A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘When was the last time you could say, with absolute certainty, that these things were in your possession?’

  Deblunville shrugged. ‘I really do not know. I missed the doublet when I went to church last Sunday. I wanted to wear it so that I could keep this one clean for my wedding. Before that, I could not say when I last saw it. The same goes for the dagger.’

  ‘And you have no idea why a man wearing your clothes and knife should be hanged on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner?’ queried Michael.

  Deblunville shrugged again. ‘None at all. I can give you a list of a dozen men – all lords of manors and their henchmen – who would dearly love to see me dead. The only thing I can suggest is that someone stole my belongings and was rash enough to wear them. He was then mistaken for me and paid the price.’

  ‘For a man who has so many enemies, including one who may well believe he has killed you, you seem remarkably calm about all this,’ observed Michael.

  Deblunville raised his eyebrows. ‘What else can I do? I am not a man to skulk in his house like a frightened cat, and there is nothing I can do about the way my neighbours feel about me. All I can do is go about my business, and ensure I never travel anywhere alone or unarmed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Michael, preparing to leave. ‘Please accept my congratulations once more. I am delighted to find you not a corpse but a bridegroom.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ said Deblunville. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You are a physician?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I do not conduct astrological consultations,’ he added quickly, before he was invited to provide a horoscope for the bridal couple.

  Deblunville looked taken aback. ‘That is a peculiar thing for a physician to say. Your colleagues are usually desperate to get patients alone for an expensive afternoon with their charts.’

  ‘Well, I am not,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

  ‘No matter,’ said Deblunville. ‘I had a fairly lengthy consultation last week with Master Stoate, Grundisburgh’s physician. I needed to know whether yesterday was a good time to marry, and Stoate assured me it was, because Jupiter is ascendant. He seems to have been correct.’

  ‘But, more importantly, yesterday was convenient for me,’ Janelle pointed out. ‘It would not have mattered whether Jupiter had dropped out of the sky, you still would have wed me then.’

  Bartholomew gazed at her with open admiration. Here was a woman after his own heart, who cared not a fig for the mysterious movements of the heavenly planets, and was certainly not prepared to allow them to rule her life.

  ‘Do you need my colleague’s services for anything?’ asked Michael. ‘If not, we had better return to Tuddenham before he tries to attack you. He is becoming increasingly agitated, and I do not want our discussion to jeopardise the advowson.’

  ‘I am sure you do not,’ said Deblunville, winking at the monk. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Janelle is with child, and she has been feeling sick in the mornings. Stoate said the feeling would pass when Jupiter became ascendant over Mars, but he miscalculated. She is not feeling better at all.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The sickness?’ Deblunville shrugged. ‘Two months.’

  ‘About three weeks,’Janelle corrected.

  ‘Well, it seems like two months,’ grumbled Deblunville.

  ‘And when did you know you were pregnant?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Janelle shot an imperious glance at Michael, and declined to answer until the monk had sauntered out of hearing, pretending to inspect the revetted walls of the embankment. ‘I noticed … matters were not all they should be at the beginning of Lent.’

  ‘That was when I first tried to marry her,’ announced Deblunville. ‘I thought we might avoid a scandal if we did it straight away. Unfortunately, Tuddenham put an end to that, although how he, of all people, discovered Janelle was pregnant, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Mother Goodman, probably,’ said Janelle carelessly. She explained to Bartholomew. ‘She is the only midwife in these parts, and not much escapes her eagle eyes. She has an uncanny talent for spotting a pregnancy – sometimes she knows it before the mother herself.’

  ‘She sounds as if she knows her business.’

  ‘She does,’ said Janelle, ‘but she is fiercely loyal to Tuddenham, and I cannot call on her now that I have married Roland. She might slip me some wormwood, and that would be the end of the child.’

  ‘You had better arrange to have it in Ipswich, then,’ said Bartholomew. He considered, thinking that a woman of her age might well have had children from a previous liaison. ‘This will be your first child, will it?’

  ‘Of course it will!’ exploded Deblunville angrily. ‘We were only wed yesterday.’

  ‘Being unmarried does not prevent women from having babies,’ retorted Bartholomew curtly. ‘Unfortunately for most people, including you it seems, it does not work that way.’

  Deblunville drew breath to argue, but then conceded the point. ‘The boy will be Janelle’s first child. We will name him Roland, after me.’

  ‘And what if it is a girl?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They make appearances from time to time, too, you know.’

  Deblunville looked as though that thought had not crossed his mind.

  ‘It will not be a girl,’ said Janelle firmly. ‘I have already prayed to St Margaret of Antioch about that, and she will see I have what I want.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether even a saint would have the audacity to turn a deaf ear to the forceful requests of an expectant mother like Janelle. ‘But about this sickness. Did Master Stoate prescribe anything for you?’

  She nodded. ‘He said I was of a choleric disposition, and so I should drink poppy juice and pennyroyal three times a day for as long as Mars remained ascendant, and then switch to betony in mint water when Jupiter became ascendant.’

  Bartholomew tried not to show his alarm. Betony and pennyroyal were herbs often used to end unwanted pregnancies, and if Janelle had been taking Stoate’s concoction three times a day, she was lucky not to have lost the child already.

  ‘I would recommend you do not take any more of that,’ he said carefully. ‘Try cumin in milk, if you like, but the feeling will pass soon anyway.’ Although whether Jupiter or Mars was ascendant had nothing to do with it, he thought to himself. All midwives knew that queasiness in the mornings eased off by the end of the third month of pregnancy, and whatever planet happened to be dominant in the sky made not the slightest bit of difference.

  ‘I should really examine you,’ he said. ‘To make certain there is nothing other than the child that is making you ill.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Deblunville uneasily. ‘Examine her with what?’

  ‘I will check the rate of her pulse, test for areas of tenderness around her chest and stomach, and perhaps inspect her urine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing to be alarmed about.’

  ‘Is that what they do in Cambridge, then?’ asked Deblunville doubtfully. ‘I was told that was an odd part of the country. All right, very well, then. Carry on. Do what you will.’

  ‘Here?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at Deblunville’s archers, who had Tuddenham fixed in their sights, and at Michael, who was leaning against the revetment, humming softly to himself.

  ‘Why? What is wrong with here?’ demanded Deblunville.

  ‘I usually conduct these examinations somewhere a little more private,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not usually with half the male members of the household watching.’

  ‘You mean you want my wife to go into some chamber alone with you?’ asked Deblunville, aghast. ‘What kind of physician are you?’

  ‘Just let me measure her pulse rate, then,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s barely concealed amusement He reached out and grabbed Janelle’s wrist, trying to block out Deblunville’s nervous exhortations to be careful, so that he could count the steady beat in her hand. It was the contention of the Greek physician Galen that subtle variations in pul
se rates revealed a great deal about a person’s health. Janelle’s was rather fast for a person of her size, so he made her sit on the ground while he felt it again.

  After a while, during which Deblunville sighed and paced impatiently, and Bartholomew’s knees grew cramped from crouching, the physician stood. He was not entirely satisfied that all was as it should be, but Janelle claimed there was nothing wrong except the sickness and she was becoming restless with his ministrations.

  ‘Grind cumin leaves, and mix them in milk sweetened with honey. It sounds unpleasant, but it will not taste as bad as the concoctions Stoate prescribed. Perhaps someone could read to you while you drink it.’

  ‘Read?’ asked Janelle, exchanging a dubious look with her husband. ‘Read what, exactly?’

  ‘Anything you like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A book of hours or some poetry. Anything.’

  ‘We have a list of recipes somewhere,’ said Deblunville, thinking hard. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Well, no, not really,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘The object is to take her mind off her sickness, not to make her feel worse by reciting lists of food.’

  ‘I have the legal documents pertaining to my ownership of the manor,’ said Deblunville, scratching his head. ‘How about them?’

  ‘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.’