brook that bubbled along the side of the road for some water. It was clean and clear and tasted of river weed, quite different from the brown-coloured, peaty stuff he drank in Cambridge with its occasionally sulphurous taste that he preferred not to think about.
A blackbird sang sharply in the tree above his head, while another answered from further away. In the shadows, a kingfisher flitted brilliant blue as it dropped almost silently into the bubbling water and emerged in a flurry of droplets with a minnow in its beak. The wind hissed gently through the trees, twitching the leaves and bending the long grass and nettles that grew along the bank. It smelled sweet, flowers mingled with the earthy scent of rich earth.
It was peaceful by the stream, and Bartholomew did not feel inclined to leave it in order to go to the body of a man who had probably been murdered. He sat in the grass and waited for his horse to finish drinking, watching it take great mouthfuls of water with loud slurping sounds. The blackbird continued to call, while on the opposite side of the brook a bright male pheasant strutted and pranced, trying to attract the attentions of a dowdy hen.
Finally, feeling he could delay no longer, he took the reins of his horse and led it up the hill toward the crossroads. Tuddenham and Wauncy stood together, while Michael poked about near the foot of the gibbet in the dying light. From the stony expressions of the knight and the priest, Bartholomew sensed that something was amiss.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Wauncy in a tone that was not entirely friendly. I have heard that the scholars of Cambridge have a reputation for savouring fine wines.’
‘Are you implying we were drunk?’ asked Michael coldly, pausing in his prodding to favour the priest with the expression normally reserved for students who tried to lie to him.
Wauncy clearly was, but he folded his hands together and forced a smile. ‘All I can say is that you must have been mistaken in what you thought you saw. Look around you, Brother. There is no hanged man here now. And from what I can see, there never was.’
Chapter 3
I CAN ASSURE YOU, SIR THOMAS, THAT THERE WAS A man hanging at Bond’s Corner yesterday morning,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Someone must have returned after we left, and taken the body away.’
Tuddenham was clearly sceptical. He gestured to Siric to refill the scholars’ goblets, but Bartholomew noticed that the steward was being more cautious with the portions than he had been the previous day. Michael noticed, too, and was not amused.
It was the day after the mysterious disappearance of the corpse on the gibbet, and the scholars and Tuddenham’s household were sitting at a large table in the knight’s handsome two-storey manor house of Wergen Hall, which stood about a mile to the south of the main village. Outside, a moat and two sets of earthen banks provided basic protection against attack, although these had apparently been added when Roland Deblunville moved to the neighbouring village of Burgh, and had nothing to do with the continuing wars with the French.
Wergen Hall’s main chamber was a pleasant room with brightly painted window shutters that had been thrown open to the golden morning sunlight. Hand-woven tapestries adorned the walls, depicting hunting scenes and a rather alarming vision of Judgement Day in scarlet and emerald, which Isilia told them had been sewn by Dame Eva while her husband was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land many years before. The rafters above it were stained black with decades of smoke from fires burning in the central hearth, while the wooden floor had been liberally sprinkled with dried grass and fragrant herbs.
Bartholomew considered the oddly empty scaffold of the day before, as Michael continued to try to convince a disbelieving audience that he had not been drunk. With Tuddenham and his priest Wauncy looking on, Bartholomew had knelt in the grass below the gibbet and inspected
A blackbird sang sharply in the tree above his head, while another answered from further away. In the shadows, a kingfisher flitted brilliant blue as it dropped almost silently into the bubbling water and emerged in a flurry of droplets with a minnow in its beak. The wind hissed gently through the trees, twitching the leaves and bending the long grass and nettles that grew along the bank. It smelled sweet, flowers mingled with the earthy scent of rich earth.
It was peaceful by the stream, and Bartholomew did not feel inclined to leave it in order to go to the body of a man who had probably been murdered. He sat in the grass and waited for his horse to finish drinking, watching it take great mouthfuls of water with loud slurping sounds. The blackbird continued to call, while on the opposite side of the brook a bright male pheasant strutted and pranced, trying to attract the attentions of a dowdy hen.
Finally, feeling he could delay no longer, he took the reins of his horse and led it up the hill toward the crossroads. Tuddenham and Wauncy stood together, while Michael poked about near the foot of the gibbet in the dying light. From the stony expressions of the knight and the priest, Bartholomew sensed that something was amiss.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Wauncy in a tone that was not entirely friendly. I have heard that the scholars of Cambridge have a reputation for savouring fine wines.’
‘Are you implying we were drunk?’ asked Michael coldly, pausing in his prodding to favour the priest with the expression normally reserved for students who tried to lie to him.
Wauncy clearly was, but he folded his hands together and forced a smile. ‘All I can say is that you must have been mistaken in what you thought you saw. Look around you, Brother. There is no hanged man here now. And from what I can see, there never was.’
Chapter 3
I CAN ASSURE YOU, SIR THOMAS, THAT THERE WAS A man hanging at Bond’s Corner yesterday morning,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Someone must have returned after we left, and taken the body away.’
Tuddenham was clearly sceptical. He gestured to Siric to refill the scholars’ goblets, but Bartholomew noticed that the steward was being more cautious with the portions than he had been the previous day. Michael noticed, too, and was not amused.
It was the day after the mysterious disappearance of the corpse on the gibbet, and the scholars and Tuddenham’s household were sitting at a large table in the knight’s handsome two-storey manor house of Wergen Hall, which stood about a mile to the south of the main village. Outside, a moat and two sets of earthen banks provided basic protection against attack, although these had apparently been added when Roland Deblunville moved to the neighbouring village of Burgh, and had nothing to do with the continuing wars with the French.
Wergen Hall’s main chamber was a pleasant room with brightly painted window shutters that had been thrown open to the golden morning sunlight. Hand-woven tapestries adorned the walls, depicting hunting scenes and a rather alarming vision of Judgement Day in scarlet and emerald, which Isilia told them had been sewn by Dame Eva while her husband was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land many years before. The rafters above it were stained black with decades of smoke from fires burning in the central hearth, while the wooden floor had been liberally sprinkled with dried grass and fragrant herbs.
Bartholomew considered the oddly empty scaffold of the day before, as Michael continued to try to convince a disbelieving audience that he had not been drunk. With Tuddenham and his priest Wauncy looking on, Bartholomew had knelt in the grass below the gibbet and inspected
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