Bartholomew saw Brother Michael raise his eyes heavenward, and then hurry to intervene before Alcote’s arrogant self-importance could have them escorted out of the village and thrown back on the perils of the Old Road for the night.
When Bartholomew looked behind him for Unwin, he was alarmed that the student-friar was nowhere to be seen. Leaving Michael to negotiate with the guard, he turned his horse and rode back the way he had come, straining his eyes in the darkness to try to see whether the Franciscan was still loitering on the track. There was no sign of him. Perplexed, he returned to the others, wondering whether the terrifying notion of becoming a parish priest had finally caused Unwin to flee once and for all.
With some relief, he eventually spotted Unwin emerging from one of the outbuildings in the castle bailey. He was closely followed by a knight dressed entirely in black, whose bald head gleamed whitely in the gloom. The knight suddenly reached out and grabbed Unwin’s arm, so fiercely that the friar all but lost his balance, and whispered something in his ear to which the friar nodded. Bartholomew frowned, puzzled by the exchange. What was Unwin doing in the bailey talking to a knight? As far as he was aware, Unwin had never been to Suffolk before, and knew no one in the area – and he was certainly not the kind of man to go exploring alone.
‘What was that about?’ he asked curiously, as Unwin rejoined him.
Unwin shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, glancing behind him in a way that could only be described as furtive. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Explaining to the guard who we are,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar doubtfully, perplexed by his odd behaviour.
‘There is no need for that,’ came a booming voice, so close behind them that it made Unwin start backward and frighten his horse. It was the knight in black. ‘Use your wits, Ned: here are monks, friars and men in scholars’ tabards. It is obvious that these are the scholars from Cambridge – Sir Thomas Tuddenham has been expecting them over at Grundisburgh for the last three days.’
The guard acknowledged him with a sloppy salute, and gestured that the scholars were to pass into the village.
‘I am Sir Robert Grosnold, lord of Otley Manor,’ said the black knight grandly. He was powerfully built, with dark beady eyes and no neck, and his black leather armour gave him a rather sinister appearance, accentuating the whiteness of his hairless pate. He gestured to the stone house in the bailey. ‘This is Nether Hall, granted to me by the King himself in recognition of my bravery at the Battle of Crécy in ‘forty-six.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, uncertain what else he could say.
‘Great day for England, that,’ continued Grosnold with unconcealed pride. ‘And I was there.’
Bartholomew nodded politely, still wondering what had induced Unwin to slip away from his companions to the outhouse in the bailey with the boastful lord of Otley Manor.
‘You should not have been travelling this late,’ Grosnold went on, when Bartholomew did not seem inclined to indulge in military small talk. ‘We have had wolvesheads on the Old Road recently.’
‘We saw them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They chased us into the woods near the Otley path, but ran away when my book-bearer injured one of them with an arrow.’
Grosnold was startled. ‘It seems you University men are not the gentle priests Tuddenham is expecting. Archery is an unusual skill for a scholar’s servant to possess, is it not?’
‘Cynric was a soldier once,’ explained Bartholomew.
‘Like me, then,’ said Grosnold, deftly seizing the opportunity to turn the subject back to fighting matters. He looked Bartholomew up and down disparagingly, taking in his darned and patched clothes, neatly trimmed black hair and clean hands. ‘But you are no warrior, I see.’
‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew.
Grosnold was unimpressed. ‘You are tall and strong: you should not have wasted such a fine physique by sitting around in dark rooms with dusty scrolls and ancient monks with no teeth.’
Was that how the people of rural Suffolk saw scholarship? Bartholomew wondered, not sure how to reply. He need not have worried: Grosnold had already lost interest in the conversation and was hailing his guard, ordering him to escort the scholars to the village inn.
‘I will need my stars read in a few days,’ Grosnold announced, as Bartholomew and Unwin began to walk away. ‘I might summon you to do it, if you are lucky, physician.’
‘I do not give astrological consultations,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to be irritated by the man’s presumption. He might have added that he did not believe that the stars made the slightest difference to a person’s health, and that he considered studying them a complete waste of his time, but he had learned that few people agreed with him, and that some even regarded his opinions as anathema. It was nearly always prudent to keep his views to himself.
‘Rubbish,’ said Grosnold. ‘All physicians read their patients’ stars. I shall send for you when I am ready.’
‘He can send for the all he likes,’ muttered Bartholomew to Unwin, as they walked toward the inn. ‘But I am not messing around with pointless astrological consultations.’
‘Perhaps he will forget,’ said Unwin, casting a nervous glance to where the black knight stood at the gate of his manor, yelling orders to scurrying servants at a volume sufficient to wake the dead.
‘Have you met him before?’ asked Bartholomew, still intrigued by the fact that Unwin had been in the bailey with Grosnold. ‘What were you doing in his house?’
Unwin shook his head in the darkness. ‘Nothing. We have never met before.’
Bartholomew let the matter drop. He was tired and aching from a long day in the saddle, and wanted nothing more than a straw mattress in a quiet room. Welcoming lights shone gold from the village inn, and, with relief, he handed the reins of his horse to Cynric and went inside.
The following day dawned clear and cool, and dew was thick on the ground. Bartholomew woke early, feeling refreshed, and joined Father William and two elderly local women in celebrating prime in the small, dark church. After a breakfast of watered ale and cold oatmeal, he sat on a bench in the pale light of the rising sun and talked to the taverner while he waited for the others. Eventually, they were ready, and he led the way out of Otley, following the landlord’s directions to the village of Grundisburgh. They passed Grosnold’s fortified manor house, but the gates were closed, and the guard, the top of whose metal helmet could be seen glinting above the palisade, was sound asleep.
The sun shone through the leaves of the trees, making dappled patterns on the grassy path. To one side, bluebells and buttercups added a splash of colour to the sludge of brown, rotting leaves from the year before, and to the other, a stream sparkled silver as it meandered south. The only sounds, other than birdsong, were the occasional clink of a harness and the gentle thud of horses’ hooves on the turf. A butterfly danced across the path and then was gone, while a group of rabbits, probably escapees from some nobleman’s warren, darted down a sandy hole with flicks of their white tails as the horsemen approached. Bartholomew took a deep breath, laden with the scent of warm, damp earth. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the sun on his face and the peace of the countryside.
‘Suffolk is a godforsaken place,’ grumbled Michael, riding next to him and glancing around disparagingly. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat to shade his face from the sun, and his skin was alabaster white against his dark Benedictine habit. Strands of lank brown hair dangled limply from under the hat, already wet with sweat, despite the cool, early-morning air. ‘I have never been anywhere so dismal.’