it again.

After a while, during which Deblunville sighed and paced impatiently, and Bartholomew’s knees grew cramped from crouching, the physician stood. He was not entirely satisfied that all was as it should be, but Janelle claimed there was nothing wrong except the sickness and she was becoming restless with his ministrations.

‘Grind cumin leaves, and mix them in milk sweetened with honey. It sounds unpleasant, but it will not taste as bad as the concoctions Stoate prescribed. Perhaps someone could read to you while you drink it.’

‘Read?’ asked Janelle, exchanging a dubious look with her husband. ‘Read what, exactly?’

‘Anything you like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A book of hours or some poetry. Anything.’

‘We have a list of recipes somewhere,’ said Deblunville, thinking hard. ‘Will that do?’

‘Well, no, not really,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘The object is to take her mind off her sickness, not to make her feel worse by reciting lists of food.’

‘I have the legal documents pertaining to my ownership of the manor,’ said Deblunville, scratching his head. ‘How about them?’

‘Well, perhaps reading was not a good idea,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But maybe someone could tell her some stories.’

‘What kind of stories?’ asked Deblunville suspiciously. ‘Religious tales from the Bible? Or the kind that I hear in taverns?’

‘Something in between, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I said, the point is to take her mind off feeling ill. Can you not make something up?’

‘I expect I could,’ said Deblunville, casting a perplexed look at his wife. ‘This is a peculiar sort of consultation. Are you sure you are a physician?’

‘He is the most senior physician at the University of Cambridge,’ said Michael grandly, from where he had been listening. ‘And he has something of a reputation for his unorthodox but sometimes effective cures.’

‘I see,’ said Deblunville. His elfin face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I suppose we are just used to Master Stoate’s ways, and not these modern methods. We will try your potion, Doctor.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you should come to see me if it does not work. There are other remedies we can try.’

‘I have no money with me to pay you,’ said Deblunville apologetically. ‘But perhaps you would take this instead.’

He rooted around in his pocket, and handed Bartholomew an irregularly shaped ring made of some cheap metal. It was far too large to be worn comfortably, and far too ugly to warrant the trouble. Bartholomew was often offered peculiar things when patients found themselves unable to pay for his services, but the items usually had some value or use – food, candle stumps, scraps of parchment, needles, pots, even nails. But he did not wear jewellery, and he did not want Deblunville’s cheap-looking trinket.

‘Please,’ he said, returning it. ‘Consider the advice a wedding gift.’

‘I insist,’ said Deblunville, pressing it into his palm. ‘It might not look much, but there are men in Ipswich who would pay handsomely for one of these.’

‘In that case,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him, ‘it is far too valuable, and you should keep it for your unborn child.’

‘I have another for him,’ said Deblunville. ‘This is a spare.’ He gave a sudden grin. ‘I see you do not understand, Doctor. You think I am passing you a worthless bauble. This is a cramp ring.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound appropriately grateful. ‘But I would not wish to deprive you of it.’

Janelle shook her head in disgust at his response. ‘He has no idea what you are giving him,’ she informed her husband. ‘He does not even know what a cramp ring is.’

Deblunville looked surprised. ‘I thought everyone knew that. They are rings made from the metal handles of coffins. It is common knowledge that such rings prevent cramps.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had not been party to this generally accepted fact, and was now rather repelled by the heavy object that lay in his hand. ‘But you might need it yourselves.’

‘There were four handles on my last wife’s coffin,’ said Deblunville cheerfully, ‘so I had four rings made. One for me, one for Janelle, one for the boy and one for you.’

Bartholomew thought quickly. ‘But you may have other children after this one. You should keep this for them.’

‘There will be other coffins before they come along,’ said Deblunville generously. Janelle shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘Do not worry about us, Doctor.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing he was stuck with it, whether he wanted it or not. He put it in his medicine bag, and turned to Michael. ‘We should go before Tuddenham thinks we are bartering for the living of Burgh church, as well as Grundisburgh’s.’

They took their leave to rejoin Tuddenham, who turned to Grosnold with relief when he saw his guests emerge unharmed. Meanwhile, Hamon was sullen, sitting astride his horse, and casting resentful glances to the rampart where Janelle had stood.

‘So,’ said Tuddenham as the scholars approached. ‘You have seen Deblunville alive and well, and shamelessly ignoring the wishes of his neighbours regarding his marriage with Janelle. Whoever you saw hanged was not him, and so we will say no more about this unpleasant business.’

‘What did they tell you about their union?’ asked Walter Wauncy, walking with Michael as he went to collect his horse. ‘Did they tell you why they saw fit to antagonise their two most powerful neighbours and wed?’

‘They did not need to,’ said Michael. ‘It seemed to me that they had a liking for each other. And Janelle is a determined lady – I imagine she usually gets what she wants, and she wanted Deblunville. The pregnancy merely hastened matters.’

As they rode, Tuddenham and Grosnold regaled Bartholomew and Michael with a further list of grievances suffered at the hand of Deblunville, while Hamon lagged behind with the archers. By the time Hamon peeled off to return to Peche Hall, the sun was beginning to dip, sending long evening rays across the fields, and deepening the shadows under the trees.

The following day was as lovely as the previous one, with pink rose fading to pale blue as the sky lightened. The Michaelhouse scholars began work on the advowson in earnest, now that Tuddenham had shown Deblunville to be alive and well – and a missing hanged man of unknown identity was, after all, none of their business.

Tuddenham ordered a table to be moved near a window, and then threw open the shutters so that light flooded into the shady interior of the main hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when box after box of documents was brought for their perusal, his hopes of a short stay at Grundisburgh quickly evaporating when he saw the amount of work that drafting the deed would entail.

Wauncy, who had an interest in his lord’s affairs that far exceeded the pastoral, arrived to help, and Bartholomew watched his bony fingers pick through the writs like a demon selecting souls to torment. While Alcote, who had placed himself in charge, assessed the more important items with Michael, Bartholomew and William were relegated to determining who owned different parts of the church at varying points of its history – a tedious and complex business that did not interest Bartholomew in the slightest. The students fared worse still, and did nothing but run silly errands for Alcote or sharpen his pens – although Bartholomew was relieved that Deynman was kept well away from anything important.

At noon, trestle tables were assembled for the midday meal, which comprised bean stew, barley bread and strong ale. Tuddenham’s neighbour from Otley, Robert Grosnold, joined them, listing the disadvantages to himself of Janelle’s marriage in a voice sufficiently loud to prevent all other conversation. He wore a black cotte and matching hose, so that Bartholomew began to wonder whether his entire wardrobe was that colour. After the meal, Grosnold and Tuddenham retired to the solar to indulge in further defamation of Deblunville’s character with Wauncy, while the Michaelhouse scholars returned to the advowson.

A little later, when Bartholomew was numb with boredom, Isilia came to inform them that it was almost time for the feast that marked the end of the Pentecost Fair, and invited them to attend. Alcote hesitated, eyeing the formidable pile of documents that still required his attention, but Michael had flung down his pen and was rubbing his hands in greedy glee before the others could do more than blink their tired eyes.

Tuddenham was not pleased that his wife wanted to take the scholars away from his advowson, but accepted that he could not withdraw the invitation once it had been extended. Mounting a sturdy horse, he led the way along the woodland path that led from Wergen Hall to Grundisburgh village, with Grosnold riding behind; Isilia, Dame Eva, Wauncy and Alcote in a small cart; and William, Michael and Bartholomew bringing up the rear with the students.

When they arrived at the village green, people were sitting in groups on the grass talking in low, resentful voices. Because Tuddenham had been griping with Grosnold about Deblunville, he was late to arrive for the feast, and the villagers were not happy. Lined up under the trees, and defended by three nervous men with drawn swords, were the trestle tables, once again laden with food – platters of meat and fruit, a huge cheese, waist-high baskets of bread and a cauldron of steaming broth. Bartholomew was impressed, but Michael shook his head dolefully, claiming that many people would still be hungry at the end of the day.

‘But there is enough here to feed King Edward’s army,’ objected Bartholomew.

Michael regarded it critically. ‘There are two hundred people in Grundisburgh, so this food will not go far. It seems to me that the villagers did a good deal better two days ago, when they provided their own feast.’

In the centre of the green, Grundisburgh’s children had been herded into a reluctant group to sing songs, while a group of men were engaged in a half-hearted tug of war over one of the fords, all of them more interested in the guarded food than in any other activities. Meanwhile, a baby on the opposite side of the green shrieked in delight as an adult in an amber cotte tossed him into the air and caught him again. The shriek turned to a startled howl when the man’s second attempt was not so successful, and the baby fell to the ground. Women rushed to soothe the resulting screams of outrage and shock; the clumsy man slunk away quickly.

‘I should return home,’ said Grosnold, surveying the scene critically. ‘My steward is presiding over Otley’s feast, but he is overly indulgent. Last year there were two rapes and a murder because I left him in charge.’

‘And you think Cambridge seethes with unrest,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew.

‘We will discuss this shameful matter of Janelle’s marriage again tomorrow,’ said Tuddenham to his neighbour. ‘I will visit you in the morning.’

The black knight nodded and, jamming a hat on his head, he spurred his horse across the village green. Obediently it thundered forward, causing people to scramble out of the way of its pounding hooves. Women screamed, and there was a huge crash as it knocked over one of the tables, sending hard-boiled eggs and bread bouncing across the ground. Bartholomew watched aghast, and looked at Tuddenham, expecting to see some anger at the cavalier manner in which his neighbour treated his villagers.

‘Fine beast that,’ said Tuddenham, observing it with an experienced eye as it ploughed through a small group of nuns. ‘Grosnold certainly knows his horses!’

He strode to the canopied bench that had been set up for his family, and clapped his hands together. There was an instant, anticipatory hush among the people.

‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the surviving trestle tables. ‘It is my privilege, as lord of the manor, to provide this feast to mark the end of our Pentecost Fair.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether Tuddenham intended to say anything else, and it was irrelevant anyway. What happened next could only be described as a stampede. People leapt to their feet, and dashed to the tables in a solid mass of bodies. Hands reached, snatched and grabbed, and the mountains of food were reduced to molehills within moments. Children foraged desperately on the ground among the milling feet for the scraps that had been missed, while the old and the slow did not stand a chance. Bartholomew ducked backward to avoid a three-way fist fight that broke out over some kind of pie, while William only just managed to escape being drenched by the vat of broth that toppled over during the affray.

To one side, someone was broaching barrels of ale. The sweet smell of the fermented drink mingled with wet grass, as people jostled and shoved to try to reach it. Bartholomew saw there was not a villager in the seething crowd who had not brought some kind of drinking vessel, although there were many who would not see them filled. The ground seemed to be receiving most of it.

‘My God!’ breathed Alcote, standing next to Bartholomew and watching in horror. ‘I have seen better manners in a pack of animals.’

‘That went well,’ said Tuddenham, rubbing his hands, and nodding towards the empty tables. ‘The villagers do so enjoy this particular festival. It is always a raging success.’

‘Did you manage to grab anything?’ Michael asked Bartholomew as they walked away. ‘I got a handful of meat and three eggs.’

‘You did well, then,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised that the monk had emerged from the mêlée with something, but astonished that he should enter it in the first place. ‘I did not even try. It was all over before I realised it had started.’

‘It was rather sudden,’ agreed Michael. ‘You can have one of my eggs. Or maybe you can ask someone to swap something edible for that bit of coffin in your pocket. Cramp ring, indeed! This place is most odd, Matt. The sooner we return to the normality of Cambridge, the better. There, at least, your patients usually pay you with something practical.’

Bartholomew peeled the hard-boiled egg as they walked, appreciating the fact that Michael, who had eaten very little all day, was being unusually generous in sharing his spoils. ‘This business with the hanged corpse is odd. I suppose we shall never know what all that was about.’

Michael shook his head, his mouth full of roast lamb. ‘Some thief stole Deblunville’s clothes, and was probably mistaken for him by one of his many enemies. I suspect we interrupted the killer, who then waited until we had gone, crept out and spirited the corpse away, so that no one could investigate further.’

Bartholomew thought about it. ‘But the man who died was quite large. How could he have been mistaken for Deblunville, who is small? It is not as if the attack took place in the middle of the night.’

Michael waved a piece of meat dismissively. ‘I doubt these lords of the manor do their dirty work themselves. They probably hired some louts to do it for them – louts who did not know Deblunville personally.’

‘But that explanation assumes that the lords gave the killers a description of Deblunville’s clothes, and Deblunville himself told us they were not ones he wore very often,’ said Bartholomew, finishing the egg, and wishing Michael would share his meat.

‘Well, as you said yourself, we will probably never know the answer to all this, so it is best you put it from your mind.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, and sat on the low wall that encircled the pleasant garden of the Dog, the inn that looked across the village green. Michael lounged next to him, finishing his meat and holding forth about the accuracy of his prediction that the food provided for the Fair’s grand finale was inadequate to feed the whole village.

Bartholomew listened with half an ear, his mind wandering from the hanged man to Janelle’s morning sickness. He saw Tuddenham ensure that the attentions of his wife and mother were on the activities on the village green, and then seek out Alcote to present him with a handful of pens and a sheaf of parchment. The fussy scholar was escorted to one of the empty food tables and invited to sit, while Tuddenham peered over his shoulder as he began to write. Even at the Pentecost Fair finale, the advowson was not to be neglected, apparently.

Time passed, the sun set and Bartholomew began to feel drowsy. He asked Michael where he thought they might sleep that night – Tuddenham had mentioned moving Michaelhouse’s scholarly deputation from the floor of Wergen Hall’s main chamber to one of the village’s two inns, where he said they would be more comfortable. Bartholomew did not much care – one straw pallet was very much like another, although he hoped one would be made available reasonably soon. He had found sitting in one place all day, reading and writing, far more tiring than teaching or visiting patients.

Michael opened his mouth to reply, when frantic shouting caught their attention. Thrusting his way through the crowd that still hovered around the ravaged food tables came John de Horsey, the handsome student-friar whom Isilia had mistaken for Unwin. He was breathless, and his eyes were wide and staring.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Michael disapprovingly. ‘You are making a dreadful spectacle of yourself.’

‘It is Unwin,’ Horsey gasped, trying to steady the trembling in his voice. ‘I think he is dying!’