‘This affair has an unsavoury feel to it,’ said Bartholomew, following him as he rode across the green. ‘It seems village life is not so different from the University – all petty feuds and enmity.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘I thought I was going to be bored in this rural desert, but matters are definitely looking up: we have three lords of the manor united against the fourth, who is an opportunist and who did away with his elderly wife; we have some curious folktale that the ladies believe has some relevance to this Deblunville’s demise – assuming it was Deblunville we found; and we have suspects galore as to who wants him dead.’
‘Just a moment, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘This is not Cambridge, and you have no legal authority to start probing around in all this. If one of these lords really has dispensed with a hated rival, you would be well advised to stay clear of the whole business.’
‘Where is your spirit of enquiry and thirst for the truth?’ asked Michael playfully. ‘Come on, Matt! This might prove interesting.’
‘That is not what the Master will think if you interfere with these people and return to Michaelhouse without the advowson,’ warned Bartholomew.
‘Tuddenham is a nobleman,’ said Michael. ‘He will not renege on his promise to give us his church simply because we are curious.’
‘He might consider doing exactly that if you start investigating a murder he may have committed, or that involves his neighbours or his nephew.’
‘So you believe we should start to draw up the deed tonight, then?’ said Michael, nodding thoughtfully. ‘That is prudent thinking, Matt. Once we have it, we can do what we like.’
‘That was not what I meant at all,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Anyway, if Grundisburgh is as seething with intrigue and murder as you seem to hope, then Michaelhouse should decline anything Tuddenham offers. We do not want the good name of the College besmirched by tainted gifts.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Michael. ‘Most gifts to the University are tainted in some way or another. No one gives out of the goodness of his heart, you know. There is always some catch.’
‘The advowson of Barrington church is ours, and that does not have any unpleasant catches,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael gave a short bark of laughter. ‘In that case, why do you think it took four years for Michaelhouse to get the grant executed once the licence had been issued? Negotiations, Matt! Surely you must have noticed that all the priests we have appointed have been personal friends of the Bishop of Ely, who just happened to decree its appropriation? Or did you consider that pure coincidence?’
Bartholomew had considered it pure coincidence, and the thought that some nepotistic mechanism was at work behind the scenes had never crossed his mind. ‘Well, the advowson of Cheadle, then,’ he said, thinking of the second of Michaelhouse’s four properties. ‘No friends of the Bishop have been appointed there.’
‘Indeed not,’ said Michael. ‘But some of the income generated by that transaction is “donated” to the Guild of Weavers, the leader of which pressed the lord of Cheadle manor to grant it to us in the first place.’
‘And Tittleshall?’ asked Bartholomew weakly. ‘Was that not a simple act of generosity made by a grateful student to his former College, as we are always informed on Founder’s Day?’
‘Of course not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘That was given to us because the said student, now a powerful lawyer in Westminster, tampered with one of the nuns at St Radegund’s Priory while he should have been reading his Corpus Juris Civilis. It was the price he had to pay the then Master of Michaelhouse not to make his misdeeds public.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted and disillusioned, as he often was when he talked to Michael about the affairs of the University and its Colleges.
‘The only one of our four advowsons that is straightforward is the one that grants us St Michael’s Church in Cambridge, given to us by our founder. But even that is not entirely without strings – we are obliged to say a set number of masses for his immortal soul each year, and you know what a nuisance that can be when we are busy.’
‘So why do you think Tuddenham is granting us Grundisburgh?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you believe it is to ensure the health of Isilia’s unborn child, as you asked him, or is there another reason – such as to atone for an incestuous relationship with his mother, or in anticipation of his murder of Deblunville?’
‘You have a nasty imagination, Matt,’ said Michael, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘But this advowson is important to us. It will make us the third richest College in Cambridge, with only King’s Hall and Clare above us. Would you sacrifice such power on mere principle?’
‘Yes, probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if Tuddenham has his own reasons for granting us the advowson, I would like to know what they are before we accept it. If some of his land is in dispute with his neighbour, this church might not be his to give.’
‘I checked that at St Edmundsbury Abbey,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I saw copies of documents proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that Tuddenham is the lawful recipient of the church tithes here. However, I did see deeds that indicate that his claim on the eastern side of his manor – his nephew’s land – is not entirely clear cut.’
Bartholomew shook his head in awe. ‘So that is why you spent so long closeted away with the Abbot. I should have known you were up to something. William was under the impression you were praying to atone for your greed at the inn the night before. I thought that sounded unlikely.’
‘I do not have time to waste on false confessions,’ said Michael loftily. ‘But you are right to ask what prompts Tuddenham to make this offer to Michaelhouse. He has no connection to the College, and it is a most generous gift. However, a country knight like Tuddenham will not best two of the finest legal minds in the country – mine and Alcote’s. Do not look astonished, Matt: Alcote is very astute when it comes to business matters. How do you think he has become so wealthy?’
‘So much for leaving intrigue and treachery in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh.
Michael nodded cheerfully. ‘I was beginning to think I had wasted my time with this journey. Now I hear you voicing your usual complaints about the deception and plotting that comes naturally to most people, and I am beginning to feel quite at home.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew flatly.
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The sun was hot and red as it sank over the horizon, and he was thirsty from drinking Tuddenham’s warm ale and strong wine. He dismounted, and went to a brook that bubbled along the side of the road for some water. It was clean and clear and tasted of river weed, quite different from the brown-coloured, peaty stuff he drank in Cambridge with its occasionally sulphurous taste that he preferred not to think about.
A blackbird sang sharply in the tree above his head, while another answered from further away. In the shadows, a kingfisher flitted brilliant blue as it dropped almost silently into the bubbling water and emerged in a flurry of droplets with a minnow in its beak. The wind hissed gently through the trees, twitching the leaves and bending the long grass and nettles that grew along the bank. It smelled sweet, flowers mingled with the earthy scent of rich earth.
It was peaceful by the stream, and Bartholomew did not feel inclined to leave it in order to go to the body of a man who had probably been murdered. He sat in the grass and waited for his horse to finish drinking, watching it take great mouthfuls of water with loud slurping sounds. The blackbird continued to call, while on the opposite side of the brook a bright male pheasant strutted and pranced, trying to attract the attentions of a dowdy hen.