‘We must consider this debate tonight,’ said Father William the following morning as he, Michael and Bartholomew sat in the Half Moon. ‘We must put on our best performance.’
Bartholomew sighed heavily, reluctant to indulge Tuddenham in his whim when he knew the villagers would not be in the slightest bit interested in listening to an academic debate of the kind held daily in the Universities. Alcote had been keen to take part, but Tuddenham had taken very seriously Michael’s suggestion that this might delay the completion of the advowson, and the fussy scholar was virtually a prisoner in Wergen Hall, only allowed out when it was so late that everyone else had gone to bed.
Wauncy had returned from Ipswich the day before with copies of the documents Alcote had said he needed, but it had not taken Bartholomew long to sort through them and see that they were mostly irrelevant. Alcote did not seem overly surprised, leaving Bartholomew to wonder whether he had dispatched Wauncy to Ipswich and suggested that Bartholomew and Michael investigate Unwin’s death purely so that he could work on the advowson alone. If that were true, then Bartholomew suspected Alcote’s motives had nothing to do with finding Unwin’s killer, and a good deal to do with what he could gain personally from rummaging unsupervised through Tuddenham’s business transactions.
The previous evening, Alcote had become even more smug and self-important than usual – a remarkable feat in itself – and Bartholomew had felt his suspicions were justified. In the darkness of the bedchamber, the Senior Fellow had talked deep into the night about how only a man of his intellectual calibre could unravel the confused chaos of Tuddenham’s personal affairs, and the physician had been relieved to escape to take his turn at the vigil for Unwin in the church.
‘Right then,’ said Michael rubbing his hands enthusiastically and beaming at Bartholomew and William. ‘I shall preside over the debate, and you two can present the opposing arguments. The question we shall consider will be “Let us enquire whether the Earth rotates”.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘Not again! We have debated that at least six times this year already. What about something more interesting, such as whether the cosmos is created of concentric spheres as Aristotle suggests in his Physica and De Caelo, or eccentric and epicyclic ones such as are described in Ptolemy’s Almagest?
Michael and William exchanged weary looks. ‘This is supposed to be an entertaining and edifying experience for all concerned, Matt, not something to be endured,’ said Michael. ‘Hearing you tie everyone else up in logical knots over issues of geometry that the rest of us never knew existed is not most people’s idea of fun.’
‘And especially not mine,’ growled William. ‘We should use this occasion to enlighten the audience, and should therefore consider a religious question. What about “Let us enquire whether God created the heavens or the Earth first”?’
‘How about “Let us enquire whether God is able to create more than one world”?’ asked Bartholomew innocently, knowing it would send the Franciscan into a frenzy of moral outrage. He was not mistaken.
‘That is a heretical notion, Matthew! Article 35 of the Condemnation of 1277 sought to eradicate discussion of such vile notions as the limitations of God’s power.’
‘You mean Article 34, and it was nullified thirty years ago,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It is no longer considered heresy. Article 35, of course, says that God cannot have created man from nothing. We could debate that if you prefer, Father? Either would make for a lively discussion.’
‘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!’
‘Consider the story of Joshua,’ said Michael. ‘God made the sun and the moon stand still at the battle of Gibeon, so that the Amorites could be defeated. But it would have been a lot easier to halt the Earth than to halt every other celestial body in the sky, and so it must be concluded that it was the rotating Earth God stopped in order to lengthen the day of the battle, not the heavens.’
‘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.’
‘That is because there is very little that is controversial concerning geometry,’ said William disdainfully. ‘And if there were, only men who favour the sciences like you would understand it. I am talking about your beliefs in medicine and theology, which have caused people to question whether you are in league with the Devil.’
‘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. ‘I
t 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.
Tuddenham, taking a respite from the villagers he had been questioning about the death of Unwin, stood behind him and peered over his shoulder until, exasperated, Alcote dismissed them all from his presence, promising to recall them should the impossible happen and he should need their advice. Relieved, Bartholomew and Michael left, quickly slipping away while William’s attention was elsewhere lest the Franciscan should decide to spend the rest of the day trying to impress Michael with his interrogatory skills.
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.’
‘But you do not object to the company of women, do you?’ asked Isilia of Barthololomew, eyes glinting with merriment as she saw him blush. ‘I hear you and that young Deynman are the only men in Michaelhouse’s deputation who have not sworn vows of chastity.’
‘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.’
Siric nodded, although his expression implied he did not believe a sermon by Wauncy would do much good. ‘Eltisley is looking for you,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘He has brewed a substance that he says will cure warts, and he wants you to taste it. He is coming this way, carrying it in a bucket.’
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.
The monk was still in the Dog. Feeling magnanimous after several cups of strong claret, he had invited William to accompany him to speak again to the people who lived opposite the church about Unwin’s death, hoping that one of them might have remembered something new. I
t was not long before Michael appreciated more than ever Bartholomew’s easy and intelligent companionship, and he had almost came to blows with William regarding the degree of coercion that could and could not be applied when questioning innocent bystanders. After half a dozen such encounters, he threw up his hands in despair and left William to his own devices. The rest of his day was spent in the peaceful garden of the Dog enjoying the far more congenial company of the landlord, who had won the monk’s heart by requesting his expert opinion on various pastries.
‘The apple is superior to the raisin,’ he announced authoritatively, wiping greasy fingers on his small piece of linen. The linen had evidently seen a good deal of use that day, and was looking grubby and rumpled. Almost as if he sensed Bartholomew’s observation, the landlord presented Michael with a new piece, embroidered around the edges and made of finest quality white cloth. It was also much larger than the old one, and therefore a more suitable size for a glutton like Michael.
‘A gift to show my gratitude for your advice on my recipes,’ said the landlord solemnly.
Michael inclined his head graciously, and accepted it, dabbing delicately at his sticky lips.
‘Norys predicted that someone would give you a present,’ said Bartholomew, sitting next to him and taking a slice of something containing dates, which Michael had somehow missed.
Michael’s face creased in annoyance. ‘I was perfectly happy until you mentioned that vile name. Can we not talk of more pleasant things? Like boiled cream custard – a delicious combination of thick cream, egg yolks and butter, flavoured with sugar and saffron, presented to me by my good friend the innkeeper here. Try some. Oh! There seems to be none left’
‘We have not really discussed the man Norys saw running from the church the afternoon Unwin died,’ said Bartholomew, taking a long draught from Michael’s pot of ale. He was grateful to sit in the shade for a while, before the debate started. Obligingly, the landlord brought more food – chicken in almonds, and some buttered cabbage that Michael regarded as though it were poisonous.
A Wicked Deed Page 20
