Bardolf came to stand next to Bartholomew, who was still watching Cynric methodically shovelling, neither hurried nor impeded by the sheeting rain.
‘I was sorry to hear about this,’ said Bardolf, nodding down at the grave. ‘I had hoped that young man might heal the rifts that are widening between our manors.’
‘Between yours and Tuddenham’s?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes. And between Deblunville’s and Hamon’s, and Deblunville’s and Grosnold’s, and Grosnold’s and mine. And so on.’
‘I had the impression that everyone was united against Deblunville,’ said Bartholomew.
‘At the moment,’ said Bardolf, ‘although that will change if Grosnold dams his stream again this summer, or sparks from my wheat stubble ignite Tuddenham’s ripening crops. And the parish priests are just as bad: they fight with just as much viciousness as we do.’
‘The marriage of your daughter to Roland Deblunville should reduce some of the conflict,’ said Bartholomew.
Bardolf shrugged. ‘Between Clopton and Burgh, certainly. But it seems to have aggravated matters between me, and Grundisburgh and Otley. Tuddenham is talking about applying for an annulment of the marriage, would you believe! But Unwin could have made peace among the priests – they could then have worked for unity among the lords.’
‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘To prevent him from acting as peacemaker?’ He thought about what Eltisley had claimed to see. Had Grosnold returned after his spectacular and very obvious exit to see where Unwin stood on the notion of harmony between the manors? Unwin would almost certainly have told him he would strive for an armistice, and thus provided Grosnold with the motive to kill him.
But then what about the cloaked figure? Was that one of Grosnold’s henchmen fleeing from killing Unwin as he prayed at the altar? Or did Grosnold stab Unwin himself, so that there would be no other witness to the crime? He gazed down at the half-filled grave, wishing yet again that he had been able to do something to save the student-friar.
Bardolf squinted up at him. ‘Yes, I would say that Grosnold would kill a priest, if he thought that priest might negotiate for an end to the fighting that would leave him the poorer – he would have to give up the toll he has imposed on Clopton and Burgh folk to use the road through his manor for a start. But then both Tuddenham and Hamon would kill if they thought they might lose the land on which Peche Hall stands; Deblunville might kill if peace meant an annulment of his marriage to Janelle; I might kill if Tuddenham tried to claim Gull Farm – my father stole it from his, but I have grown fond of it over the last thirty years.’
Bartholomew regarded him in amazement. ‘How can you live with all this uncertainty?’
‘It keeps us on our toes, and adds a spice to our lives that has been missing since Crécy. But I am growing too old for such things, and my bones throb from the cold and the damp. If I am attacked while I am stricken with this damned backache, I will lose everything anyway.’
‘So, you want a truce because you think your neighbours might wait until you are ill, and then pounce?’ asked Bartholomew.
Bardolf moved his head from side to side in a curious motion. ‘Essentially. If I do not press for conciliation while I am still strong, I will lose everything when I am weak. I suppose you do not have a cure for me, do you? Stoate is worse than useless. I take his damned purges every Sunday, and all they do is make me feel like death for an hour.’
‘There are poultices you can try,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to poach what was probably one of Stoate’s most lucrative sources of income. ‘Ask Stoate about them.’
‘He does not prescribe poultices. He bleeds, and he purges, and he gives astrological consultations,’ said Bardolf. ‘I have tried all those things and my back still pains me. I want a cure.’
‘Did you find anything in all that earth?’ asked Tuddenham casually, coming up behind them and addressing Cynric. He gazed speculatively at the pile of soil the book-bearer was shovelling.
‘Such as what?’ asked Cynric, puzzled by the question.
‘Objects?’ said Tuddenham vaguely. ‘Bits and pieces. Things.’ He became aggressive. ‘This is my land. Anything dug up here belongs to me, and no one had better forget it.’
‘Cynric is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew coldly, immediately understanding the reason behind Tuddenham’s enquiry. ‘If he had found Grundisburgh’s lost golden calf, he would return it to you.’
Bardolf gave a sharp laugh. ‘These scholars are too quick for you, Thomas! You should keep an eye on them, or they will be going back to Cambridge with more than your golden calf!’
Sir John Bardolf turned his back on Bartholomew, and began to hobble to where a servant held the reins of his horse. Tuddenham poked Unwin’s grave with his toe, but apparently decided the pile was too small to hide a golden calf and went to join Hamon and Siric in the shelter of one of the churchyard yews. It was now raining hard, and Bartholomew was soaked through. He waited until Cynric was patting down the soil in a muddy mound, and then started to return to the Half Moon with him.
A shout of alarm from Deynman made him turn back. Horsey was sitting in the grass, his face as white as snow. Kneeling, Bartholomew rested his hand on the student’s head. He was shivering, but Bartholomew thought his illness no more serious than the chill of the rain and a sudden spell of dizziness induced by grief. He instructed Deynman to take him back to the tavern and put him to bed, making it clear that he should ensure that Horsey changed into a dry robe first. It was something that would have been obvious to most people, but Bartholomew had learned from bitter experience that nothing should be left to Deynman’s common sense.
‘I want my astrological consultation today,’ said Grosnold to Bartholomew, as the physician prepared to accompany the students to the Half Moon.
‘Ask Stoate,’ said Bartholomew, none too politely. There was something about the belligerence and insensitivity of the Suffolk lords that he found unusually provoking.
‘I want you,’ said Grosnold uncompromisingly. ‘Now. I take it you have no objection?’ The last question was directed towards Tuddenham, not Bartholomew.
‘Master Alcote is drafting my advowson, so you will not be inconveniencing me by taking him,’ replied Tuddenham, with an indifferent shrug.
‘Right, come on, then,’ said Grosnold, snapping his fingers at Bartholomew.
‘Sir Thomas is not my master to say where I can and cannot go,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘And I do not conduct astrological consultations.’
‘I do,’ offered Deynman, who had been listening. ‘And I am much less expensive than him.’
‘You are also unqualified,’ said Alcote in alarm, hurrying over from where he had been talking to Walter Wauncy. It did not take a genius to know that letting Deynman loose on Grosnold would prove disastrous for all concerned, but especially for Grosnold. ‘Doctor Bartholomew will be delighted to do your consultation,’ he added, smiling ingratiatingly at the black knight.
Bartholomew rounded on him angrily. ‘You are not my master, either. I am not doing it. Horsey is ill, and I want to stay with him.’
‘Horsey has only fainted like some fragile maiden,’ hissed Alcote unsympathetically. ‘You will do as Master Tuddenham desires, so long as we are his guests. Everyone in Grundisburgh has been good to us, and we will not offend them by behaving churlishly.’
‘Someone in Grundisburgh murdered Unwin,’ retorted Bartholomew, goaded to imprudence by Alcote’s bossiness.
Tuddenham pursed his lips, angry at the implied criticism. ‘I can assure you that I am doing all I can to locate Unwin’s killer.’
‘Of course he is,’ gushed Alcote, glowering furiously at Bartholomew. He took the physician by the arm, and hauled him out of earshot. ‘For God’s sake, show some grace, man! I worked hard to persuade Tuddenham to give us this advowson. I do not want it all ruined because you are an unmannerly lout!’