A Wicked Deed (23 page)

‘It might be a little too lively,’ said Michael hastily, intervening before the affronted friar put to use on his friend some of the skills he had learned with the Inquisition. ‘We do not want the good people of Grundisburgh thinking University scholars are a crowd of belligerent fanatics.’

‘Why not?’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It is not so far from the truth.’

‘I am the presiding master, and I will decide what we will discuss,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘And I have decided we will debate the issue of whether the Earth rotates.’

‘I should be the presiding master,’ said William, turning on him. ‘I am more senior than you.’

‘You are better at arguing a case than at mediating and summing up,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘We should use our skills to their best advantage, so that we can impress the audience with our dazzling logic and verbal acrobatics.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I think the villagers would rather spend the night in a tavern, or watch Cynric give a display of archery.’

‘What people want is not always what is best for their souls,’ said William in a superior manner. ‘They will learn a great deal from hearing our intellectual sparring.’

‘All they will learn is that they would have enjoyed themselves better elsewhere,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will be bored to tears.’

‘Father William can argue that the Earth does not rotate, and you can argue that it does,’ said Michael, ignoring the physician’s grumbling.

‘Why do I always have to argue the absurd positions?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Of course the Earth does not rotate!’

‘It is easier to jump off the church tower than to walk down the stairs,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But easier does not mean better. And anyway, it says God ordered the sun and the moon to stand still, not the Earth. If He had ordered the Earth to stop rotating, the story would have said so.’

‘Are you questioning the veracity of our Holy Scriptures?’ demanded William looking from one to the other, sensing heresy, but not quite sure where, or how, or from whom.

‘Of course not,’ said Michael. ‘But it must have been the Earth God halted at the battle of Gibeon. Can you imagine how fast the sun and the moon would be moving if they are revolving around us? It defies imagination, and they would be very difficult to stop.’

‘I do not think economy of effort is something the Creator of the Universe needs to take into consideration when He is intervening in human affairs, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, making Michael smile with his imitation of William’s dour voice. ‘And so that is not a valid argument.’

‘It is odd that Matthew is presenting a traditional viewpoint, while you are extolling the virtues of a subversive one, Brother,’ said William, oblivious to the fact that he had been parodied. ‘It is normally the other way around, and it is he who favours the absurd and the heretical.’

‘That is untrue,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Many of my beliefs are very traditional – especially in relation to geometry.’

‘Like using all the knowledge and skills at my disposal to try to save a patient’s life, you mean?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

‘That among other things,’ said William, unaware of the irony in Bartholomew’s voice. ‘It is not always God’s will that a person should be saved, Matthew. Sometimes, God – or the Devil – has called a person to his side, and you should not attempt to prevent that person from going.’

‘So, if my patients are being called by the Devil, are you suggesting I bend to his will and let him take them?’

‘No,’ said William stiffly. ‘If they are being called by the Devil you should attempt to snatch them back.’

‘And how am I supposed to know whether they are being called by God or snatched by the Devil?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not usually possible to tell.’

‘You could ask,’ said William coldly.

‘Ask the Devil?’ queried Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘Are you instructing me to commune with the Devil, Father?’

‘Of course not!’ temporised William. ‘But there are ways to deal with such situations.’

‘Such as what?’ persisted Bartholomew.

‘Enough, Matt,’ said Michael, trying to hide his amusement. ‘We can save all this for the debate tonight. But now, we should at least offer to help Alcote.’

Alcote, however, did not want their help. He was seated at the large table in Wergen Hall, surrounded by Tuddenham’s scrolls and writs. A large dish of raisins stood near his elbow, and, judging from the frequency with which his fingers reached for them, Bartholomew saw he might well be in need of another cure for stomach ache that night.

To one side of Wergen Hall was a pleasant bower and Isilia, who was sitting there with Dame Eva, beckoned them over. It was a pretty place, surrounded by a tall hazel-weave fence to keep animals out. Inside was a tiny herb garden and an orchard of gnarled apple and pear trees. In the shade of one tree, a long turf bench had been built, and here the ladies sat, sewing and chatting in air that was rich with the aroma of basil, sage, thyme, rosemary and lavender.

‘How is my husband’s advowson proceeding?’ asked Isilia, as they approached. She gestured that they were to sit next to her.

‘Well enough, I think,’ said Michael, leaning back on the bench and stretching his long, fat legs in front of him. ‘Master Alcote is working on it, while Matt and I are trying to discover who killed Unwin. You should ask Alcote if you want to know exactly how the deed is progressing.’

‘I did,’ said Isilia, with a grimace. ‘But he could not bring himself even to look at me, let alone answer my question. He does not like me, although I cannot think what I have done to offend him.’

‘It is nothing personal,’ said Michael. ‘Roger is uncomfortable in the presence of women, and avoids them whenever he can.’

‘Why?’ asked Dame Eva curiously.

Michael shrugged. ‘He is just a peculiar man. Take no notice of him.’

‘Well,’ began Bartholomew, uncertain how to form a reply – although Isilia was clearly expecting one.

‘He is quite free to enjoy a woman’s charms,’ said Michael. ‘And enjoy them he certainly does. Why, in Cambridge—’

‘Here comes Siric,’ said Bartholomew quickly, pointing out Tuddenham’s steward walking toward them. ‘Perhaps he has news of Unwin’s killer.’

But the steward shook his head as he leaned wearily against one of the apple trees. ‘It is almost as if the friar never existed,’ he said despondently. ‘No one knows anything. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. All we have is Eltisley saying he spotted Sir Robert Grosnold talking to Unwin before he died – but it is never wise to believe anything that lunatic claims – and Master Stoate’s observation of a cloaked figure running from the church. It is almost certain the man Stoate saw was the killer, but he is the only one with the courage to admit to what he saw. Everyone else is too afraid.’

‘Afraid of what?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Padfoot,’ said Siric. ‘There is a belief among the villagers that Padfoot will claim them if they help us uncover the person he used as his instrument to take Unwin.’

‘So, they are afraid of ghosts,’ said Michael in disgust.

‘Who is not?’ asked Dame Eva. ‘They are not things people can defend themselves against.’

‘True,’ agreed Siric. ‘But Sir Thomas will have this killer, whether the villagers help us or not. You will see.’

‘Good,’ said Isilia. ‘I will suggest that Wauncy gives a sermon on the subject saying that failing to pass you information that will catch a priest-slayer will mean damnation for certain.’

Isilia smiled mischievously. ‘I will tell you the back way to the village so that you can avoid him. Eltisley’s cures for warts are infamous, and many villagers use them as weed-killers and to clear blocked drains. They also cure warts, but I would not recommend that you taste them.’

Bartholomew and Michael left immediately. Following her directions they walked along a pathway that led through pleasant groves of birch and elder, where birds sang sweetly and bees buzzed loudly in the still, warm air.

Michael chuckled. ‘By going this way we have managed to lose William, too. I do not like him breathing down my neck while I am asking people questions. So, when we reach Grundisburgh, I shall visit the Dog – named, would you believe, after your spectral hound – and conduct my enquiries from there. That wretched Franciscan is unlikely to look for me in a tavern.’

‘Never underestimate the Inquisition, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And anyway, you might be better off having him where you can see him.’

Later, when the fields were bathed in bright gold light, Warin de Stoate came to invite Bartholomew to ride with him to a nearby leper hospital. Bartholomew accepted readily, and spent a happy afternoon discussing medicine with a man who, even if he did not understand or agree with all that was said, was at least interested. Rashly believing that such an opportunity might be beneficial to Deynman’s medical studies, Stoate extended the invitation to the student, dismissing Bartholomew’s words of caution with a magnanimity he was later to regret.

While Stoate and Bartholomew reviewed the lepers’ symptoms with the friar who ran the hospital, Deynman slipped away and decided to experiment with a theory of his own: namely that leprosy could be cured with a poultice made from garlic, nettles and the hair of a stallion. By the time the unpleasant aroma had drifted to where Stoate and Bartholomew sat talking with Father Peter, Stoate’s horse had been relieved of its tail (Bartholomew’s and Deynman’s mounts were exempted on the grounds that they were mares). Fortunately, none of the lepers had been foolish enough to allow Deynman to try his stew on their skin, and Father Peter managed to knot a bunch of grass around what remained of the stallion’s tail, thus enabling the bereft animal to flick away the flies that plagued it. Stoate, however, was not amused, and did not appreciate his horse being the object of mirth from the people they passed on the road.

By the time Bartholomew had placated Stoate by listening with rapt attention to his odd theories on the bloody flux, he was hot, tired and irritable, and certainly not in the mood to participate in a debate that evening. Sensing that a quick disappearance might be prudent, Deynman slunk off to seek out Horsey as soon as they arrived in Grundisburgh, while Stoate went to visit Eltisley, to see if a replacement tail for the stallion could be devised that would look less like the handful of grass that had been fastened to it. Bartholomew went to find Michael.