Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
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.