He wheeled his own horse around and headed for the track Cynric had indicated, leaving the others to follow.
‘You should not have interfered,’ said Cynric, as he trotted next to Bartholomew.
‘But it is bad enough seeing people die because my medicine cannot help them, without seeing them die because someone else has decided they should not live.’
‘It is no good theologising with me, boy,’ said Cynric primly. ‘I am just a simple soldier who follows the law as well as he can. And the law does not look kindly on travellers rescuing criminals.’
‘I know,’ admitted Bartholomew wearily.
‘And soldiers try not to leave bodies lying around without a decent burial,’ continued Cynric, turning to give William a look of disapproval. ‘So neither should scholars. It is not proper.’
‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But someone will be back for him soon – to collect his fine clothes and dagger, if nothing else.’
‘I was looking forward to arriving in Grundisburgh,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘I have heard that they celebrate a three-day Fair, and it will be starting today. But there is nothing like a dying man to turn gaiety into ashes.’
‘Fairs are heathen occasions,’ gasped William breathlessly, as he bolted past them on the donkey he had finally managed to mount, and that was repaying him by galloping furiously along the track, grimly resisting his attempts to restrain it. ‘They are events celebrated by heretics!’
‘Nothing like a fanatical Franciscan to turn gaiety into ashes, either,’ said Bartholomew, as the friar and his donkey disappeared around a bend ahead of them.
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 Wicked Deed Page 5