A Wicked Deed (6 page)

‘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?’

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.

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.’

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.

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.’

‘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?’