A Wicked Deed (26 page)

‘Let us conclude,’ said Michael, sensing the whole affair might become acrimonious if allowed to drag on. He rubbed at a flabby chin. ‘It has been argued that the Earth does
not
rotate, because we would feel dizzy and we would all be after Mother Goodman for remedies for sick stomachs. It has also been argued that we do not need points of reference to know whether we are moving or not, because we just know.’

‘Right.’ Hamon nodded vigorously. ‘That makes sound sense. We just know.’

‘On the other hand, Master Eltisley demonstrated that an object thrown in the air does not fall to the Earth at the point from which it originated, thus proving that the Earth
is
spinning in a west-to-east direction.’

‘And it explains the seasons,’ added Eltisley, reluctant to let that one pass.

‘And the wind we feel is because the Earth is spinning,’ added Hamon. ‘Any changes in wind direction means that the Earth is spinning a different way.’

Bartholomew sighed in exasperation.

‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘Argued most intelligently, Sir Hamon.’ Hamon exchanged a smile of pride with his uncle, and Michael continued. ‘And so, weighing up both sides of the argument, as is my duty as presiding master, I can only conclude that the evidence is insufficient on either side to answer the question satisfactorily.’

There was silence in the room, and a number of mystified looks exchanged.

‘Now, just a minute,’ said Tuddenham indignantly. ‘There was plenty of evidence presented here for you to make up your mind. You are just trying to please everyone by calling it a draw.’

‘The point of a debate, Sir Thomas,’ said Michael, ‘is not to discover the definitive answer to a question, but to present the evidence, such as it is, and examine it logically, demonstrating the human ability to think and process information.’

‘You what?’ demanded the man with the pig. ‘Does the Earth spin or not? That is what we all want to know, not whether you can examine evidence loquaciously.’

There was a cheer from the audience at his eloquence, and he enjoyed the adulation of the people who stood around him.

‘Did I say “loquaciously” instead of “logically”?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, as the audience clapped and banged their feet on the floor. ‘I may have done, you know. I have seldom been less in control at a disputation than at this one. At least scholars generally keep to the rules.’

When the racket showed no sign of abating, he stood and raised his hands to quieten the excited villagers. ‘We will decide this democratically, by asking the audience which theory it thinks is correct,’ he yelled.

‘No!’ said Hamon, leaping to his feet and looking around at the assembled villagers. ‘We will not decide democratically. We will have a vote!’

‘I should have let you be presiding master, after all,’ muttered Michael to William, his words barely audible over the thunder of applause that met Hamon’s suggestion, while Bartholomew sat in Michael’s chair and laughed. ‘This is all quite beyond me.’

‘All those who think the Earth rotates, raise one hand,’ bellowed William, the only one with a voice that could be projected over the babble. Immediately, nearly all the hands in the room were waved at him. ‘I said raise
one
hand!’ thundered William. He made a sound of exasperation as most of them went back down again. ‘I meant one hand each, not one hand between all of you!’

‘Come on!’ cried Hamon, prowling around the room and grabbing the arms of those who were not voting. ‘What is wrong with you? All of you have felt the wind on your faces as the Earth moves. Think about that storm we had last autumn – that was the Earth speeding up.’

‘Now, all those who believe that the Earth is motionless, raise one hand,’ said William, once he had made a quick count. Bartholomew started to laugh again when he saw an equal number of hands raised, most of them from the people who had already voted the other way. Hamon leapt around the room slapping them down until he was certain his side had the majority, and grinned at Dame Eva triumphantly.

‘The Earth
does
spin,’ he announced. ‘You are wrong in thinking that it does not.’

She gave him a weary look, and hobbled from the room. Hamon led his supporters in a chorus of loud cheers, which quickly petered out when Tuddenham fixed them with an admonishing glare. As people began to disperse, Tuddenham sought out Michael.

‘So, that is how debates are held at the universities,’ he said. ‘Most intriguing, although I am a little surprised at its brutality of reason. I expected something a little more probing and subtle, not all this yelling and hurling of objects up to the ceiling.’

‘They vary,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘It really depends on the participants. Come to visit us in Michaelhouse, and I will take you to a real one.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ said Tuddenham, a little wistfully. ‘But thank you, Brother. I have not enjoyed an event as much since last year’s muck-spreading competition.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael.

He walked down the stairs, and found Eltisley laying out bread and ale for breakfast. The innkeeper smiled at Bartholomew and indicated that he should sit, but Bartholomew was not hungry and did not feel much like eating when he was about to bury Unwin. Alcote was already there, pale faced and heavy eyed from a night rendered restless by too many raisins.

‘That potion you gave me did not work,’ he complained to Bartholomew. ‘I still feel dreadful.’

Bartholomew felt Alcote’s forehead. It was cold and clammy, but Alcote was a cold and clammy person, and Bartholomew was not overly concerned. He imagined that the chief cause of Alcote’s continued ill health was because he was anxious about the advowson, and was working too hard to ingratiate himself with Tuddenham.

‘We have had more than our share of funerals this month,’ said Eltisley conversationally, as they waited for the others to arrive. The physician did not feel the landlord’s jovial tone was appropriate for such a discussion, particularly bearing in mind they were about to attend another.

‘So I understand,’ he said shortly, wishing Eltisley would go away.

‘First there was poor Alice Quy and then there was James Freeman,’ Eltisley continued happily, clattering about with his pewter plates. ‘I had to invent a special box for him, because otherwise all that blood would have damaged the parish coffin, and leaked over the church.’

‘Mother Goodman said yours leaked, too,’ said Bartholomew unkindly.

‘What happened to Alice Quy?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Mother Goodman says you gave her a potion for her childbirth fever. What was in it?’

‘Ah,’ said Eltisley, regarding Bartholomew with a hurt expression. ‘You think my potion hastened her end. I can assure you, Doctor, I gave her nothing that would cause her harm. It was a mild mixture of feverfew mixed with honeyed wine. Surely there can be nothing noxious in that?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And what was in that one you gave me on Monday night?’ demanded Alcote, holding his stomach for dramatic effect. ‘I am still suffering.’

‘I have already told you,’ said Eltisley, offended. ‘It was not my potion that made you ill – Tuddenham’s cook told me that you ate raisins all day, and too many of those are very bad for you. Anyway, my wife and I take a dose of my black potion nightly, and we are both well.’

Bartholomew could not imagine how.

‘James Freeman’s death was a shock to us all so soon after Alice Quy,’ continued Eltisley, shaking his head. ‘Poor Dame Eva found him when she went to collect Wergen Hall’s pork, and I heard her cries of shock. She is a sensible lady, but even she was shaken by what she saw – the butcher’s neck hacked with one of those great knives he used for chopping up animal carcasses. It was her suggestion that I build a special coffin because of all the blood. Next time, I will line the thing with pitch. Pitch is used to render boats watertight, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do know, although I hope there will not be a next time.’

Most of the villagers were waiting at the church to pay their last respects to Unwin. Bartholomew wondered whether they were there on Tuddenham’s orders, or whether they were as genuinely shocked by the murder as they claimed. Father William rattled through the requiem mass at a speed that had most of the villagers nodding appreciatively and Walter Wauncy’s eyes hard with envy. William was renowned for his fast masses in Cambridge, although he usually made up for them with excessively long sermons, during which he railed about heresy, making frequent reference to the lurid wall paintings in St Michael’s Church. There were no Judgement Day paintings in Grundisburgh, and William found little inspiration in the restful mural depicting St Margaret, whose timeless gaze watched over the assembly with a curiously sad smile.

As the requiem proceeded, Bartholomew, standing with his Michaelhouse colleagues in a line next to the coffin, looked at the villagers in the body of the church. Warin de Stoate was with some of his young friends at the back, gazing down at the floor and poking the earth with the toe of his boot. Eltisley was regarding the roof speculatively, and Bartholomew saw him raise an arm and measure something by squinting at his thumb with one eye. Wauncy would need to be on his guard if Eltisley had designs on improving what was already a perfectly functional ceiling.

Opposite the Tuddenhams were some specially invited guests. Grosnold sat in the best chair, his jet armour exchanged for a black cotte, hose and cloak. Next to him was a small man with a crooked spine and shabby clothes, who fidgeted throughout the mass as though sitting still was painful for him. Wauncy, his robes swinging about his skeletal form and his white face more than usually gaunt, looked like the Angel of Death in the gloom. He joined in the singing of a psalm with a voice so deep and resonant that it sent an unpleasant chill down Bartholomew’s spine. The physician sang louder so that he would not have to hear it, drawing curious glances from Michael and Alcote.

By the time the mass was over, the sky had clouded to a menacing grey. Bartholomew and Cynric lifted Unwin’s shrouded body from the parish coffin and lowered it gently into the gaping rectangular hole under the yew tree that had been prepared the day before. By the time they had finished, rain was beginning to fall in a misty pall. Drops pattered lightly on the now-empty coffin, making a dismal accompaniment to the drone of William’s prayers.

Eventually, it was over and the villagers began to drift away. There was work to be done in the fields and woods, and there were animals to be fed and turned out to graze. Stoate touched Bartholomew lightly on the elbow and offered his condolences again, following up with a shy invitation to visit an infirmary at Ipswich, which had something of a reputation for dealing with diseases of the lungs. Bartholomew thanked him, but even the prospect of learning new medicine could not rouse him from his sadness at the futility of Unwin’s death.

The man with the crooked spine, whom Bartholomew had noticed in the church, was talking to Tuddenham and Grosnold. The rain was now coming down hard, making Grosnold’s pate gleam even more than usual, and people were scurrying for cover.

‘John Bardolf,’ said Tuddenham briskly, introducing the small man to Bartholomew. ‘My neighbour from Clopton, whose daughter disobeyed me and married that scoundrel Deblunville.’

Bardolf came to stand next to Bartholomew, who was still watching Cynric methodically shovelling, neither hurried nor impeded by the sheeting rain.

‘I was sorry to hear about this,’ said Bardolf, nodding down at the grave. ‘I had hoped that young man might heal the rifts that are widening between our manors.’

‘Between yours and Tuddenham’s?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes. And between Deblunville’s and Hamon’s, and Deblunville’s and Grosnold’s, and Grosnold’s and mine. And so on.’

‘I had the impression that everyone was united against Deblunville,’ said Bartholomew.

‘At the moment,’ said Bardolf, ‘although that will change if Grosnold dams his stream again this summer, or sparks from my wheat stubble ignite Tuddenham’s ripening crops. And the parish priests are just as bad: they fight with just as much viciousness as we do.’

‘The marriage of your daughter to Roland Deblunville should reduce some of the conflict,’ said Bartholomew.