A Wicked Deed (12 page)

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.’

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.’

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.’

‘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?’

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?’