The morning was well advanced, with bright sunshine streaming in through the windows, when Bartholomew awoke in the church. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, realising that he had fallen asleep over his prayers. Michael had not, and was kneeling at the altar, although his preoccupied frown suggested that his mind was not on masses for Alcote’s soul, but on the confusion of facts and theories they had amassed the previous night. There was a clank as the door was opened, and Bartholomew hastened to join him, so that William would not guess he had spent much of what remained of the night in an exhausted slumber rather than praying for the charcoaled mess that graced the parish coffin.
The Franciscan flopped on to his knees and glowered. ‘May the Lord have mercy on the iniquitous soul of Robert Deynman and his evil ways,’ he thundered.
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. Even half asleep, he realised the prayer was intended for his ears, and not the Almighty’s.
‘He refused to recite prime with me. He said he would rather go for a walk, and he insisted Horsey went with him. That boy will come to a bad end one day.’
But not, Bartholomew was relieved to hear, in Grundisburgh. William continued to grumble about how the two students had slunk down the Ipswich road, and that he strongly suspected they were up to no good. Hoping their journey would be uneventful, and that he would collect them safe and sound later that day, Bartholomew accompanied Michael to Wergen Hall, where the monk planned to correct one or two details on the deed before leaving Grundisburgh and its superstitions and secrets, never to return.
Tuddenham was sleeping, his face drawn and pale and his breathing shallow. He was beginning to look like a man with one foot in the grave, and Bartholomew knew that the astute Dame Eva sensed all was not as it should be. He was sorry for her, understanding that parents are seldom braced for the death of a child who has reached adulthood. She sat next to her son and held his hand, and it was not easy to persuade her to leave him to rest. Isilia was as bad, and it took some effort to dissuade her from delivering a large and carefully prepared breakfast to her ailing husband.
Eventually, Bartholomew prised them from the sickroom. They went slowly, as though they imagined Tuddenham might take a turn for the worse even as they walked to the door. Bartholomew instructed Siric to allow no one to disturb him, and then went to look for Michael.
Michael waved him away as he approached, working hard to complete what needed to be done before someone from Tuddenham’s household guessed what he was doing. Bored and unsettled, Bartholomew went to wander aimlessly in the gardens, poking around in the stables, and looking with uninterest at the great destriers that were tethered there. Cynric had managed to obtain some bread and nuts, although Bartholomew hoped the episode with the beef had not given him a taste for the theft of food, and they ate them in Isilia’s pretty herbal arbour.
Bartholomew was considering taking Michael something to eat, when he glimpsed Hamon slinking out of Wergen Hall in a manner that could only be described as furtive. With nothing better to do, and with Cynric back to normal and ready to engage in a little daytime stalking, they followed him along the path that wound down the hill, and then along a trackway that cut off to the east. Bartholomew was curious. Hamon was not a man who walked – knights rode, even short distances – and Bartholomew could not imagine what could be sufficiently important to make him resort to using his feet.
Every so often, Hamon would stop and look around to see whether he was being followed, but he was no match for Cynric; the Welshman knew exactly how close he could come without being seen and when to melt back into the shadows to avoid detection. At last they reached the river at a point where it flowed deep and swift before widening into a shallow pool fringed by willows. A set of irregular stepping stones stretched across it, and Hamon leapt inelegantly from one to another – falling in water to his knees when he misjudged one – and clambered up the bank on the other side. Cynric and Bartholomew followed a good deal more gracefully.
They were now on land that had been Deblunville’s, and Bartholomew began to feel anxious, afraid that some nasty plot was in progress. Eventually, in a pretty, secluded grove well away from any houses or fields, Hamon stopped and paced impatiently, apparently waiting for someone to arrive. Bartholomew tried to imagine who. Someone from Burgh, who was helping Hamon plot against Tuddenham and the advowson? An accomplice, who had helped him kill Deblunville with a stone in the woods near Barchester? Or was it Bardolf, who seemed intelligent enough to persuade others to do what he did not want to do himself?
Before he had time to speculate further, Cynric tensed, and pointed to someone walking through the trees. Hamon, who had been gazing in that direction for a while, also stiffened.
‘Janelle!’ breathed Bartholomew, as the pretty woman stepped into the glade.
She regarded Hamon uncertainly, as if not quite sure what to do. He hesitated for a moment, then held out his hands, and with dainty steps she walked towards him and took them in hers. Bartholomew was confused. Surely Janelle could not be the mastermind behind all this evil, using Hamon as her instrument? He watched uncomfortably as Hamon kissed her gently on the lips.
‘Come on,’ he whispered to Cynric. ‘We have seen enough.’
He turned to leave, but as he did so his bag caught on a twig that snapped sharply. Hamon moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible, and had the tip of his sword at the physician’s throat before Bartholomew was able to take more than a few steps. Cynric had melted into the shadows, but Bartholomew knew one of the Welshman’s daggers would be embedded in Hamon’s body the instant Cynric considered his friend to be seriously at risk. Nevertheless, he did not much like the sensation of cold steel so near his neck, and hoped Cynric knew what he was doing. Hamon, however, seemed more dismayed than threatening when he recognised his uncle’s guest.
‘So, now you know,’ he said, lowering his sword slightly.
‘Know what?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion, feeling he knew nothing at all.
‘He saw only a brotherly kiss,’ said Janelle quickly. ‘What harm is there in that?’
‘It was not brotherly!’ proclaimed Hamon hotly. ‘You know it was not.’
Janelle sighed in exasperation. ‘Where are your wits, Hamon? We might have convinced him you were simply here to offer me your condolences for the tragic demise of my husband. Now, after your outburst, he would have to be an imbecile not to see that there is more to our relationship.’
‘I have never hidden the fact that I adore you,’ claimed Hamon vehemently. ‘It would be like… like denying that the Earth rotates!’
Janelle’s irritation gave way to wry humour. ‘I was always taught that it did not. Walter Wauncy argues most convincingly against such a mad notion.’
‘Then he is wrong,’ said Hamon loftily. ‘I attended the debate at Wergen Hall, where it was proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Earth spins most of the time.’ He licked a finger and held it up. ‘It is still now, of course, because there is no wind.’
Janelle looked from Hamon to Bartholomew in amused disbelief. ‘Is that so? But academic disputes, however fascinating, will not help us decide what to do about Doctor Bartholomew, who, thanks to your indiscretion, now knows that we are… close.’
‘I will marry you,’ declared Hamon, his attention fully on Janelle, as he let the sword drop to his side. ‘No man will steal you from me a second time.’
‘No man stole me the first time,’ said Janelle practically. ‘It was my decision to marry Roland Deblunville, and mine alone. I know now that I made a terrible mistake – one that might have proved fatal for me – but up until our wedding day I thought he was the innocent victim of a hateful plan initiated by Tuddenham to spread lies about him. Foolishly, I believed that monster when he said there was nothing sinister about Pernel’s death, but he was lying. He had smashed her head against the stone windowsill, and killed her.’