‘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.’
In the centre of the green, Grundisburgh’s children had been herded into a reluctant group to sing songs, while a group of men were engaged in a half-hearted tug of war over one of the fords, all of them more interested in the guarded food than in any other activities. Meanwhile, a baby on the opposite side of the green shrieked in delight as an adult in an amber cotte tossed him into the air and caught him again. The shriek turned to a startled howl when the man’s second attempt was not so successful, and the baby fell to the ground. Women rushed to soothe the resulting screams of outrage and shock; the clumsy man slunk away quickly.
‘I should return home,’ said Grosnold, surveying the scene critically. ‘My steward is presiding over Otley’s feast, but he is overly indulgent. Last year there were two rapes and a murder because I left him in charge.’
‘And you think Cambridge seethes with unrest,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew.
‘We will discuss this shameful matter of Janelle’s marriage again tomorrow,’ said Tuddenham to his neighbour. ‘I will visit you in the morning.’
The black knight nodded and, jamming a hat on his head, he spurred his horse across the village green. Obediently it thundered forward, causing people to scramble out of the way of its pounding hooves. Women screamed, and there was a huge crash as it knocked over one of the tables, sending hard-boiled eggs and bread bouncing across the ground. Bartholomew watched aghast, and looked at Tuddenham, expecting to see some anger at the cavalier manner in which his neighbour treated his villagers.
‘Fine beast that,’ said Tuddenham, observing it with an experienced eye as it ploughed through a small group of nuns. ‘Grosnold certainly knows his horses!’
He strode to the canopied bench that had been set up for his family, and clapped his hands together. There was an instant, anticipatory hush among the people.
‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the surviving trestle tables. ‘It is my privilege, as lord of the manor, to provide this feast to mark the end of our Pentecost Fair.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether Tuddenham intended to say anything else, and it was irrelevant anyway. What happened next could only be described as a stampede. People leapt to their feet, and dashed to the tables in a solid mass of bodies. Hands reached, snatched and grabbed, and the mountains of food were reduced to molehills within moments. Children foraged desperately on the ground among the milling feet for the scraps that had been missed, while the old and the slow did not stand a chance. Bartholomew ducked backward to avoid a three-way fist fight that broke out over some kind of pie, while William only just managed to escape being drenched by the vat of broth that toppled over during the affray.
To one side, someone was broaching barrels of ale. The sweet smell of the fermented drink mingled with wet grass, as people jostled and shoved to try to reach it. Bartholomew saw there was not a villager in the seething crowd who had not brought some kind of drinking vessel, although there were many who would not see them filled. The ground seemed to be receiving most of it.
‘My God!’ breathed Alcote, standing next to Bartholomew and watching in horror. ‘I have seen better manners in a pack of animals.’
‘That went well,’ said Tuddenham, rubbing his hands, and nodding towards the empty tables. ‘The villagers do so enjoy this particular festival. It is always a raging success.’