Further on, past the Castle and St Radegund's Convent, he came face to face with a small deer, which stared at him curiously before bolting away into the undergrowth.
After a while he came to the village of Chesterton, where Dominica Lydgate, the unfortunate daughter of the Master of Godwinsson, was supposed to be staying with her mysterious relatives.
The bell in the church was beginning to toll for the early morning sendee. Bartholomew waded across the river, still shallow from weeks of dry weather, and made his way through a boggy meadow towards it. He opened a clanking door and slipped inside as the priest began to say mass. One or two children regarded him with open interest and Bartholomew wondered how he must appear to the congregation: cloakless, tabard dripping wet, shoes squelching from fording the river. One child reached up and patted his bag, giggling afterwards with her sister at her audacity. Bartholomew smiled at them, increasing their mirth, until a nervous mother moved them away.
The Chesterton priest apparently had better things to do with his morning than preaching, for he raced through the mass at a speed that would have impressed Father William. The quality of his Latin, however, was appalling, and once or twice he said things that Bartholomew was certain he could not mean. As he intoned his unintelligible phrases, he eyed his few parishioners with what was so obviously disdain that Bartholomew was embarrassed.
After the brief ceremony, the priest stood at the door to offer a limp hand and a cold nod to any who paused long enough to acknowledge him. Bartholomew loitered, taking his time to finish his prayers, and then pretending to admire the painted wooden ceiling. When he was certain everyone else had left, he headed for the door.
The priest nodded distantly at him, and almost jostled | him out of the building so that he could lock the door.
'Nice church,' said Bartholomew as an opening gambit.
The priest ignored him and began to stride away.
Bartholomew followed, walking with him up the path that led to the village — a poor collection of flimsy cottages clustered around a square, squat tower-house.
'Have you been here long?' he asked politely. 'It seems a pleasant village.'
The priest stopped. 'I do not like scholars in my church,' he growled, eyeing Bartholomew with open hostility.
'I am not surprised, given your atrocious Latin,' Bartholomew retorted. Since the polite approach had failed, Bartholomew considered he had little to lose by being rude in return.
'What do you want here?' said the priest. 'You are not welcome — not in my church and not in the village.'
He made as if to move on but Bartholomew stood in front of him and blocked his path. 'And why would that be?' he asked. 'On whose orders do you repel travellers?'
'Travellers!' the priest mocked, looking hard at the tabard that marked Bartholomew not only as a scholar of the University of Cambridge but as one of its teachers.
'I know who you are, Doctor Bartholomew.'
Bartholomew was startled when the priest gave his name. The man looked smug when he saw Bartholomew's astonishment.
'They said you would come,' he said. 'You or Brother Michael. You will find nothing to interest you here.'
'I wish the answers to two questions,' said Bartholomew, 'and then I will go. First, where is the house where Dominica Lydgate is supposed to be staying? And second, who told you to expect us?'
The priest sneered and started to walk away. 'You will learn nothing from me, Bartholomew. And do not try to cow me with threats because I know you have been ill and your stars are unfavourable. I was a fighting man once, and could take you on with one hand behind my back.'
Could you indeed? thought Bartholomew. 'Perhaps you might like to repeat that to the Bishop when I bring him here to celebrate mass with you next week. The Bishop is also a fighting man, especially after hearing bastard Latin in his churches.'
The man turned back, and Bartholomew saw him blanch. 'The Bishop would not come here,' he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Although he could not be sure that a scholar like Bartholomew would have sufficient influence with the Bishop of Ely to induce him to visit Chesterton, he was certainly aware that the Bishop could have him removed from his parish in the twinkling of an eye. It was clear the priest was not popular with his parishioners and it seemed unlikely that any of them would speak in his favour.
Bartholomew shrugged. 'You will know next week,' he said, and began to walk back the way he had come. He heard the priest following him and turned, uneasy with the man so close behind.
The priest sighed and looked out towards the meadows.
'First, Dominica was in the tower-house, but she is no longer here. Second, this manor is owned by Maud's Hostel, so I need not tell you on whose instructions we are bound to silence.'
The man's arrogance had evaporated like mist; Bartholomew suddenly felt sorry for him in his shabby robes and dirty alb.
'Who lives in the tower-house?' he asked.
'That is your third question,' said the priest, some of the belligerence bubbling back. 'It belongs to Maud's, and Mistress Bigod lives there. Now, please leave.'
'What relation is she to Thomas Bigod, the Master of Maud's?' asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself. He looked apologetically at the priest, who grimaced.
'Since I have already told you what I was expressly forbidden to reveal, what can other questions matter?' he asked bitterly. 'Mistress Bigod is Thomas Bigod's grandmother.'
'His grandmother? Thomas Bigod is no green youth, so she must be as old as the hills. Does she live there alone?'
'She has a household of servants and retainers,' said the priest. 'And she is probably eighty-five or eighty-six now. I have given her last rites at least four times over the past two years.'
Bartholomew reflected. So much for the Lydgates' claim that Dominica had been staying with relatives.
She had been left in the care of a kinswoman of none other than the surly Master of Maud's Hostel — a man whose name seemed to crop up with suspicious regularity whenever Bartholomew and Michael discovered something odd. The last time Bartholomew had encountered Master Bigod had been when the man had tried to rob him on the dark street during the thunderstorm.
The priest was growing restless. He was keen to be away from the person to whom he had been forbidden to speak, but was still afraid that Bartholomew might have the influence to persuade the Bishop to visit Chesterton's church. The physician promised not to reveal the source of his information, although it would not be difficult for anyone to guess, given that several villagers had watched him speak with the priest, and gave his word never to mention Chesterton and miserable Latin in the same breath to another living soul. The priest remained uneasy but there was little Bartholomew could do to convince him further that he had far better things to do than to hang around in Ely waiting for an audience with a busy bishop, who would not be interested in a remote and unimportant parish anyway.
Finally tearing himself away, Bartholomew walked towards the untidy collection of shacks that comprised the village, but left quickly, unnerved by the hostility that brooded in the eyes of the people he met. A short distance away, certain he was not observed, he found a suitable vantage point, and settled in the long grass to watch the tower-house for any indication that Dominica might still be there. There was little to see, however, and he soon grew chilled from sitting still.
Perhaps around ten o'clock, the church bell rang for mass again. The occupants of the tower-house evidently preferred the later sitting, for a large number of people trudged through the drizzle to the dismal church. In the midst of them, carried in a canopied litter, was the old lady. Bartholomew's professional eye could detect no signs of senility, no drooling or muttering. If anything, she seemed to exercise a rigid control over her household, and her sharp, strong voice wafted insistently to where Bartholomew listened.
When the church doors had been closed to block the draughts, probably on the old lady's orders, Bartholomew left his hiding place and made for the tower-house. He skulked around the outbuildings, attentive for signs that someone had remained behind, but heard nothing. It seemed Mistress Bigod's entire household was obliged to attend the ten o'clock service: the tower-house and its stables and sheds were deserted. He walked quickly into the yard and looked up at the keep. It was a simple structure, based on the Norman way of building: a
