‘But he must get it from somewhere,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And I am sure I can see a dark streak in the exposed rock – it is next to that little hut.’
‘You are right,’ said Cynric, standing in his stirrups for a better view. ‘I can see two men with pickaxes, and about six others lounging around talking to each other. It must be the mine.’
Bartholomew did not argue, but he remained scepticaclass="underline" he had been in coal country, and it was different from west Suffolk. But they had reached the outskirts of Haverhill, and he soon forgot minerals as he looked with interest at the houses they passed. Most were large, well-built and handsome, and it seemed there was money in the area. The main road led to a vast triangle of open land in the village’s centre, which appeared to be a market. It was overlooked by a large church. Nearby was a ramshackle little building with a bell-cote. A second street wound up a hill, on which stood a smaller church and another cluster of cottages.
‘The place on the rise must be the Upper Church,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what William had told them the previous day. ‘Neubold’s parish. And that half-derelict place below must be the Alneston Chantry – which Luneday thought we were going to try to wrest from d’Audley.’
‘Well, it is all very pretty,’ said Michael, barely looking to where the physician was pointing. ‘But we are not here to admire the scenery: we are here to retrieve our money. What is this?’
His progress was impeded by a fence that stretched across the road. There was a gate in the middle, but it was closed. As his horse skittered about in confusion, a small, well-dressed man emerged from a pleasant little cottage to one side.
‘I am Gatekeeper Folyat,’ he announced without inflection, as if he recited the words many times a day. ‘State your intentions and purpose.’
‘Folyat?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘There is a name I have heard before. Are you the Gatekeeper Folyat who was once wed to Margery of Withersfield?’
Folyat’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. I am the Gatekeeper Folyat who is wed to Margery. And she is not of Withersfield, but of Haverhill. She thinks our union will be annulled one day, so she can marry that adulterous Luneday, but it will be over my dead body. However, my marital status is none of your concern. I asked what you wanted in our village.’
‘Jugs,’ lied Michael. ‘We may be interested in purchasing some.’
‘Three pennies, then,’ said Folyat. ‘Or a chicken. I have no strong feelings one way or the other, so do not trouble yourselves on my account.’
‘But we intend to spend money here,’ objected Michael. ‘Why should we pay for the privilege?’
‘Because everyone else does,’ replied Folyat. ‘Roads are expensive to maintain, so why should you ride about on them without donating something towards their upkeep?’
‘No wonder this is a wealthy place,’ muttered Michael resentfully. He rummaged for the requisite number of pennies. ‘You will have to accept coins, I am afraid – I left my poultry at home.’
Folyat counted the money. ‘Are you only interested in jugs or do you have other business? If yes, I may be able to point you in the right direction, especially if you have come to arrange a slaughter.’
‘A slaughter?’ echoed Michael warily, eyes narrowed.
‘By our butchers,’ explained Folyat. ‘They are famous for taking a herd of cattle and rendering it down into easily portable lumps.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘We had better remember that.’ He cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly. ‘We may also buy some fuel – coal or wood.’
‘You are interested in Elyan’s mine, are you? Did you see it as you rode in? The seam was only discovered in the summer, but Elyan believes it will make him very wealthy, even though it is small. Still, a commodity is a commodity, as my wife always likes to say.’
Without conscious thought, Bartholomew and Michael headed for the nearer of the two churches – the large one in the marketplace that Folyat told them was dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. Travellers were expected to give thanks when they arrived safely at their destination, so it was not an unusual thing to be doing. But more pertinent to Michaelhouse’s thirty marks was the possibility that a garrulous priest might be there, or the kind of parishioner who liked to gossip. It would not be the first time the scholars had gleaned important information from places of worship.
As they drew closer, they saw St Mary’s was being treated to some building work. A new three-storey tower had been raised, while the nave and chancel were in the process of being beautified. The end result promised to be magnificent – imposing as well as elegant. Bartholomew glanced at the Upper Church in the distance, and wondered how long it would survive once St Mary’s had been completed. The upkeep of such edifices was costly, and looking after two in one village – plus a chantry chapel – would be financially demanding.
Michael pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the students to mind the horses. Cynric stayed with them, glancing around uneasily, as if he expected their nocturnal attacker to try his hand a second time. Bartholomew followed the monk, admiring the fine stained glass in the windows and the ornate altar rail. He started to remark on them, but Michael was never very interested in such matters, and began to stride purposefully towards the high altar, where a friar could be seen kneeling.
‘A Benedictine,’ said the priest, standing as the visitors approached. ‘We do not see those very often, despite the fact that one of their greatest abbeys lies not twenty miles away, in St Edmundsbury.’
The speaker was a Dominican, dressed in a spotless habit. He was more closely shaven than most, with curly grey hair and a perfectly clipped tonsure. He exuded a sense of quiet competence.
‘Actually, we are from Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘The place with the University.’
‘I have heard of it,’ replied the Dominican dryly. ‘It has a reputation for brawls, smelly streets and producing exceptionally cunning lawyers. I am John de Hilton, by the way. May I ask what brings scholars to my humble parish?’
‘It is not humble,’ countered Michael. ‘It is wealthy – large houses, money poured into rebuilding its church, a vast market, efficient slaughterhouses … Haverhill has it all.’
‘It suits my modest needs.’ Hilton smiled, revealing long brown teeth. ‘And when my church is finished, it will be one of the finest in Suffolk. What more could a priest want?’
‘A princely living?’ suggested Michael, making it clear he would not be satisfied with what the village had to offer. ‘Rich parishioners who pay to have documents written? Intriguing confessions?’
Hilton laughed. ‘I hear my share of intriguing confessions, I assure you. Haverhill is at loggerheads with its Withersfield neighbours, you see, and I am always being told of some plot to best the enemy. Some are extremely inventive.’
‘Why do they dislike each other?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Hilton shrugged. ‘No one remembers exactly how it all started. But these days, we are jealous of Withersfield’s pigs, while they covet our jugs and slaughterhouses.’
‘It sounds petty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it a shame that two such prosperous communities should waste their energies so.
‘It is petty,’ agreed Hilton. ‘I encourage the lords of the manor – Luneday in Withersfield, and Elyan and d’Audley here – to lead by example and resolve their differences, but they are worse than their people. Elyan flaunts his new mine, d’Audley likes to spread sly rumours about Withersfield, while Luneday parades Lizzie in a way that is sure to antagonise.’
‘I have only been here a few hours, but I have already witnessed some shocking behaviour,’ said Michael, aiming to encourage more confidences. ‘Withersfield’s master has purloined the wife of Haverhill’s gatekeeper, while the Upper Church’s priest was caught trying to steal Luneday’s sow.’