A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Six possible options, and six views as to which one we should take.’ Bartholomew was amused, despite his tiredness and discomfort. Such dissent was typical among scholars.

  ‘I should not have stopped in the first place,’ muttered Michael. ‘I should have just ridden in the right direction and you would all have followed. This is the problem with democracy: nothing is ever decided. But I am Senior Proctor, and I outrank you all. We shall go left.’

  He jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode off before objections could be raised. Bartholomew exchanged a shrug with Cynric, and supposed all three paths must lead somewhere, or they would not be there.

  The track Michael had chosen narrowed after a few yards, forcing them to ride single file. Soon, the trees had closed in so tightly that they met overhead to form a gloomy tunnel. Leaves slapped at them as they passed, drenching them in droplets. Then the path jigged to the right, where the wood suddenly gave way to open meadows. Beyond, a few houses could be seen on the brow of a hill.

  ‘Haverhill!’ exclaimed Michael victoriously. ‘I told you so!’

  He was about to move ahead again, when there was a shout. Someone emerged from the woods on the left and began running towards them. There was a mob at his heels, armed with pitchforks. With a gasp of relief, the man reached Michael’s horse and seized the reins. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was going to haul the monk from the saddle and effect an escape, but he evidently took stock of Michael’s size and thought better of it.

  ‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried. ‘You must save me from this vicious, heathen crowd.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus and all the saints preserve us!’ breathed Cynric, staring at him in alarm. ‘It is Carbo – the priest Shropham murdered. He has risen from the dead, and is here to snatch our souls!’

  ‘That is not Carbo,’ said Bartholomew, although the fellow who ducked and bobbed behind Michael’s horse was more concerned with the crowd that was pursuing him than with the fact that the book-bearer was accusing him of being a corpse. ‘It is someone else.’

  ‘There is an unsettling similarity, though,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘This fellow is heavier and his hair is longer, but I can see why Cynric confused them.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ demanded the book-bearer uneasily. ‘You are not mistaking these small differences for what happens to a man once he is in his coffin?’

  ‘They are two different people,’ said Bartholomew firmly. The last thing they needed was for Cynric to indulge in a frenzy of superstitious terror when upwards of forty people were converging on them, all brandishing agricultural implements with razor-sharp points. ‘Carbo hailed from near here, so it is not surprising to encounter folk who look like him – they will be his kin.’

  Once Cynric was settled, Bartholomew turned his attention to the crowd. The men were tall and strong, while their womenfolk gave the impression that they could wrestle with cows, toss haystacks over their shoulders, and tear down trees with their bare hands. Even the children seemed powerful, and were armed with the same ruthlessly honed tools as their elders.

  By contrast, the man who cowered behind Michael was a puny specimen. Like Carbo, his complexion was pallid and unhealthy, and his hair fell in oily tendrils around his shoulders. Unlike Carbo, his clothes were well-made and expensive. He was clad in a handsome blue gipon with silver buttons on the sleeves, a gold brooch held his cloak in an elegant fold over his shoulder, and his leggings were bright orange and appeared to be made of silk.

  ‘We have no grievance with you, Brother,’ called one of the mob when he drew close enough to be heard, evidently assuming the monk would be in charge. ‘Our business is with Adam Neubold. So we shall take him from you, and go our separate ways.’

  ‘Neubold,’ mused Michael. ‘Well, well, well!’

  ‘You will let them do no such thing,’ countered Neubold vehemently. ‘I am a Dominican friar and I demand your help.’

  ‘Is that so,’ said Michael archly. ‘Then where is your religioushabit?’

  ‘In the wash,’ replied Neubold, more curtly than was wise when addressing the man he was expecting to save him. ‘But my choice of apparel is none of your affair. My grievous treatment at the hands of these savages is, however, and I order you to intervene.’

  There was an angry murmur from the crowd at the insult, and metallic clangs sounded as implements were brandished. Neubold became alarmed again, ducking behind Bartholomew and eyeing him speculatively, as though wondering whether he might be unhorsed, given that the portly monk was clearly out of the question.

  ‘Helping this man is not a good idea,’ murmured Cynric, glancing around to assess potential avenues of escape. ‘We cannot best forty angry peasants.’

  ‘We should leave,’ agreed Risleye. ‘This is not our quarrel, and we have no right to interfere.’

  ‘You cannot abandon me,’ cried Neubold in horror. ‘It would be tantamount to murder!’

  Michael addressed the villagers, drawing on all the tact he had learned during his years of dealing with prickly scholars. ‘I am sure this can be resolved without a spillage of blood. Perhaps we can adjourn to the nearest church, and discuss the matter like civilised—’

  ‘If you want to be useful, you can lend us a piece of rope, so we can hang this scoundrel,’ interrupted the largest and burliest of the villagers. He looked to be in his late thirties, and boasted an unlikely thatch of corn-yellow hair. ‘And then you can go on your way.’

  ‘No!’ screeched Neubold. He grabbed the hem of Michael’s habit, while the rabble showed their appreciation of their comrade’s remark by hammering their tools on the ground. It sounded like galloping horses, and Bartholomew’s nag began to rear in alarm.

  ‘Executing a priest is no way to solve problems,’ said Michael, glancing uneasily at the physician’s inept attempts to control his mount. The animal was on the verge of bolting – and to do so it would have to go through the press of villagers who now clustered around them. Injuries would be inevitable, and then it might not only be Neubold who was in danger from a furious horde.

  ‘Actually, it would solve a good many problems,’ countered Yellow Hair, stepping forward to soothe the beast with large, competent hands. ‘But we are not really going to lynch him, tempting though it is. He was trespassing, and all we intend to do is make him apologise for his audacity.’

  ‘Never!’ declared Neubold. ‘And we shall see what Elyan has to say about this outrage.’

  ‘Elyan?’ asked Michael. ‘Henry Elyan? What does he have to do with the situation?’

  ‘Neubold is his clerk, as well as his parish priest,’ explained Yellow Hair. He regarded Neubold coldly. ‘We shall make him apologise, too, for sending you in the first place.’

  Neubold glowered back at him and made no reply. Michael regarded the Dominican thoughtfully. ‘Were you in Cambridge recently, dealing with King’s Hall on Elyan’s behalf?’

  Yellow Hair sneered. ‘He sold coal at a greatly inflated price, and was so excited by his success that he came racing home forthwith. Unfortunately, he forgot to collect Elyan’s wife on the way, and she promptly fell ill and died. No doubt, that is why he is here now – trying to worm his way back into his master’s favour by offering to spy on us.’

  ‘You can go to Hell, William!’ spat Neubold. ‘You have no right to accuse me of spying, and if you do it again, I shall take legal action and have you fined. And you know I will succeed, because I won Osa and Idoma Gosse a fortune in compensation when they were slanderously maligned.’

  There was a growl of disapproval from the throng.

  ‘Aiding those evil villains is not one of your finest achievements,’ said William, regarding the priest with disdain. ‘And you would do well not to brag, because we despise you for it.’

  ‘They are better than you,’ declared Neubold, nettled. ‘At least they do not molest priests.’

  ‘They have not been seen for several weeks now,’ said William with some satisfaction. ‘And word i
s that they have abandoned their home in Clare. We must have frightened them off when we threatened to hang first and consider the law later.’

  ‘If you had touched them, I would have sued the lot of you,’ snarled Neubold. ‘You cannot go around stringing up whoever you feel like.’

  ‘No?’ asked one villager, fingering his belt meaningfully. ‘And who is to stop us?’

  ‘Good people of Haverhill,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Do not be hasty in your—’

  ‘Haverhill?’ interrupted William, dropping Bartholomew’s reins and spinning around to face the monk. Finding itself free, the animal bucked violently. ‘Haverhill? How dare you insult us!’

  ‘I assure you, I—’ began Michael, bewildered.

  ‘We are the good people of Withersfield. We are not from Haverhill.’ William spoke the name of the neighbouring village as though it was another word for Hell.

  ‘If you wanted Haverhill, you should have continued straight when the old road ended,’ called one of the women, evidently trying to be helpful. ‘You must have turned left.’

  Michael did not look at Bartholomew. ‘Well, perhaps we should go back the way we came, then, and set ourselves aright before the daylight fades completely. Assuming my colleague can ever regain control of his horse, that is,’ he added, shooting the physician an exasperated glance.

  ‘You do not have time,’ said William, coming to the rescue a second time. ‘It is not a good idea to enter Haverhill after dark, because you never know who you might meet. So, you had better come with us, and resume your journey in the morning. We shall take you to Roger Luneday of Withersfield Manor. His house has a chimney.’

  A ripple of pride ran through the assembled villagers. Chimneys were apparently architectural extras that were highly prized in west Suffolk.

  ‘Well, in that case, we accept,’ said Michael, exchanging a brief glance with Bartholomew: it was an excellent opportunity to see whether Luneday would admit to receiving five marks from Wynewyk for pigs. ‘We are not men to decline shelter in a house with a chimney.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Neubold, full of angry indignation. ‘Am I to be abandoned to these ruffians, while you flounce off to enjoy Luneday’s flue?’

  ‘You will accompany us, and your fate will be decided tomorrow, when tempers have cooled,’ decreed Michael. ‘It is too late to resolve what promises to be a lengthy business this evening.’

  ‘But I—’ objected Neubold.

  Michael raised an imperious hand to silence him. ‘Who will lead the way to this chimney?’

  It was not far to Withersfield. They followed a winding path down to a hollow, where a pretty church nestled in a fold in the hills next to a bubbling brook; several cottages huddled around it. The manor house was set across an undulating sward of common land. It was a handsome building with a thatched roof, and its elegant chimney boasted an ornately carved top. Its orchard was full of apple, pear and cherry trees, and its vegetable plots were home to leeks, onions and cabbages. The scent of herbs and recently scythed grass was rich in the chill evening air.

  William led the way towards it, followed by the Michaelhouse men, while the remaining villagers brought up the rear. A reluctant Neubold was among them, protesting vociferously about the way he was being manhandled.

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped William, becoming tired of it. ‘If you persist in whining, one of us might give you some real cause for complaint.’

  ‘I have every reason to be indignant,’ shouted Neubold. ‘I have been shamefully wronged.’

  ‘What exactly did he do?’ While Bartholomew’s better judgement told him it might be wiser not to ask, it was unusual for a priest to be pursued quite so hotly by a mob. It was also unusual for one to dispense with his habit and sport elegant secular clothing, and the physician’s curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Spying,’ replied William shortly. ‘But he has no excuse this time – he was caught red-handed.’

  ‘Spying on what?’ Withersfield was an attractive place, and its villagers were well-fed and healthy, but Bartholomew could not imagine it owned anything to warrant espionage.

  ‘Neubold is parish priest of Haverhill’s Upper Church,’ William started to explain. He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed impatiently. ‘The older of its churches.’

  ‘There are two?’

  ‘Actually, there are three. Well, two and a chapel, to be precise. Besides the Upper Church, there is St Mary the Virgin, which is bigger and newer, and there is the chantry chapel.’

  ‘You said Neubold was spying,’ prompted Bartholomew. ‘On what?’

  ‘I am getting there,’ said William testily. ‘As I was saying, Neubold is one of Haverhill’s priests, so he has no right to set foot on Withersfield soil. The fact that he is here means he is spying – there is no other reason for him to foul our land with his presence. And what do you think he wants? Pigs!’

  ‘Pigs?’ echoed Bartholomew, mystified.

  ‘Pigs,’ repeated William, adding darkly, ‘We have them, and Haverhill wants them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

  William’s expression was grim. ‘But we had better not talk about it any more, because it might induce me to wring Neubold’s miserable neck. Tell me about your business instead. Have you come to purchase pottery? I hate to say something good about Haverhill, but they do produce lovely jugs.’

  ‘We might look at them,’ hedged Bartholomew, reluctant to admit that they had come to investigate the loss of thirty marks. He was bemused by the antipathy of the Withersfield folk to their Haverhill neighbours, and decided it was safer to keep the real purpose of the visit secret until he and Michael had a fuller understanding of the situation.

  William started to press him further, but the physician was spared from answering, because they had reached the manor house. One of the children had evidently run ahead to warn its residents that there were to be guests, for its lord and lady emerged from the house as the party approached.

  Luneday was a sturdy fellow in middle years, whose black beard was tinged with grey. He wore a laced gipon of emerald green, and his shoulder cloak was brown and held in place by a gold pin. His boots were thick and practical, and bore stains that suggested he had been out on the land that day. The woman next to him was clad in a close-fitting kirtle, an unflattering garment for someone on the plump side. Her fair hair was coiled and held in place by a fine net of silver thread, called a fret.

  ‘I hear we are to have the pleasure of company tonight,’ said Luneday, smiling a welcome. ‘A monk from St Edmundsbury Abbey and his companions.’

  ‘Actually, they are only scholars from Cambridge,’ said William apologetically. ‘They do not have the good fortune to hail from Suffolk.’

  Tesdale bristled with resentment at the remark. He was proud of the fact that he was Cambridge born and bred, and Bartholomew was obliged to nudge him, to prevent him from making an acid retort. Risleye merely regarded the lord of the manor with an aloof expression, as if he considered a mere landowner beneath him, although Valence smiled engagingly.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Luneday. He tried to conceal his disappointment, but did not succeed – scholars were evidently a very poor second to visitors from St Edmundsbury. He cleared his throat, and gestured to the lady at his side. ‘This is my woman, Margery Folyat.’

  ‘Your wife?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bemused by the odd introduction.

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Luneday airily. ‘My wife has been on business in Thetford since the plague, so Margery moved in three years ago, to keep me from being lonely.’

  ‘And to keep his purse empty,’ muttered William, not quite loud enough for Luneday to hear. Bartholomew glanced at him, and saw him regarding Margery with considerable dislike. But when he turned back to Margery, he supposed she did look like a woman out for her own ends. The hand on Luneday’s arm was more possessive than affectionate, and it was clear from her fine clothes that she liked spending money
.

  With unexpected grace for a man so large, Michael slid from his saddle and effected an elegant bow. Impressed by his gracious manners, Margery stepped forward to return the greeting.

  ‘I do like your cloak, Brother,’ she said, with a predatory smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she intended to have it off him. ‘I do not think I have ever seen such fine wool – nor such generous folds. It must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘Her husband lives in Haverhill,’ Luneday went on, hastily stepping between them, ‘where he works as a gatekeeper. But we rarely visit the place, so we do not run into him very often. It is just as well, as he does not like her being up here and complains about it every time we do meet.’

  ‘You caught him, then,’ said Margery, indicating Neubold with a nod of her head. Then it was the priest’s turn to shoot her a look of dislike; she returned it in full. ‘I thought he was going to escape, because I have never seen anyone run so fast. He was like a rat, scuttling away.’

  ‘Lock him in the barn, William,’ ordered Luneday, also treating Neubold to a contemptuous glare. ‘We shall have his apology in the morning. I do not like men who steal pigs, especially Lizzie.’

  ‘He was trying to steal Lizzie?’ William was appalled. ‘I thought he was just inspecting her litter.’

  ‘He had a halter around her neck,’ said Luneday. He presented a harness, fashioned from rope, which William snatched from him in shocked anger.

  Neubold became flustered when confronted with the evidence of his crime. ‘That is not a halter,’ he declared. His eyes were everywhere, like a frightened ferret. ‘It is a charm.’

  ‘A charm?’ echoed Margery, her voice dripping contempt. ‘Do not insult us with lies!’

  ‘What kind of charm?’ asked Luneday.

  ‘One that will ensure Lizzie wins the Haverhill and Withersfield Livestock Competition again next year,’ babbled Neubold. ‘It is for luck.’

  Margery released a sharp bark of laughter, which was echoed by the listening villagers. ‘You should stick to the law,’ she said. ‘You may impress the likes of Osa Gosse by manipulating obscure statutes, but you are a pathetic thief. Even your brother is better than you, and he is mad.’