A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You are lying to worm your way out of this,’ said Dame Eva. Isilia carries Thomas’s child.’

  Isilia looked distinctly uneasy, although Dame Eva did not seem to notice. She continued.

  ‘And he will be better than Thomas or Hamon with their squeamish principles, and their silly notion of giving lucrative livings away to greedy men in distant Colleges.’

  ‘Thomas believes Michaelhouse will pay for a mass-priest to pray for his soul,’ said Isilia scornfully, glad to change the subject from that of the father of her child.

  ‘He thinks their clever minds will prevent my grandson from inheriting what he wants Hamon to have,’ said the old lady. ‘The deed Alcote wrote had a clause saying that a Michaelhouse Fellow was to be the executor of his will. Thomas expects you to outwit any lawyers we can hire to act on behalf of the child. He is probably right. And I have recently come to think that he is not so healthy as he would have us believe. Since his will stipulates that no child of Isilia’s born after his death will inherit, I cannot allow it to be written.’

  ‘But there will be no advowson now,’ said Isilia with satisfaction. ‘Michaelhouse will take nothing from the village that killed every last member of its scholarly deputation.’

  ‘You are wrong there, madam,’ said Michael, struggling furiously. ‘Michaelhouse will take anything it can get its hands on.’

  The man near the screen finally moved away, and went to help his friends hold Michael. Bartholomew darted out from his doorway, and finished uncoiling the twine. Now what? he thought. How could he distract everyone from the hissing long enough to allow the powder in the piscina to ignite? He had deliberately cut a short fuse, but it would still take several moments to burn.

  Meanwhile, Eltisley had succeeded in pinning Michael down, and was tipping the green potion toward his mouth.

  ‘I will not drink that,’ gasped Michael defiantly, through clenched teeth. ‘I do not allow things that are green to pass my lips.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ said Eltisley, swearing under his breath as some of the liquid spilled on to his own tunic. Smoke appeared as the stuff burned through the fabric.

  It was too late for caution. Bartholomew crouched down and struck Cynric’s tinder over a small pile of dried leaves and reeds from the roof.

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Dame Eva sharply, glancing towards the chancel.

  Bartholomew struck the tinder again, but it was damp and refused to ignite. Sweat broke out on his forehead in oily beads.

  ‘Someone else is in here,’ said Dame Eva, pointing at the screen. ‘Eltisley!’

  ‘No!’ yelled Michael, as Eltisley tipped his flask towards his face. Green liquid slopped from it.

  Bartholomew’s tinder finally struck, and the spark ignited the pile of grass. He blew on it, and hurled the burning handful on to Eltisley’s twine. There was a hiss like a furious cat, and nothing happened. Dame Eva glared in the direction of the chancel, and began to walk purposefully toward it herself. In desperation, Bartholomew grabbed a pot and hurled it as hard as he could at the fragile ceiling. It smacked into the rotting thatch, and fell to the ground in a shower of reeds and dust, landing just behind Eltisley, and making the landlord jump in alarm. Dame Eva changed direction, peering toward the back of the church.

  ‘I tell you, there is someone in here!’ she shouted. ‘Do not just stand there. Go and look.’

  Bartholomew lit the fuse a second time, filling the chancel with a sharp hissing and the stench of burning. And then it went out again. Bartholomew gazed at it in dismay, cursing Eltisley for his dismal inventions. Dame Eva swung back toward it, eyes narrowed.

  ‘No, not there,’ she yelled at Eltisley’s men, who were busily searching the back of the church. ‘In the chancel!’

  She began to hobble towards it, moving faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible for someone who had always seemed so frail.

  ‘Bartholomew!’ she exclaimed, seeing him kneeling on the ground.

  Behind her, two men stepped forward to seize him.

  Bartholomew gazed at the fuse in resigned disgust, realising that he had come very close to foiling the women’s attempts to kill him and his friends. But, with two of Eltisley’s sullen customers already pushing their way past Dame Eva to get at him, he saw that his feeble rebellion was finally over.

  Suddenly, the twine fizzed into life again. Startled, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, and flung himself into the passage that led down to the vault. There was an insane whistling sound, and then the loudest bang Bartholomew had ever heard as the powder sought to expand in the confined hollow in the wall. One moment he was on his feet, the next he was flat on his back, surrounded by swirling smoke. Dust and pieces of plaster crashed down from the ceiling, and he sensed the whole thing was about to fall. He picked himself up, and raced into what remained of the chancel. Dame Eva and the two men were nowhere to be seen. The screen had gone completely, and where there had been a roof of sorts, was now grey sky. The remains of the rotten thatch in the chancel had caught fire, and were burning furiously.

  ‘Michael!’ he yelled, clambering over the rubble into the nave. A cold fear gripped him. Had he used too much of the powder when Michael and Cynric were sitting so close? Had he done exactly what he had accused Eltisley of doing with Alcote, and used a mallet to crush a snail?

  The nave roof had collapsed, and he could see nothing moving. Frantically, he began to tear the smouldering thatch away, trying to remember exactly where it was that his friends had been seated. He saw a leg in the rubble, and hauled it free, half-relieved and half-disappointed to see it was not Michael. It was Eltisley, his eyes wide and sightless, and a piece of wood piercing him clean through. He looked surprised, as if death was not something he imagined would ever happen to him. Beside him was one of his surly cronies, also dead, while to one side lay the severed foot of another.

  ‘Matt!’ A flabby white hand waved at him from further back. Weak with relief, Bartholomew grasped it, and hauled the monk from the wreckage. Michael was covered in fragments of reed and white dust from the plaster, but he was basically unscathed.

  ‘Eltisley was standing in front of me, and I think he saved my life,’ said Michael, looking around him wildly. ‘He is as dead as I would have been, had he not protected me from the blast. Where is Cynric?’

  ‘Here, boy,’ said Cynric, emerging from under a large piece of thatch, his face black with soot. ‘I realised what you were doing, and threw myself backward just in time.’ He glanced up, and grabbed Michael’s arm. ‘Come on! This old church will not stand a shock like this.’

  As if to prove the truth of his words, there was a groan, and what had once been a fine wooden gallery at the back of the building collapsed, sending a puff of dust and smoke rolling down the nave. The fire in what remained of the roof burned ever more fiercely, dropping pieces of blazing thatch all around them. Cynric led the way out, leaping over piles of rubble and hauling Michael behind him. Bartholomew followed, but then stopped as the south wall of the church began to teeter inward.

  ‘No!’ he yelled to Cynric. ‘That is going to topple. Come this way.’

  Cynric glanced up, and wrenched Michael back as the top part of the wall tumbled slowly, depositing great slabs of stone in the nave to smash the tiles. Bartholomew scrambled back the way they had come, heading for a window in the north wall that was less choked with weeds than the others. Cynric pushed him on, slapping a piece of burning thatch away as it landed on his shoulder.

  With a rending groan, the south wall eased further inward, sending Eltisley’s potions and bottles crashing to the ground. More stones fell, landing with ear-splitting crashes, so close behind him that Bartholomew could feel their draught on the back of his neck. He reached the window and stopped to help Michael, heaving and shoving at the monk’s heavy body for all he was worth. It was taking far too long. More masonry fell, closer this time, and the south wall tipped further.

  Finally, Michael was through, and
Cynric was after him like a rabbit into a bolt-hole. Bartholomew glanced at the south wall. It was now falling in earnest, moving slowly at first, then picking up speed as the whole thing toppled toward him. He saw Michael’s hands reaching in through the window, and jumped toward them, his toes scrabbling against the peeling plaster as he fought to gain a foothold. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought he would not make it, and he felt something strike the sole of his foot as it fell. And then he was through, hauled unceremoniously across the sill and out into the long grass and bushes behind.

  Gasping for breath, he scrambled to his feet and followed the others through the bushes, aiming to get as far away from the collapsing church as possible. There was an agonised screech of tearing timbers, and the south wall finally fell, smashing forward to land heavily on the north wall opposite. That, too, began to collapse. Hindered by the dense bushes, Bartholomew began to fight his way to safety, feeling as though he was moving far too slowly. He glanced up and saw that he was still in the wall’s shadow, and that it was already falling.

  At last he was out of the undergrowth, and into the area of long grass that formed the churchyard. He was about to run across it, when there was an ominous growl. Cynric had stopped dead and Bartholomew barrelled into the back of him.

  ‘Padfoot!’ gasped Cynric in horror, gazing at the great white shape that blocked his path.

  The choice between being savaged by Padfoot or crushed by masonry was not one Bartholomew had anticipated. But the wall gave another sinister rumble, and the animal looked old, mangy and rather pathetic in the cold light of day. Shoving Cynric out of the way, he snatched up a piece of stick and raced toward it. The animal opened its mouth in a toothless roar of surprise, and gave a half-hearted swipe as he ran past, its pink eyes watering in the glare from the fire. A sharp snap from the flames startled it and it cowered backward, sniffing at the air with a snout that was battered and balding. It looked more bewildered than frightening.

  ‘Come on!’ Bartholomew howled to the others.

  Seeing him unharmed, Cynric followed with Michael at his heels. There was another tearing groan and the north wall finally gave way, landing in the bushes with a thunder of falling stones, ancient mortar and blackened timber. The shabby beast that had been Padfoot was enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust from which it did not emerge.

  ‘What in God’s name was that?’ panted Michael, snatching at Bartholomew’s arm to make him stop. Together they looked back at the column of smoke that was pouring from the building and the pall of white dust that splattered the trees as if it were snowing.

  ‘It was a bear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just an ancient bear with no teeth and no claws. If I had ever managed to get a good look at it, I would have seen it for what it was – a poor, harmless thing.’

  ‘Bears are not white,’ gasped Michael. ‘They are black or brown.’

  ‘Some can be born white with pink eyes, just like cats, dogs or people. It probably escaped from a band of entertainers during the plague.’

  ‘It did.’ Tuddenham’s voice so close behind them made them all spin around, and Cynric flourished a knife he had somehow managed to grab from one of the men who had been holding him. With Tuddenham were Grosnold, Walter Wauncy and Father William. Hamon was there, too, with the pregnant janelle grabbing possessively at his arm. The young knight looked proud and pleased, and almost handsome. Bartholomew hoped he knew what he was letting himself in for with Janelle.

  Tuddenham continued. ‘It was a dancing bear that belonged to a troupe of actors who sometimes passed this way. One of them came to ask if we had seen it a few months ago, but I did not connect the missing white bear to the legends of Padfoot, until now.’

  ‘Your mother did,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘She used it to ensure your villagers stayed away from where Eltisley was conducting his vile experiments.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tuddenham. His face was white and one hand gripped his stomach. He nodded at the burning rubble that had been the church. ‘I heard everything that was said in there.’

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ Michael demanded. ‘How did you know where we were?’ He looked at William. ‘The last I saw of you was when you went to tell Tuddenham about Stoate.’

  ‘Hamon summoned us here,’ said William. ‘He was taking a predawn stroll nearby – accompanied by half a dozen men, for some unaccountable reason – and he saw lights burning in the church. When he saw Eltisley arrive with you and Cynric at arrow-point, he returned to Grundisburgh to fetch help.’

  ‘I would have mounted a rescue there and then,’ said Hamon apologetically, ‘but none of us were armed with more than our spades, and it seemed more prudent to fetch reinforcements than to attempt something that stood a good chance of failing.’

  Dame Eva and Janelle had been wrong about Hamon, Bartholomew thought. He was not as simple as everyone seemed to believe.

  ‘Have you seen Deynman and Horsey?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I sent them to the leper hospital for safety, but when Eltisley’s men went to collect them, they had not arrived.’

  ‘A leper hospital?’ queried William distastefully. ‘Hardly to be recommended as a place of safety, Matthew. They may have escaped Eltisley, but what if they catch the disease?’

  ‘It is not that easy to catch leprosy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is irrelevant anyway, considering that they are not there. Do you think they were attacked on the Old Road and robbed?’

  ‘I think they have probably found some tavern,’ said Michael, ‘and are happily dicing together, oblivious to the fact that the likes of Eltisley have been scouring the countryside looking for them.’ He turned to William. ‘So, how did you escape Eltisley’s men all morning?’

  William looked furtive. ‘I was here and there,’ he said evasively. ‘Doing what I could.’

  Hamon gave a snort of laughter. ‘He was in the latrine,’ he said, relishing the friar’s embarrassment. ‘Ever since dawn, just after he delivered your message about Stoate to my uncle.’

  ‘Are you ill?’ asked Bartholomew. Latrines, even splendid ones with doors like those in Grundisburgh, were not places where the sane liked to linger.

  William pursed his lips, but confessed. ‘It was that wretched device of Eltisley’s again. It jammed on me a second time, and I could not free myself for love nor money. I was locked in until Master Wauncy answered my cries for help.’

  Michael gave a humourless smile. ‘It seems the failure of one of Eltisley’s inventions actually saved your life. Had that lock not prevented you from leaving, you might well have found yourself with a mouthful of his green elixir.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ said William. ‘As Sir Thomas said, we overheard much of what was said in the church.’

  ‘Then why did you not come to our rescue?’ demanded Michael. ‘That madman almost had me drinking a brew that would have killed me “temporarily”.’

  ‘We were coming,’ said William indignantly. ‘Have patience, Brother! Hamon was halfway in through the window with his sword drawn, and I was behind him with a cudgel, when that terrible explosion occurred. It blew Hamon right over me and out into the bushes.’ He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘That Eltisley was an agent of the Devil, and the Devil rose up from hell and snatched him away. What we saw was a glimpse into the fiery depths.’

  ‘What we saw was Matt using Eltisley’s powders to save us,’ said Michael tartly. He turned to Tuddenham. ‘You really heard it all?’

  Tuddenham nodded, and Hamon came to stand at his side, a hand on his shoulder in a gruff expression of sympathy and support. ‘I heard that my wife and mother were plotting against me, and that it was not my child that Isilia was carrying. I suspected all that, of course, and I knew that they might try to prevent the deed being signed.’

  ‘You might have mentioned it to us,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Then we could have been on our guard, and Alcote need not have died.’

  ‘But then you might have decided not to draw up the advowson, and Isili
a’s brat would have inherited my estate over Hamon.’

  ‘It could have been your child,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is unlikely, but not impossible.’

  Tuddenham shook his head. ‘I always knew it was not mine.’

  ‘So, who was the father, then?’ asked Michael, intrigued.

  ‘That is not the kind of question a gentleman should ask of a dead lady,’ said Tuddenham softly. ‘But I do know, and her secret will die with me.’

  ‘And did you know what Eltisley was doing on your manor?’ asked Bartholomew, angry that the knight might have turned a blind eye to such practices.

  Tuddenham gave a brief nod. ‘I knew that my mother was supporting Eltisley in some ridiculous experiment, because she was desperate to have my father back, but, like you, I did not take seriously Eltisley’s claim that he could raise the dead. And I cannot think why my mother wanted to resurrect my father anyway – the man was a brute, and a poor manager of our estates. He let Bardolf's father steal Gull Farm from him without even attempting to wrest it back. After his death, she lavished more and more praise on him, accrediting him with a goodness that he never expressed in life. She, like Eltisley, was not entirely sane in her own way.’

  ‘And all this is about who will inherit your estates?’ asked Michael. ‘You did not want Isilia’s child as heir, because he is not yours?’

  ‘Essentially,’ said Tuddenham. ‘But I never imagined Isilia, or my mother, would sink to such depths of evil to accomplish what they wanted.’

  ‘She seemed so angelic,’ said Bartholomew, almost to himself, thinking of the lovely Isilia and her green eyes and fresh skin. ‘How could such treachery come from such loveliness?’

  Tuddenham glanced sharply at him.

  ‘You suspected it, though,’ said Michael quickly, before the knight could infer too much from Bartholomew’s words. ‘That was why you tried to keep your illness a secret – so that we would be safely back in Cambridge before they realised you were dying and that they would need to destroy the advowson if they wanted your estates for themselves.’