‘Probably a stray,’ said Bartholomew, mounting his horse with an inelegance that made Michael wince. ‘There have been lots of strays since the plague.’
‘Strays do not live in deserted settlements,’ said William knowledgeably. ‘They live near villages and towns where there is rubbish to scavenge.’
‘Perhaps it buried a bone here,’ said Bartholomew without thinking.
The others regarded him, aghast. ‘That is an unpleasant suggestion, Matt,’ said Michael eventually. ‘I thought you said there were no skeletons here. Do you really think that dead villagers were left here to rot, and to be eaten by the wild beasts of the forest?’
‘Come on,’ said Alcote, spurring his horse forward decisively. ‘This place has an evil air about it, and whatever secrets are here should be left well alone. The wild dog Unwin saw has gone now, and we should leave before it comes back and tries to savage us all.’
‘It was a horrible thing,’ said Unwin with a shudder. ‘Huge, and with a dirty white coat.’
‘Perhaps it was a wolf,’ said Deynman, easing his horse after Alcote. ‘My brother told me that there are wolves in this part of the country.’
‘Listen,’ said Michael softly, as the others rode away. ‘It is completely silent here. The birds are not singing, and even the wind has dropped, so that the trees are as still as stones. It is almost as if the souls of the dead are walking here, inhabiting these houses and drifting along these paths.’
No one heard him, and Michael found himself alone in the main street. Not wanting to be left too far behind, he urged his horse into a trot, so that he could ride next to Bartholomew.
‘Are you ill?’ Bartholomew asked, noting the monk’s pale face in concern.
Michael shook his head. ‘These eerie Death villages unnerve me, Matt. This is the fourth we have seen since we left Cambridge.’
‘You sound like Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s uncharacteristic sensitivity. ‘When you consider how many people died of the plague, it is no wonder that there are so many abandoned settlements. But that is no reason to give your imagination free rein.’
‘There speaks the man of science,’ said Michael. ‘Always with a practical explanation to offer.’
‘Better a practical explanation than believing all that rubbish about tormented souls,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the plague has gone now, and we should look forward not back.’
‘But it has not gone, Matt!’ said Michael with sudden vehemence. ‘There are abandoned hamlets everywhere; there is livestock still unattended and roaming wild; there are disused churches wherever you look, because even if there are congregations, there are too few priests alive to serve them. And people talk about it all the time – either as we are doing now, or just as a reference point – “before the Death” or “after the Death”. It is here with us now, just as much as when it was killing us with its deadly fingers.’
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, suspecting the monk was right, but unwilling to admit that the most devastating and terrifying episode in their lives still had the power to affect them so deeply. They rode in silence. Michael’s bad temper had become gloom, while Bartholomew thought about the friends and colleagues he had lost to the Death. Then he recalled the people he had met since, particularly the beautiful prostitute, Matilde. He glanced behind him to make sure the students could not hear.
‘The Master did not really send me to Suffolk because of Matilde, did he? I can assure you he had no cause.’
Michael chuckled softly, grateful to be thinking of something other than the pestilence. ‘I can assure you he did. Ever since your fiancee abandoned you for a wealthy merchant a couple of years ago, you have done nothing but make a nuisance of yourself among the town’s women.’
‘I have not!’ objected Bartholomew, startled by the accusation. ‘I–’
‘Do not try to deceive me, Matt. I have known you too long, and I have seen the way you look whenever Matilde speaks to you. Then there was that Julianna.’
‘That Julianna set her sights on Ralph de Langelee, as well you know,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘And she and I have never had the slightest liking for each other.’
‘I wonder what Langelee is doing now that Michaelhouse’s four most senior Fellows are away,’ mused Michael, changing the subject abruptly. ‘It would not surprise me if he took advantage of our absence somehow. Perhaps we will find that we have a new Master by the time we return.’
‘I wish Julianna had persuaded him to marry her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Since Fellows of Colleges are not permitted to marry, it would have been an excellent way to rid ourselves of him without the need for violence.’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ said Michael. I heard a rumour that a certain ceremony involving those two took place recently in Grantchester Church. So far, I have been unable to verify it, but I can assure you I will look into the matter most carefully when we return. We do not want that belligerent lout as our next Master.’
They had not travelled far before they reached a crossroads, where the others waited for directions to Grundisburgh. Bartholomew’s attention, however, was on something else.
Gibbets were commonplace at crossroads, and the one near Grundisburgh was a stark wooden silhouette against the sky, comprising a central post with two arms, one of which had a corpse dangling from it. But it was not the sight of a hanged criminal that caught Bartholomew’s eye – he had lost count of the number of felons he had seen along the way, who had been executed and whose remains had been displayed to serve as a deterrent for anyone else considering breaking the law – there was something unusual about the body that made him want to take a closer look. First, the hands were not bound as was usual, but hung loosely at the sides; and second, the corpse was fully clothed. Ignoring William’s gusty sigh of irritation, and Alcote’s vocal revulsion at the physician’s unseemly interest, he dismounted and made his way to the foot of the gibbet.
It was high, and the hanged man’s feet swung near Bartholomew’s shoulders. The shoes were of good-quality leather, with strong, almost-new soles, and a pair of gleaming silver-coloured buckles. The hose were made of soft-woven red wool, and the shirt was of fine linen, although the cuffs were beginning to fray. A handsome blue doublet embroidered with silver thread, and a thick belt, from which dangled a bejewelled dagger, completed the outfit. There was plenty of wear left in the garments, while the dagger would have fetched a good price, so why had no one relieved the corpse of them? Such items were usually considered the perks of the hangman’s trade, and to find clothes so casually abandoned in these times of acute need was curious to say the least.
As Bartholomew looked upward, a flicker of movement caught his eye. At first he thought he had imagined it, but when he looked harder he saw it again. The hanged man’s mouth had moved: he was still alive!
‘He is still breathing!’ Bartholomew yelled, making his colleagues jump. He grabbed the hanged man’s legs, trying to lift him to relieve the pressure around the throat. ‘Help me, Michael!’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Alcote, watching him in horror. ‘Leave him alone, Matthew, and come away before you land us all in trouble.’
‘He is alive!’ Bartholomew shouted, struggling to bear the man’s weight ‘Cynric, cut the rope! Quickly!’
Cynric hesitated, but then moved forward. Before he could act, Michael intervened, raising an imperious hand that stopped the Welshman dead in his tracks.
‘He is a convicted felon, Matt,’ said the monk firmly. ‘You cannot go cutting down criminals whenever you feel like it. You are likely to end up swinging next to him.’