Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
‘Well, perhaps reading was not a good idea,’ admitted
Bartholomew. ‘But maybe someone could tell her some stories.’
‘What kind of stories?’ asked Deblunville suspiciously. ‘Religious tales from the Bible? Or the kind that I hear in taverns?’
‘Something in between, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I said, the point is to take her mind off feeling ill. Can you not make something up?’
‘I expect I could,’ said Deblunville, casting a perplexed look at his wife. ‘This is a peculiar sort of consultation. Are you sure you are a physician?’
‘He is the most senior physician at the University of Cambridge,’ said Michael grandly, from where he had been listening. ‘And he has something of a reputation for his unorthodox but sometimes effective cures.’
‘I see,’ said Deblunville. His elfin face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I suppose we are just used to Master Stoate’s ways, and not these modern methods. We will try your potion, Doctor.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you should come to see me if it does not work. There are other remedies we can try.’
‘I have no money with me to pay you,’ said Deblunville apologetically. ‘But perhaps you would take this instead.’
He rooted around in his pocket, and handed Bartholomew an irregularly shaped ring made of some cheap metal. It was far too large to be worn comfortably, and far too ugly to warrant the trouble. Bartholomew was often offered peculiar things when patients found themselves unable to pay for his services, but the items usually had some value or use – food, candle stumps, scraps of parchment, needles, pots, even nails. But he did not wear jewellery, and he did not want Deblunville’s cheap-looking trinket.
‘Please,’ he said, returning it. ‘Consider the advice a wedding gift.’
‘I insist,’ said Deblunville, pressing it into his palm. ‘It might not look much, but there are men in Ipswich who would pay handsomely for one of these.’
‘In that case,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him, ‘it is far too valuable, and you should keep it for your unborn child.’
‘I have another for him,’ said Deblunville. ‘This is a spare.’ He gave a sudden grin. ‘I see you do not understand, Doctor. You think I am passing you a worthless bauble. This is a cramp ring.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound appropriately grateful. ‘But I would not wish to deprive you of it’
Janelle shook her head in disgust at his response. ‘He has no idea what you are giving him,’ she informed her husband. ‘He does not even know what a cramp ring is.’
Deblunville looked surprised. ‘I thought everyone knew that. They are rings made from the metal handles of coffins. It is common knowledge that such rings prevent cramps.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had not been party to this generally accepted fact, and was now rather repelled by the heavy object that lay in his hand. ‘But you might need it yourselves.’
‘There were four handles on my last wife’s coffin,’ said Deblunville cheerfully, ‘so I had four rings made. One for me, one for Janelle, one for the boy and one for you.’
Bartholomew thought quickly. ‘But you may have other children after this one. You should keep this for them.’
‘There will be other coffins before they come along,’ said Deblunville generously. Janelle shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘Do not worry about us, Doctor.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing he was stuck with it, whether he wanted it or not. He put it in his medicine bag, and turned to Michael. ‘We should go before Tuddenham thinks we are bartering for the living of Burgh church, as well as Grundisburgh’s.’
They took their leave to rejoin Tuddenham, who turned to Grosnold with relief when he saw his guests emerge unharmed. Meanwhile, Hamon was sullen, sitting astride his horse, and casting resentful glances to the rampart where Janelle had stood.
‘So,’ said Tuddenham as the scholars approached. ‘You have seen Deblunville alive and well, and shamelessly ignoring the wishes of his neighbours regarding his marriage with Janelle. Whoever you saw hanged was not him, and so we will say no more about this unpleasant business.’
‘What did they tell you about their union?’ asked Walter Wauncy, walking with Michael as he went to collect his horse. ‘Did they tell you why they saw fit to antagonise their two most powerful neighbours and wed?’
‘They did not need to,’ said Michael. ‘It seemed to me that they had a liking for each other. And Janelle is a determined lady – I imagine she usually gets what she wants, and she wanted Deblunville. The pregnancy merely hastened matters.’
As they rode, Tuddenham and Grosnold regaled Bartholomew and Michael with a further list of grievances suffered at the hand of Deblunville, while Hamon lagged behind with the archers. By the time Hamon peeled off to return to Peche Hall, the sun was beginning to dip, sending long evening rays across the fields, and deepening the shadows under the trees.
The following day was as lovely as the previous one, with pink rose fading to pale blue as the sky lightened. The Michaelhouse scholars began work on the advowson in earnest, now that Tuddenham had shown Deblunville to be alive and well – and a missing hanged man of unknown identity was, after all, none of their business.
Tuddenham ordered a table to be moved near a window, and then threw open the shutters so that light flooded into
the shady interior of the main hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when box after box of documents was brought for their perusal, his hopes of a short stay at Grundisburgh quickly evaporating when he saw the amount of work that drafting the deed would entail.
Wauncy, who had an interest in his lord’s affairs that far exceeded the pastoral, arrived to help, and Bartholomew watched his bony fingers pick through the writs like a demon selecting souls to torment. While Alcote, who had placed himself in charge, assessed the more important items with Michael, Bartholomew and William were relegated to determining who owned different parts of the church at varying points of its history – a tedious and complex business that did not interest Bartholomew in the slightest. The students fared worse still, and did nothing but run silly errands for Alcote or sharpen his pens – although Bartholomew was relieved that Deynman was kept well away from anything important.
At noon, trestle tables were assembled for the midday meal, which comprised bean stew, barley bread and strong ale. Tuddenham’s neighbour from Otley, Robert Grosnold, joined them, listing the disadvantages to himself of Janelle’s marriage in a voice sufficiently loud to prevent all other conversation. He wore a black cotte and matching hose, so that Bartholomew began to wonder whether his entire wardrobe was that colour. After the meal, Grosnold and Tuddenham retired to the solar to indulge in further defamation of Deblunville’s character with Wauncy, while the Michaelhouse scholars returned to the advowson.
A little later, when Bartholomew was numb with boredom, Isilia came to inform them that it was almost time for the feast that marked the end of the Pentecost Fair, and invited them to attend. Alcote hesitated, eyeing the formidable pile of documents that still required his attention, but Michael had flung down his pen and was rubbing his hands in
greedy glee before the others could do more than blink their tired eyes.
Tuddenham was not pleased that his wife wanted to take the scholars away from his advowson, but accepted that he could not withdraw the invitation once it had been extended. Mounting a sturdy horse, he led the way along the woodland path that led from Wergen Hall to Grundisburgh village, with Grosnold riding behind; Isilia, Dame Eva, Wauncy and Alcote in a small cart; and William, Michael and Bartholomew bringing up the rear with the students.
When they arrived at the village green, people were sitting in groups on the grass talking in low, resentful voices. Because Tuddenham had been griping with Grosnold about Deblunville, he was late to arrive for the feast, and the villagers were not happy. Lined up under the trees, and defended by three nervous men with drawn swords, were the trestle tables, once again laden with food – platters of meat and fruit, a huge cheese, waist-high baskets of bread and a cauldron of steaming broth. Bartholomew was impressed, but Michael shook his head dolefully, claiming that many people would still be hungry at the end of the day.
‘But there is enough here to feed King Edward’s army,’ objected Bartholomew.
Michael regarded it critically. ‘There are two hundred people in Grundisburgh, so this food will not go far. It seems to me that the villagers did a good deal better two days ago, when they provided their own feast.’
In the centre of the green, Grundisburgh’s children had been herded into a reluctant group to sing songs, while a group of men were engaged in a half-hearted tug of war over one of the fords, all of them more interested in the guarded food than in any other activities. Meanwhile, a baby on the opposite side of the green shrieked in delight as an adult in an amber cotte tossed him into the air and caught him again. The shriek turned to a startled howl when the man’s
second attempt was not so successful, and the baby fell to the ground. Women rushed to soothe the resulting screams of outrage and shock; the clumsy man slunk away quickly.
‘I should return home,’ said Grosnold, surveying the scene critically. ‘My steward is presiding over Otley’s feast, but he is overly indulgent. Last year there were two rapes and a murder because I left him in charge.’
‘And you think Cambridge seethes with unrest,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew.
‘We will discuss this shameful matter of Janelle’s marriage again tomorrow,’ said Tuddenham to his neighbour. ‘I will visit you in the morning.’
The black knight nodded and, jamming a hat on his head, he spurred his horse across the village green. Obediently it thundered forward, causing people to scramble out of the way of its pounding hooves. Women screamed, and there was a huge crash as it knocked over one of the tables, sending hard-boiled eggs and bread bouncing across the ground. Bartholomew watched aghast, and looked at Tuddenham, expecting to see some anger at the cavalier manner in which his neighbour treated his villagers.
‘Fine beast that,’ said Tuddenham, observing it with an experienced eye as it ploughed through a small group of nuns. ‘Grosnold certainly knows his horses!’
He strode to the canopied bench that had been set up for his family, and clapped his hands together. There was an instant, anticipatory hush among the people.
‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the surviving trestle tables. ‘It is my privilege, as lord of the manor, to provide this feast to mark the end of our Pentecost Fair.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether Tuddenham intended to say anything else, and it was irrelevant anyway. What happened next could only be described as a stampede. People leapt to their feet, and dashed to the tables in a solid mass of bodies. Hands reached, snatched and grabbed, and the mountains
of food were reduced to molehills within moments. Children foraged desperately on the ground among the milling feet for the scraps that had been missed, while the old and the slow did not stand a chance. Bartholomew ducked backward to avoid a three-way fist fight that broke out over some kind of pie, while William only just managed to escape being drenched by the vat of broth that toppled over during the affray.
To one side, someone was broaching barrels of ale. The sweet smell of the fermented drink mingled with wet grass, as people jostled and shoved to try to reach it. Bartholomew saw there was not a villager in the seething crowd who had not brought some kind of drinking vessel, although there were many who would not see them filled. The ground seemed to be receiving most of it.
‘My God!’ breathed Alcote, standing next to Bartholomew and watching in horror. ‘I have seen better manners in a pack of animals.’
‘That went well,’ said Tuddenham, rubbing his hands, and nodding towards the empty tables. ‘The villagers do so enjoy this particular festival. It is always a raging success.’
‘Did you manage to grab anything?’ Michael asked Bartholomew as they walked away. ‘I got a handful of meat and three eggs.’
‘You did well, then,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised that the monk had emerged from the mêlée with something, but astonished that he should enter it in the first place. ‘I did not even try. It was all over before I realised it had started.’
‘It was rather sudden,’ agreed Michael. ‘You can have one of my eggs. Or maybe you can ask someone to swap something edible for that bit of coffin in your pocket. Cramp ring, indeed! This place is most odd, Matt. The sooner we return to the normality of Cambridge, the better. There, at least, your patients usually pay you with something practical.’
Bartholomew peeled the hard-boiled egg as they walked,
appreciating the fact that Michael, who had eaten very little all day, was being unusually generous in sharing his spoils. ‘This business with the hanged corpse is odd. I suppose we shall never know what all that was about.’
Michael shook his head, his mouth full of roast lamb. ‘Some thief stole Deblunville’s clothes, and was probably mistaken for him by one of his many enemies. I suspect we interrupted the killer, who then waited until we had gone, crept out and spirited the corpse away, so that no one could investigate further.’
Bartholomew thought about it. ‘But the man who died was quite large. How could he have been mistaken for Deblunville, who is small? It is not as if the attack took place in the middle of the night.’
Michael waved a piece of meat dismissively. ‘I doubt these lords of the manor do their dirty work themselves. They probably hired some louts to do it for them – louts who did not know Deblunville personally.’
‘But that explanation assumes that the lords gave the killers a description of Deblunville’s clothes, and Deblunville himself told us they were not ones he wore very often,’ said Bartholomew, finishing the egg, and wishing Michael would share his meat.
‘Well, as you said yourself, we will probably never know the answer to all this, so it is best you put it from your mind.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, and sat on the low wall that encircled the pleasant garden of the Dog, the inn that looked across the village green. Michael lounged next to him, finishing his meat and holding forth about the accuracy of his prediction that the food provided for the Fair’s grand finale was inadequate to feed the whole village.