Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
‘Lead on, Cynric,’ said Michael, as he swung himself up
into his saddle with surprising ease for a man of his immense girth. ‘Let Matt and Roger stay here and argue about outlaws if they will, but take me to a decent inn where I can enjoy a good meal and a soft bed.’
‘You have not stopped eating since we left Cambridge,’ remarked Father William critically, looking around for his donkey. The brawny friar refused to ride anything except a donkey, loftily maintaining that to mount a horse, like the others, would be succumbing to earthly vanity. The animal that had been provided, however, was one of the smallest Bartholomew had ever seen, and the friar’s feet touched the ground on either side as he rode.
‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew, as he saw Michael’s eyes narrow, a sure sign that the monk was assessing which of several pithy replies that doubtless came to his quick mind would most antagonise the sanctimonious friar. ‘There are five outlaws at large, and we should not be here when they pull themselves together and come back seeking revenge.’
Cynric nodded fervent agreement, and began to lead the way through the undergrowth toward the Old Road. The others followed, while Bartholomew, still uneasy that the robbers might yet be skulking in the deepening shadows, brought up the rear. He rummaged in his medicine bag for the small knife that was part of his surgical equipment, and kept twisting around in his saddle so that he could see behind him. Cynric crossed the Old Road, before heading up the path that wound through the darkening woods to the north.
The evening air was still, and smelled of grass mixed with the richer scent of sun-baked earth. The scholars had been lucky on their travels – the ground had been hard and dry, and there had been none of the struggling through morasses masquerading as roads that Bartholomew had encountered on other journeys. Even so, he was tired. It had been several
years since he had ventured so far outside Cambridge, and he had forgotten quite how exhausting travelling could be.
Memories of his days as a graduate student at the University of Paris came flooding back to him, when he had traipsed miles through France, Italy and Castile with the Arab physician with whom he had chosen to study. While his fellow students learned their medicine in dimly lit halls, Ibn Ibrahim had taken Bartholomew with him as he rode far and wide to tend interesting cases. But Bartholomew had been younger then, and Ibn Ibrahim’s enthusiastic discourses on healing had taken his mind off the miseries of the journey. Not surprisingly, Alcote’s complaining and William’s dogmatism had done nothing to alleviate the boredom and discomfort as the scholars had ridden eastward into Suffolk.
Bartholomew stifled a yawn, looking from side to side into the now impenetrably black bushes that flanked the path. Something rustled and he tensed, anticipating another attack, but it was only a blackbird rooting about in the dried leaves for grubs. It fixed him with a bright yellow glare before flapping away, twittering in alarm.
Ahead of him, he could hear Alcote and William arguing about something, their voices growing louder and louder as each tried to put forward his own point of view without listening to the other. Michael rode behind them, and Bartholomew could see his plump shoulders shaking with mirth as he listened. Knowing Alcote’s mean-mindedness and William’s uncompromising opinions, Bartholomew could well imagine why Michael was finding their ill-tempered exchange amusing, but he was still too shaken by his encounter with the robbers to feel much like being entertained by his colleagues’ bigotry.
Horsey and Deynman began to sing ‘Sumer is icumen in’, and Michael, never averse to a little impromptu music, switched his attention to providing a bass part. He tried to
persuade the third student to join in, but Unwin declined and fell back to ride next to Bartholomew.
‘Did you sleep easier last night?’ Bartholomew asked him, still peering behind at the darkened track. He thought he saw something move, and was on the verge of shouting for Cynric when a pair of amber eyes blinked at him, and he realised it was only a fox.
The Franciscan student-friar gave a strained smile. ‘A little. The draught you gave me helped, but I will only be better once we reach Grundisburgh and I know what is expected of me.’
‘Grundisburgh already has a parish priest, and it might be years before he dies or retires and you have to take over his duties,’ said Bartholomew, not for the first time since the Master of Michaelhouse had announced that he had chosen the studious Unwin to become Grundisburgh’s next vicar.
In order to express to Tuddenham that his gift was truly appreciated, the Master had appointed Michaelhouse’s most brilliant student to the post of priest-elect of Grundisburgh. He reasoned that not only would Unwin learn the parish’s ways before taking up office permanently, but the villagers would be assured that Michaelhouse intended to take its obligations seriously, and would provide them with the best the College could offer. Bartholomew had been surprised when Kenyngham had selected Unwin to serve as Grundisburgh’s vicar-elect: an excellent student he might be, and there were few who could best him in a theological debate, but he was far too timid and unworldly to make a good priest for a large rural parish.
‘I know I shall have time to learn from the present incumbent,’ said Unwin, shoving a thumb that had already been gnawed raw into his mouth. ‘But supposing I am not what Grundisburgh expects? What if they want a more …?’ He faltered, chewing on his thumb in agitation. ‘… A more charismatic priest?’
Then they would be disappointed, thought Bartholomew. The diffident, bookish Unwin was one of the last people who could be considered charismatic. He did not even look inspiring. Although barely twenty, his fair hair was already thinning, and his pale blue eyes were weak and watery from reading in bad light. He stooped, too, and had a peculiar habit of looking over people’s shoulders when addressing them, instead of meeting their eyes. Although Bartholomew knew this resulted from shyness, those who knew him less well invariably considered him shifty. And shiftiness was not a character generally sought after in a parish priest.
He smiled encouragingly. ‘You can always confine yourself to saying masses for the plague-dead until you feel confident enough to take on other duties.’
Unwin brightened. ‘I had not considered that.’ He pulled his thumb from his mouth, and smiled thoughtfully. ‘I will not have to hear confessions that will shock me, or deal with adulterers, thieves and sinners if I am praying for the souls of the dead, will I?’
He lapsed into silence, leaving Bartholomew more certain than ever that a less scholarly and more practical student might have better served Grundisburgh’s pastoral interests.
It was not long before the acrid smell of wood-fires added their pungent aroma to the scent of late evening, and Cynric called out that they were nearing Otley. Dominating the village was a castle, comprising a compact bailey ringed by a palisade of sharpened posts, a stone house with a reed-thatched roof, and a grassy motte topped with a wooden watchtower. The bailey gates stood open, and a flurry of activity indicated that the owner had recently returned from a hunt. Dogs milled around the legs of the stable boys who rubbed down the sweating horses, and scullions spirited away a dead stag for butchering.
A heavy-set guard, with a bushy beard and one of the filthiest boiled-leather jerkins Bartholomew had ever seen,
had stopped Cynric and was asking his business in Otley. Impatiently, Alcote jostled the Welshman to one side, and began to berate the guard for daring to question the representatives of the University of Cambridge in so abrupt a manner, adding darkly that the villagers of Otley should consider the state of their immortal souls for hunting on a Holy Day.
‘Hunting is no more wicked on the Feast Day of St John the Evangelist than is travelling,’ retorted the guard immediately, eyeing Alcote with dislike. ‘You are sinning just as much as we are.’
Alcote’s head tipped to one side. ‘But we are on God’s sacred business,’ he announced, wholly untruthfully, given that the journey was being undertaken solely because Michaelhouse wanted the living of Grundisburgh church. ‘You only seek to gratify your greedy appetites with fresh venison.’
Bartholomew saw Brother Michael raise his eyes heavenward, and then hurry to intervene before Alcote’s arrogant self-importance could have them escorted out of the village and thrown back on the perils of the Old Road for the night.
When Bartholomew looked behind him for Unwin, he was alarmed that the student-friar was nowhere to be seen. Leaving Michael to negotiate with the guard, he turned his horse and rode back the way he had come, straining his eyes in the darkness to try to see whether the Franciscan was still loitering on the track. There was no sign of him. Perplexed, he returned to the others, wondering whether the terrifying notion of becoming a parish priest had finally caused Unwin to flee once and for all.
With some relief, he eventually spotted Unwin emerging from one of the outbuildings in the castle bailey. He was closely followed by a knight dressed entirely in black, whose bald head gleamed whitely in the gloom. The knight suddenly reached out and grabbed Unwin’s arm, so fiercely that the friar all but lost his balance, and whispered something
in his ear to which the friar nodded. Bartholomew frowned, puzzled by the exchange. What was Unwin doing in the bailey talking to a knight? As far as he was aware, Unwin had never been to Suffolk before, and knew no one in the area – and he was certainly not the kind of man to go exploring alone.
‘What was that about?’ he asked curiously, as Unwin rejoined him.
Unwin shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, glancing behind him in a way that could only be described as furtive. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Explaining to the guard who we are,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar doubtfully, perplexed by his odd behaviour.
‘There is no need for that,’ came a booming voice, so close behind them that it made Unwin start backward and frighten his horse. It was the knight in black. ‘Use your wits, Ned: here are monks, friars and men in scholars’ tabards. It is obvious that these are the scholars from Cambridge – Sir Thomas Tuddenham has been expecting them over at Grundisburgh for the last three days.’
The guard acknowledged him with a sloppy salute, and gestured that the scholars were to pass into the village.
‘I am Sir Robert Grosnold, lord of Otley Manor,’ said the black knight grandly. He was powerfully built, with dark beady eyes and no neck, and his black leather armour gave him a rather sinister appearance, accentuating the whiteness of his hairless pate. He gestured to the stone house in the bailey. ‘This is Nether Hall, granted to me by the King himself in recognition of my bravery at the Battle of Crécy in ‘forty-six.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, uncertain what else he could say.
‘Great day for England, that,’ continued Grosnold with unconcealed pride. ‘And I was there.’
Bartholomew nodded politely, still wondering what had induced Unwin to slip away from his companions to the outhouse in the bailey with the boastful lord of Otley Manor.
‘You should not have been travelling this late,’ Grosnold went on, when Bartholomew did not seem inclined to indulge in military small talk. ‘We have had wolvesheads on the Old Road recently.’
‘We saw them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They chased us into the woods near the Otley path, but ran away when my book-bearer injured one of them with an arrow.’
Grosnold was startled. ‘It seems you University men are not the gentle priests Tuddenham is expecting. Archery is an unusual skill for a scholar’s servant to possess, is it not?’
‘Cynric was a soldier once,’ explained Bartholomew.
‘Like me, then,’ said Grosnold, deftly seizing the opportunity to turn the subject back to fighting matters. He looked Bartholomew up and down disparagingly, taking in his darned and patched clothes, neatly trimmed black hair and clean hands. ‘But you are no warrior, I see.’
‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew.
Grosnold was unimpressed. ‘You are tall and strong: you should not have wasted such a fine physique by sitting around in dark rooms with dusty scrolls and ancient monks with no teeth.’
Was that how the people of rural Suffolk saw scholarship? Bartholomew wondered, not sure how to reply. He need not have worried: Grosnold had already lost interest in the conversation and was hailing his guard, ordering him to escort the scholars to the village inn.
‘I will need my stars read in a few days,’ Grosnold announced, as Bartholomew and Unwin began to walk away. ‘I might summon you to do it, if you are lucky, physician.’
‘I do not give astrological consultations,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to be irritated by the man’s presumption. He might have added that he did not believe that the stars
made the slightest difference to a person’s health, and that he considered studying them a complete waste of his time, but he had learned that few people agreed with him, and that some even regarded his opinions as anathema. It was nearly always prudent to keep his views to himself.
‘Rubbish,’ said Grosnold. ‘All physicians read their patients’ stars. I shall send for you when I am ready.’
‘He can send for the all he likes,’ muttered Bartholomew to Unwin, as they walked toward the inn. ‘But I am not messing around with pointless astrological consultations.’
‘Perhaps he will forget,’ said Unwin, casting a nervous glance to where the black knight stood at the gate of his manor, yelling orders to scurrying servants at a volume sufficient to wake the dead.
‘Have you met him before?’ asked Bartholomew, still intrigued by the fact that Unwin had been in the bailey with Grosnold. ‘What were you doing in his house?’
Unwin shook his head in the darkness. ‘Nothing. We have never met before.’
Bartholomew let the matter drop. He was tired and aching from a long day in the saddle, and wanted nothing more than a straw mattress in a quiet room. Welcoming lights shone gold from the village inn, and, with relief, he handed the reins of his horse to Cynric and went inside.