‘Your husband is long dead, and has nothing to do with who inherits here,’ snapped Hamon. ‘And I do not know why you believe him to be such a fine man. He was a bully and a scoundrel!’
‘Hamon!’ exclaimed Tuddenham, shocked.
‘It is true!’ shouted Hamon, too angry to be silenced by his uncle’s displeasure. ‘We think our claim on Peche Hall is legitimate, but Wauncy tells me he is not certain of the authenticity of the deeds that prove it is ours. In his cups one night, he told me he thought they were forged by her noble husband.’ He glared unpleasantly at Dame Eva, while Wauncy, horrified at this indiscretion, turned even whiter than usual.
‘And is this how you think you can run our manors?’ asked the old lady in disgust. ‘By losing them on the word of a drunken priest? You are not fit to mention my husband’s name!’
‘He will not inherit, anyway,’ said Isilia, to soothe her. She patted her stomach, bulging under her dark green dress. ‘There will soon be children with a greater claim than his.’
Bartholomew thought she looked particularly beautiful that day, with her glossy hair tied in two thick plaits that hung down her back, and a delicate gold cross around her neck. Unlike poor Janelle, whose child made her sick and pale, Isilia bloomed with health and vitality.
‘Your husband was unfaithful to you!’ howled Hamon, now incensed beyond reason. The colour drained from Dame Eva’s face, making her seem suddenly older and more frail. She gazed at Hamon with such an expression of anguish that even he could not meet her eyes.
‘Will you send a man to Ipswich to look for Norys again?’ Bartholomew asked Tuddenham, acutely embarrassed by the exchange, and keen to change the subject before Hamon revealed any more family skeletons.
‘He never was,’ whispered Dame Eva, gazing at Hamon in shock. ‘You are a liar!’
‘Siric has been twice already,’ said Tuddenham, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘But there was no trace of Norys. He must have left the country.’
‘Look at him,’ spat Hamon spitefully, pointing at the tanner. ‘Just look at his face, his eyes, his teeth, and tell me he is not your husband’s offspring.’
The tanner ducked his head down quickly, in a way that suggested that the identity of his natural father was already known to him. It was not known to Dame Eva, however, who stared at the tanner in mute disbelief.
‘Hamon,’ warned Tuddenham softly. ‘Your anger is making you rash. It is not only my mother you are offending with these accusations, but me, too. I have always treated you like a son, so please show me some respect. It is not respectful to accuse me of being a tanner’s brother.’
Finally ashamed, Hamon hung his head. Isilia went to kneel next to the old lady, whose wrinkled face glistened with silent tears, and put an arm around her thin shoulders. Dame Eva had been right, Bartholomew thought, as he watched them: Hamon was an ignorant lout.
‘Now, perhaps we can work on my advowson?’ asked Tuddenham, although his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm for the subject. He turned to smile wanly at Alcote.
Alcote had listened to Hamon’s accusations with a malicious amusement that Bartholomew found distasteful. Despite the fact that he had complained of stomach pains since his arrival in Grundisburgh, Bartholomew saw Alcote finish one bowl of raisins, and flick his fingers at Siric to be brought another, pointedly disregarding Bartholomew’s advice to abstain from them to allow his digestion to recover. Bartholomew, who did not like raisins, thought it was not surprising that the fussy little scholar suffered cramps and loose bowels.
‘I need to read and summarise these,’ Alcote said, gesturing at a pile of deeds and dipping thin fingers into the new dish of raisins. ‘I will work better and faster alone, without people looking over my shoulder and delaying me with stupid questions.’
This was a none too subtle dig at Wauncy, whose own interest in Tuddenham’s material possessions was driving Alcote to distraction.
‘All this is all taking a damnably long time,’ complained Tuddenham. ‘You arrived ten days ago, and the thing is still not written.’
‘It takes time to do properly,’ said Alcote pettishly. ‘You would not want me to rush it, and then discover in three years’ time that there is something we have overlooked that invalidates the whole transaction. This advowson is to last for ever, so we must ensure it is done correctly, no matter how keen we all are to have it finished in a hurry.’
As much as Bartholomew disliked Alcote, he knew the man was right: an important deed needed to be written with care if it were not to be overturned in a court of law at some later date. However, at the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Alcote’s care was not wholly altruistic, and that scraps of information were being carefully stored to be brought out later, when they could benefit him in some way – particularly financially.
‘But rest assured,’ Alcote continued, ‘I am working as fast as I can. In fact, I can predict with some confidence that I will have completed all the groundwork this evening, and should have a working draft for you late tomorrow.’
‘I am going hunting,’ said Hamon, unfolding his arms and looking out of the window at the sun. ‘The last of the venison is finished and we should not slaughter any more of my pigs.’ He spoke bitterly, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. ‘Will you come, uncle?’
Tuddenham caught Bartholomew’s eye and hesitated. It was clear he was tempted, but it was also clear he knew it was not advisable, given his worsening physical condition.
‘I will remain here, and spend a little time with my wife,’ he said.
Isilia’s lovely face broke into a happy smile, and she took his hand in hers.
‘We can walk by the river,’ she said brightly. ‘Or pick elderflowers in the orchard.’ Her delight faded when she remembered the old lady sitting dejectedly by the fire. ‘No. We will stay here and work on Dame Eva’s tapestry. The light is good for needlework today.’
Tuddenham smiled gratefully, and they went to sit on either side of the old lady, bantering with each other to try to take her mind off Hamon’s thoughtless words. Bartholomew felt sorry for her, knowing that the elderly often looked back on days more golden in their thoughts than in reality. It had been cruel of Hamon to disillusion her.
‘Will you come hunting with me, Master Alcote?’ asked Hamon politely, apparently feeling remorse, and deciding that some relief from his guilty conscience might be gained by extending an invitation to the man who was working so hard for his uncle. ‘If we are lucky, we may catch a wild boar.’
‘No,’ said Alcote with a shudder at the notion of the physical effort that would be needed. ‘I will stay here and work. Bartholomew would be no kind of companion for you, either – the only lancing he enjoys is that of boils. But Michael rides well, and may relish a little blood sport. He is a Benedictine, after all.’
‘I would,’ said Michael keenly. ‘But not today with Norys at large and insufficient evidence to prove his guilt. I should spend the day talking with your villagers, if you have no objection.’
Hamon shrugged indifferently, and went into the yard to prepare for the hunt. Horses wheeled and whinnied as they were brought from the stables, their shod feet clattering on the hard ground. Each man carried a bow and a long lance, as well as a quiver full of arrows. Hamon looked happier than he had been since Bartholomew had first met him. His hair shone in the sun, and his long teeth flashed white as he grinned at his uncle. Servants dashed this way and that, carrying cloaks, knives and saddles, while hounds bayed and circled, adding to the general mayhem.
Eventually, they were ready, and the horses streamed out of the courtyard with the servants running behind them. The last two hauled a cart on which the prey would be stacked if the hunt were successful. When they had gone, Isilia and Tuddenham walked slowly towards the bower near the house with Dame Eva between them. Isilia looked back and gave Bartholomew a cheerful wave and the smile of an angel.