There was a growl of disapproval from the throng.
‘Aiding those evil villains is not one of your finest achievements,’ said William, regarding the priest with disdain. ‘And you would do well not to brag, because we despise you for it.’
‘They are better than you,’ declared Neubold, nettled. ‘At least they do not molest priests.’
‘They have not been seen for several weeks now,’ said William with some satisfaction. ‘And word is that they have abandoned their home in Clare. We must have frightened them off when we threatened to hang first and consider the law later.’
‘If you had touched them, I would have sued the lot of you,’ snarled Neubold. ‘You cannot go around stringing up whoever you feel like.’
‘No?’ asked one villager, fingering his belt meaningfully. ‘And who is to stop us?’
‘Good people of Haverhill,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Do not be hasty in your–’
‘Haverhill?’ interrupted William, dropping Bartholomew’s reins and spinning around to face the monk. Finding itself free, the animal bucked violently. ‘Haverhill? How dare you insult us!’
‘I assure you, I–’ began Michael, bewildered.
‘We are the good people of Withersfield. We are not from Haverhill.’ William spoke the name of the neighbouring village as though it was another word for Hell.
‘If you wanted Haverhill, you should have continued straight when the old road ended,’ called one of the women, evidently trying to be helpful. ‘You must have turned left.’
Michael did not look at Bartholomew. ‘Well, perhaps we should go back the way we came, then, and set ourselves aright before the daylight fades completely. Assuming my colleague can ever regain control of his horse, that is,’ he added, shooting the physician an exasperated glance.
‘You do not have time,’ said William, coming to the rescue a second time. ‘It is not a good idea to enter Haverhill after dark, because you never know who you might meet. So, you had better come with us, and resume your journey in the morning. We shall take you to Roger Luneday of Withersfield Manor. His house has a chimney.’
A ripple of pride ran through the assembled villagers. Chimneys were apparently architectural extras that were highly prized in west Suffolk.
‘Well, in that case, we accept,’ said Michael, exchanging a brief glance with Bartholomew: it was an excellent opportunity to see whether Luneday would admit to receiving five marks from Wynewyk for pigs. ‘We are not men to decline shelter in a house with a chimney.’
‘What about me?’ demanded Neubold, full of angry indignation. ‘Am I to be abandoned to these ruffians, while you flounce off to enjoy Luneday’s flue?’
‘You will accompany us, and your fate will be decided tomorrow, when tempers have cooled,’ decreed Michael. ‘It is too late to resolve what promises to be a lengthy business this evening.’
‘But I–’ objected Neubold.
Michael raised an imperious hand to silence him. ‘Who will lead the way to this chimney?’
It was not far to Withersfield. They followed a winding path down to a hollow, where a pretty church nestled in a fold in the hills next to a bubbling brook; several cottages huddled around it. The manor house was set across an undulating sward of common land. It was a handsome building with a thatched roof, and its elegant chimney boasted an ornately carved top. Its orchard was full of apple, pear and cherry trees, and its vegetable plots were home to leeks, onions and cabbages. The scent of herbs and recently scythed grass was rich in the chill evening air.
William led the way towards it, followed by the Michaelhouse men, while the remaining villagers brought up the rear. A reluctant Neubold was among them, protesting vociferously about the way he was being manhandled.
‘Be quiet,’ snapped William, becoming tired of it. ‘If you persist in whining, one of us might give you some real cause for complaint.’
‘I have every reason to be indignant,’ shouted Neubold. ‘I have been shamefully wronged.’
‘What exactly did he do?’ While Bartholomew’s better judgement told him it might be wiser not to ask, it was unusual for a priest to be pursued quite so hotly by a mob. It was also unusual for one to dispense with his habit and sport elegant secular clothing, and the physician’s curiosity was piqued.
‘Spying,’ replied William shortly. ‘But he has no excuse this time – he was caught red-handed.’
‘Spying on what?’ Withersfield was an attractive place, and its villagers were well-fed and healthy, but Bartholomew could not imagine it owned anything to warrant espionage.
‘Neubold is parish priest of Haverhill’s Upper Church,’ William started to explain. He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed impatiently. ‘The older of its churches.’
‘There are two?’
‘Actually, there are three. Well, two and a chapel, to be precise. Besides the Upper Church, there is St Mary the Virgin, which is bigger and newer, and there is the chantry chapel.’
‘You said Neubold was spying,’ prompted Bartholomew. ‘On what?’
‘I am getting there,’ said William testily. ‘As I was saying, Neubold is one of Haverhill’s priests, so he has no right to set foot on Withersfield soil. The fact that he is here means he is spying – there is no other reason for him to foul our land with his presence. And what do you think he wants? Pigs!’
‘Pigs?’ echoed Bartholomew, mystified.
‘Pigs,’ repeated William, adding darkly, ‘We have them, and Haverhill wants them.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.
William’s expression was grim. ‘But we had better not talk about it any more, because it might induce me to wring Neubold’s miserable neck. Tell me about your business instead. Have you come to purchase pottery? I hate to say something good about Haverhill, but they do produce lovely jugs.’
‘We might look at them,’ hedged Bartholomew, reluctant to admit that they had come to investigate the loss of thirty marks. He was bemused by the antipathy of the Withersfield folk to their Haverhill neighbours, and decided it was safer to keep the real purpose of the visit secret until he and Michael had a fuller understanding of the situation.
William started to press him further, but the physician was spared from answering, because they had reached the manor house. One of the children had evidently run ahead to warn its residents that there were to be guests, for its lord and lady emerged from the house as the party approached.
Luneday was a sturdy fellow in middle years, whose black beard was tinged with grey. He wore a laced gipon of emerald green, and his shoulder cloak was brown and held in place by a gold pin. His boots were thick and practical, and bore stains that suggested he had been out on the land that day. The woman next to him was clad in a close-fitting kirtle, an unflattering garment for someone on the plump side. Her fair hair was coiled and held in place by a fine net of silver thread, called a fret.
‘I hear we are to have the pleasure of company tonight,’ said Luneday, smiling a welcome. ‘A monk from St Edmundsbury Abbey and his companions.’
‘Actually, they are only scholars from Cambridge,’ said William apologetically. ‘They do not have the good fortune to hail from Suffolk.’
Tesdale bristled with resentment at the remark. He was proud of the fact that he was Cambridge born and bred, and Bartholomew was obliged to nudge him, to prevent him from making an acid retort. Risleye merely regarded the lord of the manor with an aloof expression, as if he considered a mere landowner beneath him, although Valence smiled engagingly.
‘It does not matter,’ said Luneday. He tried to conceal his disappointment, but did not succeed – scholars were evidently a very poor second to visitors from St Edmundsbury. He cleared his throat, and gestured to the lady at his side. ‘This is my woman, Margery Folyat.’