A Wicked Deed (7 page)

‘That is John de Horsey, madam,’ said Michael, trying to hide his amusement at the yearning in her voice. ‘Unwin is behind him.’

There was no mistaking the bitter disappointment on Isilia’s face when she saw that the comely John de Horsey was not the long-awaited Unwin. To her credit, she rose and went to meet the unprepossessing friar with good grace, offering him wine and a seat in the shade, although Bartholomew noticed that Horsey was given the better place and the larger cup. Scurrying behind the students came Alcote, who contemptuously brushed aside Isilia’s polite greeting, and made straight for Tuddenham.

‘Someone should tell Alcote that spurning the lovely wife of our benefactor is not the best way to gain that benefactor’s good auspices,’ remarked Michael, unimpressed by Alcote’s display of poor manners. ‘That man’s dislike of women is unnatural.’

‘He is a monk, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He is supposed to be uninterested in women. As are you.’

‘As a monk, I love all my fellow men and women with equal fervour, although I find women far easier to love than men.’ Michael nudged Bartholomew in the ribs, and nodded to where Isilia was listening with rapt attention to something Horsey was saying. ‘Handsome John de Horsey is her first choice, but she would settle for you, with your black curls and vile stories of childbirth, over the dull Unwin. He does not interest her at all.’ He took another gulp of Bartholomew’s wine.

‘You do talk nonsense sometimes, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He yawned. Even the small amount of wine he had managed to drink before Michael took it all was making him sleepy again.

‘Isilia is a very attractive lady,’ Michael continued. ‘Although I can see I do not need to tell you that. You spilled half my wine while you were ogling her.’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the monk was less worldly in his observations.

‘I expected to find you hanged,’ muttered Alcote unpleasantly to Bartholomew, apparently having decided that a cup of wine was more urgent than toadying to Tuddenham. He flopped on to the grass next to them. ‘And Michael, William and Cynric with you. Next time you want to rescue cut-throatsx, do it when you cannot drag other Michaelhouse scholars into the mire, too.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ warned Michael irritably. ‘Or it will be
you
responsible for having us all clapped in irons for tampering with gibbets. And where have you been? You should have been here hours ago.’

‘No thanks to you,’ snapped Alcote. ‘You let me take the wrong road on purpose. But it all worked out rather well, as it happened. I met a group of travellers who had been attacked by robbers, and one of them lay dying. He paid me a shilling for writing his will, and another two to say masses for him at the shrine of St Botolph at St Edmundsbury on our way home.’

Bartholomew regarded him in disgust. ‘You took money from a dying man?’

Alcote shrugged. ‘Why not? And do not be sanctimonious with me, young man. Physicians make their living by charging dying men for their services.’

‘It is not the same,’ objected Bartholomew.

Alcote overrode him. ‘If God had not wanted me to make a profit today, he would not have let me take the wrong road. Now, what about this felon you freed from the noose? Did you save the man? Can we all sleep less soundly in our beds tonight, because you released a convicted criminal to continue a life of villainy?’

‘For a man of God, you have a very cold soul,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the Cluniac with dislike. ‘Where is your compassion?’

‘My compassion is reserved for those who deserve it,’ said Alcote haughtily. ‘And what I do with it is none of your business.’

‘And what I do with mine is none of yours,’ retorted Bartholomew.

‘That must be Walter Wauncy, Grundisburgh’s current parish priest,’ interrupted Michael, gesturing with his goblet to a tall, cadaverous-looking man wearing the habit of an Austin canon, who was coming from the direction of the church. ‘No wonder poor Isilia’s hopes were high for a handsome young friar. What with Sir Fang on the one hand, and a priest who looks three days dead on the other, she must be absolutely desperate to set her fair eyes on something pleasant. Even plain Unwin has to be an improvement on the menfolk here.’

‘I hope you are not encouraging her to lascivious thoughts, Brother,’ said Alcote primly. ‘It would be most improper.’

Michael regarded him with hurt expression. ‘I am distressed that you should think such things of me, Roger. I was merely commenting on the variety within God’s creation.’

They stood politely as the Austin approached. Bartholomew had seldom seen anyone look so unhealthy, and wondered whether Unwin might find himself vicar of Grundisburgh sooner than he anticipated. Wauncy was gaunt to the point where he appeared skeletal, and there were dark rings under his yellowish eyes. His head seemed uncannily skull-shaped, accentuated by the fact that he was almost completely bald except for a short fringe of hair at the back and sides. Out from this surged a pair of enormous ears that turned a blood-red colour when the sun was behind them.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said the priest in a graveyard whisper to the scholars. ‘You must forgive my lateness in greeting you. I have been saying masses for the dead all day.’

‘I charge a fourpence,’ said Wauncy superiorly. ‘Otherwise I would have all the village’s poor after me to pray for their dead, and I can barely manage the demand imposed by the wealthy.’

Alcote was impressed. ‘I can see Unwin will make a tidy fortune here, and will have plenty to spare for his old College.’

‘Have you travelled far today?’ asked Wauncy.

‘From Otley,’ said Alcote. He shuddered. ‘A shabby place that smells of pigs, quite unlike this charming village, Master Wauncy.’

‘Then you must have lain in bed a long time this morning,’ said Wauncy, a note of censure in his deep voice. ‘Otley is no great distance from Grundisburgh, yet I hear you have only just arrived.’

‘We stopped at the crossroads to pray for the soul of the poor man who was hanged there today,’ said Alcote, before anyone could stop him.

Bartholomew exchanged a weary glance with Michael. Not only was Alcote’s claim a brazen lie but it was imprudent in the extreme to mention the hanged man when they might yet be in trouble for cutting him down.

Wauncy looked blank. ‘What hanged man?’

‘The criminal who was hanged at the crossroads today,’ pressed Alcote. ‘On the gibbet.’

‘The gibbet at Bond’s Corner?’ asked Wauncy, looking from Alcote to Michael in confusion. ‘But no one has been hanged there for weeks.’

‘I can assure you, gentlemen,’ said the parish priest, ‘no one has been hanged on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner since Easter. Are you sure about what you saw?’

‘It was a man wearing a blue doublet embroidered with silver thread,’ said Alcote impatiently. ‘And a fine white shirt, and shoes that looked new. He had not been there for long. Matthew thought he might even still be alive. He was not, of course, and we made no attempt to interfere with the King’s justice by cutting him down.’

Michael closed his eyes. ‘That man is beyond belief,’ he muttered to Bartholomew. ‘Talk about incriminating himself.’

‘Or worse still, incriminating us,’ Bartholomew whispered back.

‘But no one was hanged there today,’ insisted Wauncy. ‘We do not hang people during the Pentecost Fair. It would spoil the festivities.’

‘It looks as though you were right after all,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘The man was not executed legally, or people would have known about it. What a curious turn of events!’

Seeing Alcote did not believe him, Wauncy beckoned Tuddenham over. The knight had been cornered by Father William, who was regaling him with one of his rabid diatribes on heresy. Clearly relieved by his timely rescue, Tuddenham came toward them, hauling his wife away from the handsome Horsey as he passed. Bartholomew did not blame him. Horsey might well be a friar in major orders, and forbidden physical relations with women, but so was Michael, and Bartholomew was certain the fat monk was no more celibate than was Matilde the Prostitute.

‘Our guests claim there was a man hanging on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner today,’ said Wauncy to Tuddenham. ‘I have just informed them that is not possible.’

‘Wauncy is right,’ said Tuddenham, surprised. ‘No one has been sentenced to the gibbet for at least six weeks.’

‘Well, someone was hanging there,’ said Michael.

Tuddenham shrugged, bemused. ‘I cannot imagine what has happened. I will send my steward to find out as soon as the festivities are over.’

‘Do you not think he should go now?’ suggested Michael. ‘If you say no one has been lawfully hanged on your gibbet, then the man we saw was unlawfully executed, and a murder surely merits immediate investigation?’

Tuddenham was clearly torn: the feast was about to begin, and it was already late in the day, with the sun casting long shadows across the green. Yet he did not want the scholars to consider him a lax landlord, who turned a blind eye to violent crimes committed on his land. After a moment, he sighed and agreed to look into the matter in person. He yelled to a servant, who was trying to prevent a group of children from stealing boiled eggs from one of the tables. ‘Siric! Saddle up a couple of horses. I have business at Bond’s Corner.’

Siric hurried away to do his master’s bidding, reluctantly leaving the eggs unsupervised. The children, however, hesitated to take advantage of the situation: Dame Eva was watching them with her bright, intelligent eyes. But, within moments, one leathery eyelid had dropped in a conspiratorial wink, and the children’s dirty faces broke into gap-toothed grins. Clutching their booty, they scampered away while Dame Eva turned her attention to making polite conversation with Father William.

‘The dead man wore a fine dagger,’ said Alcote, who invariably noticed such things. ‘It was gold with an emerald in the hilt, and there was also a belt decorated with silver studs.’

The colour drained from Tuddenham’s face, and his jaw dropped. Isilia rushed to his side, and helped him to sit on the wall, while Dame Eva abandoned William and came to stand next to him, laying a motherly hand on his shoulder and peering into his face in flustered concern.

‘Are you unwell, Thomas?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Shall I summon Master Stoate? Perhaps Doctor Bartholomew can bleed you, or give you a potion?’

‘A gold dagger with an emerald?’ whispered the knight, clutching at Isilia’s hand. ‘And a belt with silver studs?’

Alcote nodded triumphantly. ‘You do know that a man was hanged there!’

Tuddenham seemed appalled at that notion. ‘I know no such thing, Master Alcote! Are you certain this man was dead?’

‘Who was dead?’ cried Dame Eva, bewildered. ‘What has happened, Thomas?’

‘The man was dead according to our physician,’ Alcote replied, ignoring her and gesturing to Bartholomew. ‘Although he has some peculiar theories about health – for example, he believes people should wash their hands before they eat.’

‘How very odd,’ mused Walter Wauncy. ‘But what of this hanged man? Are you sure he was not some lad playing a joke on you by pretending to be dead?’

‘He was dead,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Alcote would keep his nasty opinions to himself. ‘But it seems you know him from his dagger. Who was he?’

Tuddenham exchanged a glance with Wauncy, and hesitated. It was Wauncy who spoke.

‘You must understand that we cannot be certain until we see the body, but there is only one man near here who owns anything as frivolous as a gold dagger and a silver-studded belt. But he has not been sentenced to hang. All this is most distressing!’

‘Especially for the man on the gibbet,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But who is it who owns this distinctive gold dagger?’

Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘My neighbour from the manor of Burgh – Roland Deblunville. I saw him wearing it at the Lord Mayor’s Feast at Ipswich last year. None of my other neighbours have the funds to waste on such frippery.’

‘Does this mean that someone has hanged Deblunville?’ asked Dame Eva, bewildered.

Tuddenham leaned forward and rubbed his hands across his face, while she patted his shoulder in a distracted sort of sympathy. Isilia’s face was unreadable as she stood behind her husband. After a moment, the knight looked up at his priest.

‘Wauncy, you know what will be said if Deblunville really is hanging at Bond’s Corner?’

Wauncy nodded. ‘But we should ascertain the facts before we leap to conclusions, Sir Thomas. We will ride to Bond’s Corner immediately, and try to find out what has happened.’

‘What will be said?’ asked Michael, interested.

Wauncy gnawed on his lip uncertainly, while Tuddenham stared at his boots and did not reply.

‘They will find out sooner or later, Thomas, regardless of whether Deblunville is dead or alive,’ said Dame Eva practically. ‘Your feud with the wretch is not exactly a secret.’