‘It looks as though you were right after all,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘The man was not executed legally, or people would have known about it. What a curious turn of events!’
Seeing Alcote did not believe him, Wauncy beckoned Tuddenham over. The knight had been cornered by Father William, who was regaling him with one of his rabid diatribes on heresy. Clearly relieved by his timely rescue, Tuddenham came toward them, hauling his wife away from the handsome Horsey as he passed. Bartholomew did not blame him. Horsey might well be a friar in major orders, and forbidden physical relations with women, but so was Michael, and Bartholomew was certain the fat monk was no more celibate than was Matilde the Prostitute.
‘Our guests claim there was a man hanging on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner today,’ said Wauncy to Tuddenham. ‘I have just informed them that is not possible.’
‘Wauncy is right,’ said Tuddenham, surprised. ‘No one has been sentenced to the gibbet for at least six weeks.’
‘Well, someone was hanging there,’ said Michael.
Tuddenham shrugged, bemused. ‘I cannot imagine what has happened. I will send my steward to find out as soon as the festivities are over.’
‘Do you not think he should go now?’ suggested Michael. ‘If you say no one has been lawfully hanged on your gibbet, then the man we saw was unlawfully executed, and a murder surely merits immediate investigation?’
Tuddenham was clearly torn: the feast was about to begin, and it was already late in the day, with the sun casting long shadows across the green. Yet he did not want the scholars to consider him a lax landlord, who turned a blind eye to violent crimes committed on his land. After a moment, he sighed and agreed to look into the matter in person. He yelled to a servant, who was trying to prevent a group of children from stealing boiled eggs from one of the tables. ‘Siric! Saddle up a couple of horses. I have business at Bond’s Corner.’
Siric hurried away to do his master’s bidding, reluctantly leaving the eggs unsupervised. The children, however, hesitated to take advantage of the situation: Dame Eva was watching them with her bright, intelligent eyes. But, within moments, one leathery eyelid had dropped in a conspiratorial wink, and the children’s dirty faces broke into gap-toothed grins. Clutching their booty, they scampered away while Dame Eva turned her attention to making polite conversation with Father William.
‘This corpse you found was probably that of an outlaw,’ said Tuddenham. ‘It has not been unknown for travellers to catch would-be thieves on the road, and then dispense their own justice rather than wait for the Sheriff. I am sure the body belongs to none of my villagers – they are all here, enjoying the fair.’
‘The dead man wore a fine dagger,’ said Alcote, who invariably noticed such things. ‘It was gold with an emerald in the hilt, and there was also a belt decorated with silver studs.’
The colour drained from Tuddenham’s face, and his jaw dropped. Isilia rushed to his side, and helped him to sit on the wall, while Dame Eva abandoned William and came to stand next to him, laying a motherly hand on his shoulder and peering into his face in flustered concern.
‘Are you unwell, Thomas?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Shall I summon Master Stoate? Perhaps Doctor Bartholomew can bleed you, or give you a potion?’
‘A gold dagger with an emerald?’ whispered the knight, clutching at Isilia’s hand. ‘And a belt with silver studs?’
Alcote nodded triumphantly. ‘You do know that a man was hanged there!’
Tuddenham seemed appalled at that notion. ‘I know no such thing, Master Alcote! Are you certain this man was dead?’
‘Who was dead?’ cried Dame Eva, bewildered. ‘What has happened, Thomas?’
‘The man was dead according to our physician,’ Alcote replied, ignoring her and gesturing to Bartholomew. ‘Although he has some peculiar theories about health – for example, he believes people should wash their hands before they eat.’
‘How very odd,’ mused Walter Wauncy. ‘But what of this hanged man? Are you sure he was not some lad playing a joke on you by pretending to be dead?’
‘He was dead,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Alcote would keep his nasty opinions to himself. ‘But it seems you know him from his dagger. Who was he?’
Tuddenham exchanged a glance with Wauncy, and hesitated. It was Wauncy who spoke.
‘You must understand that we cannot be certain until we see the body, but there is only one man near here who owns anything as frivolous as a gold dagger and a silver-studded belt. But he has not been sentenced to hang. All this is most distressing!’
‘Especially for the man on the gibbet,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But who is it who owns this distinctive gold dagger?’
Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘My neighbour from the manor of Burgh – Roland Deblunville. I saw him wearing it at the Lord Mayor’s Feast at Ipswich last year. None of my other neighbours have the funds to waste on such frippery.’
‘Does this mean that someone has hanged Deblunville?’ asked Dame Eva, bewildered.
Tuddenham leaned forward and rubbed his hands across his face, while she patted his shoulder in a distracted sort of sympathy. Isilia’s face was unreadable as she stood behind her husband. After a moment, the knight looked up at his priest.
‘Wauncy, you know what will be said if Deblunville really is hanging at Bond’s Corner?’
Wauncy nodded. ‘But we should ascertain the facts before we leap to conclusions, Sir Thomas. We will ride to Bond’s Corner immediately, and try to find out what has happened.’
‘What will be said?’ asked Michael, interested.
Wauncy gnawed on his lip uncertainly, while Tuddenham stared at his boots and did not reply.
‘They will find out sooner or later, Thomas, regardless of whether Deblunville is dead or alive,’ said Dame Eva practically. ‘Your feud with the wretch is not exactly a secret.’
Tuddenham sighed. ‘You are right. I just did not want our guests to be burdened with what is just a silly border dispute.’
‘It is a good deal more than that,’ said Dame Eva. She looked at the Michaelhouse men. ‘This villain – Roland Deblunville – has been invading almost every aspect of our lives recently. When we go to Ipswich, he is there selling his goods at absurdly cheap prices, so that it is difficult for us to trade ours; when sheep go missing from our meadows, they are always last seen near his fields; and he even purchased that lovely length of peach-coloured satin I had been saving to buy for Isilia since Christmas.’
‘I will find her something else,’ said Tuddenham tiredly.
‘What does he want peach satin for anyway?’ said Dame Eva, shaking her head. ‘He must have seen me admiring it, and bought it out of sheer spite.’
Tuddenham’s eyebrows drew together angrily at that notion. ‘Then I shall ensure his satin will pale beside the piece Isilia shall have. He will not win that battle!’
It seemed a petty state of affairs, but Bartholomew knew only too well how quickly little aggravations could escalate into serious quarrels in isolated communities. He had seen men kill and be killed for far less than a length of peach-coloured satin.
‘You must wonder what you have wandered into,’ said Tuddenham, with a strained smile. ‘Please allow me to explain. As I have mentioned, there are two manors in Grundisburgh parish, both of them mine. Deblunville’s manor borders my estates, and he claims that Peche Hall – where my nephew Hamon lives – is on his land.’
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Boundary disputes are common all over the country. Take your case to the county assizes at Ipswich, and let the lawyers decide the outcome.’
Tuddenham fixed him with a determined look. ‘The case is clear-cut, Brother: I do not need to pay lawyers to tell me I am right. The land near Peche Hall is mine. It came to me from my ancestor Hervey Bourges, who was granted it by the Conqueror himself. Hervey’s daughter founded our fine church, and her sons built Peche and Wergen halls. My family’s roots are as deeply entrenched in this village and its land as are these ancient buildings themselves.’