He was still gazing at her when Tuddenham noticed the three scholars standing at the edge of the green. His fixed smile became genuine, and he strode forward to greet them, his kinswomen in tow. William gave Bartholomew a sudden jab in the ribs, although whether it was because Michael was introducing him to Tuddenham, or because his inquisitor’s nose had detected a hint of inappropriate admiration for Tuddenham’s wife, Bartholomew could not tell.
Tuddenham held his hands apart, palms upward, to indicate they were welcome, and presented them with an impressive display of his dental armour to underline the sentiment.
‘At last!’ he cried with pleasure. ‘I was beginning to believe you would never come. I expected you days ago.’
‘Our arduous journey took us a good deal longer than we anticipated,’ said Michael, blithely omitting reference to the three-day sojourn at St Edmundsbury Abbey. ‘The roads are fraught with danger, and thieves and murderers lurk in every village.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. With the exception of the previous day the journey had been tediously uneventful – mainly due to Cynric’s skill in avoiding situations that might have proved unsafe.
‘Well, it is most gracious of you to come all this way to accept the living of my church,’ said Tuddenham sincerely. ‘Especially since it seems there was considerable risk to yourselves.’ He turned to gesture to the elderly woman who stood at his side. ‘My mother, Dame Eva, once visited Cambridge. She is looking forward to hearing news of it during your stay here.’
‘It will be my pleasure, madam,’ said Michael, favouring her with one of his courtly bows.
‘And this is my wife, Lady Isilia.’ Tuddenham smiled at the scholars’ surprise as he introduced the dark-haired woman. ‘You think Isilia is too young to have a husband my age. She is my second wife – my first was taken by the Death, as were my three sons.’
‘A sad, but common, tale,’ said Michael. ‘There is not a soul in the kingdom who has not lost someone he loved to the pestilence.’
‘But your wife is with child,’ said Bartholomew, whose training as a physician meant he noticed such things. He smiled at her. ‘So you may yet have sons to inherit your estates.’
Tuddenham nodded. ‘My current heir is my nephew, Hamon. He is overseeing the Pentecost Fair celebrations at my other manor this morning. I own two manors, you see: this one, and one just over those trees. I allow Hamon to run the smaller of the two, to gain experience for managing both in the future.’
‘Our estates will not prosper under the rule of that young oaf,’ said Dame Eva with sudden feeling. ‘My husband – God rest his soul – spent all his blameless life building these lands into something worth having, but Hamon will destroy everything in weeks with his weakness and foolery if you are rash enough to entrust them to him.’
Tuddenham sighed, and Bartholomew suspected that the argument was not a new one. ‘You malign the lad – there is some good in him. But I have no choice: Hamon is the only male Tuddenham in his generation to have escaped the Death.’
‘But he will not inherit over my children,’ said Isilia, smiling reassuringly at her mother-in-law. She slipped her arm through that of her husband, and addressed Bartholomew. ‘Poor Thomas has been so long without children of his own that he still cannot believe that he is to be a father again.’
Tuddenham smiled, rather sadly. ‘My wife is right. It is strange for a man at my stage in life to be contemplating fatherhood again, but the plague changed all that.’
‘Is that why you are giving us the living of the church?’ asked Michael. ‘Bestowing a gift on our College to ensure the heavens look favourably on your unborn child?’
Since the plague, such benefactions had become increasingly common as the wealthy sought to put themselves in God’s favour by making donations of land and money to the Church or a College. There was nothing like a brush with death to make people generous.
Tuddenham considered. ‘In a sense, I suppose. But Isilia’s dowry included land at Otley, and it is because of this that I am able to donate the church to Michaelhouse. Speaking of which, shall we make a start on drafting out the deed that will make the living legally yours?’
‘What, now?’ asked Michael, taken aback, and looking meaningfully at the food-laden tables.
Tuddenham did not seem to notice the monk’s reluctance. He beamed and rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. ‘Why not? I have always believed in getting on with things. Did you bring the licence from the King that will allow me to grant you the advowson?’
‘We did,’ said Michael. ‘It was signed in Westminster on the sixth day of May, so you can legally pass the living of the church to Michaelhouse any time you like.’
‘Good, good,’ said Tuddenham, still rubbing his hands. ‘And then you can write my will for me, and act as my executors after I die?’
‘I understand that is part of the informal agreement you made with Master Alcote when you first discussed this matter,’ said Michael, his eyes still fastened on the food. ‘Our College has some excellent lawyers, and acting as your executors will be the least we can do to show appreciation for your generosity.’
‘Do not talk about deaths and wills on such a day,’ protested Isilia, clutching at her husband’s sleeve. ‘It is the first day of the Pentecost Fair, and we should be feasting and enjoying the music, not talking about boring old deeds and legal rubbish.’
‘Quite so, madam,’ said Michael quickly.
‘No time like the present for these matters,’ said Tuddenham, as if they had not spoken. ‘Did you bring your own writing materials, or shall I send for some?’
Dame Eva stepped forward and rested a frail hand of bones and soft skin on her son’s shoulder, shaking her head indulgently. ‘Really, Thomas,’ she said, affectionately chiding. ‘I know you are anxious to have the deed signed and sealed as soon as possible, but we should not forget our manners. Our guests must be weary after their travels. Tomorrow will be soon enough to start.’
‘Thank you for your consideration, madam,’ said Michael graciously. ‘We are indeed tired.’ He eyed the food tables again. ‘And hungry.’
With clear disappointment, Tuddenham dropped the subject of the advowson, and gestured that the scholars should sit on a bench, while he called for a servant to bring them ale. When it arrived, Isilia poured it into pewter cups. It was warm from the sun, and tasted sour and strong. As she handed him his, Bartholomew found himself gazing at her again, admiring her delicate beauty. He blushed when she glanced up and caught him. Unabashed, she gave him a patient smile that suggested she was used to such responses, and then politely turned her attention to Michael’s account of their journey, flagrantly exaggerated to ensure Tuddenham would fully appreciate the gesture the Michaelhouse men were making by undertaking such a long and dangerous mission.
Listening to the conversation with half an ear, Bartholomew sipped his ale and began to relax, grateful that the journey was at an end at last. All they needed to do now was to draft the advowson – which might take as long as several days, if Tuddenham’s personal affairs were complex – and then go home. He pushed the dull prospect of legal documents from his mind, and turned his attention to the merrymaking on the green.
The villagers seemed in high spirits, something that had been conspicuous by its absence in most of the settlements they had passed since leaving Cambridge. The plague had hit rural England hard, and many people, tied by law to the lord of the manor in which they were born, were no longer able to scrape a decent living from the land. To see folk well fed and adequately clothed, and even with spare pennies to squander on the useless trinkets that a chapman was hawking on the green, was a pleasant and unexpected change.