Immediately behind Luneday, keeping a wary eye on his back, was d’Audley, nervous and unhappy in wrinkled, reddish-pink clothes that put the physician in mind of an earthworm. D’Audley hated the scholars for exposing his dishonesty regarding Wynewyk’s loan. He also had good reason to hire assassins.
Michael was next, followed by the students and Hilton. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale had contrived to draw the priest into one of their interminable quarrels, and the four of them were arguing furiously over whether wet horse smelled worse than wet dog. Bartholomew stared at Hilton. He seemed a decent man, but what secret was he withholding about Joan? Would it be something that could solve the riddle of her death? Her murder, thought Bartholomew, finally acknowledging that Edith was probably right, and the sudden demise of her friend was indeed suspicious.
Elyan and Agnys brought up the rear, with the enormous gaggle of servants trailing at their heels. Elyan, immaculately attired in black tunic and cloak, was sombre and brooding. He was returning to the place where his beloved wife had died, so was that the reason for his bleak mood? Or was there more to it?
Bartholomew turned his attention to Agnys, but could gauge nothing at all from her bland expression. Moreover, he was no longer sure what to make of her. He had been inclined to trust her at first – he liked her common sense and pragmatism – but her dismissive attitude towards her lost pennyroyal bothered him profoundly.
When Cynric wheeled away to conduct one of his sporadic scouting missions the physician dropped back to ride with Michael, who had been oddly uncommunicative ever since he had returned from Clare the previous day. Bartholomew did not understand it: the monk claimed his discussion with the Austin friars had been fruitful, so why was he so morose?
‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked, growing tired of the tense silence. ‘You have barely spoken to me since last night. Did you learn something to distress you in Clare yesterday?’
‘No,’ snapped Michael, regarding him intently. ‘What makes you think that?’
Bartholomew was taken aback. ‘Your manner, for a start. You keep barking at me.’
The monk sighed, and Bartholomew saw lines of weariness etched into his face. ‘I am sorry; it is this damned case. We know a lot more about Carbo, but have no real evidence that Shropham did not kill him – and nor will we, unless he breaks his annoying silence and talks to us. Meanwhile, you still have no idea who poisoned Joan, although we have suspects galore to present to Edith.’
‘But we proved Wynewyk’s innocence,’ said Bartholomew, who was more than happy with the outcome. ‘He should not have dabbled in money-lending, but Michaelhouse will not emerge the loser from the arrangements he made.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Michael. ‘Once Langelee is forced into deciding who should inherit Elyan Manor, the disappointed parties may refuse to honour the debt. Our money could be tied up for years while lawyers wrangle. Moreover, Elyan has already said that he does not have eighteen marks to give us, and I am not sure we should accept that low-grade coal in its place.’
Langelee would be disappointed when presented with promises of pigs and fuel instead of coins, but it could not be helped. Personally, Bartholomew was more concerned with what the Suffolk men would say when they met Langelee, and was sure King’s Hall would refuse to bide by any decision made by the head of a rival foundation. The physician did not blame them: Langelee was hardly noted for his sagacity, unless it was in assessing camp-ball strategies.
‘And to make matters worse, there is no way we will reach Cambridge today,’ Michael went on gloomily. ‘Not unless we travel after dark, which would be tantamount to suicide, given the number of arrows that have been let loose of late. I shall miss the Blood Relic debate.’
‘You will not. It is not until tomorrow afternoon – we will be home long before then.’
‘But we shall have these Suffolk people to entertain,’ complained Michael bitterly. ‘Do you think they will let us abandon them while we attend an academic extravaganza? They will expect us to stay with them, talking about pigs, coal and boring deeds of ownership.’
Bartholomew could have said it was the monk’s own fault for telling lies about Langelee, but he held his tongue. Michael was in an unfathomable mood, and he did not want to make it worse.
Just as the day was beginning to fade, Cynric spotted lights gleaming through the trees. Bartholomew estimated it was still at least another six miles to Cambridge, and recommended they find lodgings for the night. The mood of the party had soured during the afternoon; there had been no further ambushes, but the miserable weather and difficult travelling conditions had taken their toll, and everyone was tired and irritable. It was certainly time to stop.
‘But that is Babraham,’ declared Risleye in distaste. ‘I am not staying there. I visited it once before – when I saw Wynewyk and he bribed me to say nothing about it – and it is a horrible place. There is only one inn, for a start, and there will not be enough room for all of us.’
Tesdale shot Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday a black look. ‘And it will not be our wealthy friends who are expected to sleep outdoors,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘It will be the poor students.’
‘The lady seems tired, sir,’ whispered Valence to Bartholomew, nodding towards Agnys. ‘She tries to hide it, but I think riding hurts her ancient joints. It would be a kindness to stop here.’
Michael agreed. ‘And it would be foolish to travel through the dark anyway, much as I would like to reach Michaelhouse tonight. We shall stay here.’
They followed Cynric along a track that led to a small church and a moat-encircled house; the village huddled between them. Risleye was right about there being only one inn, and it did not take long to learn it only had three rooms. Luneday earned himself the best one by gifting the landlord a piece of smoked pork. D’Audley paid handsomely for the second. And because it was polite, Michael and Bartholomew insisted Lady Agnys take the last; she agreed to share with her grandson and Hilton. Meanwhile, the servants wasted no time in claiming the few dry spots in the stables and barn.
‘I told you we should not have stopped here,’ said Risleye bitterly, a look of disgust on his face. ‘What do we do now? Sleep under the stars? In the rain?’
‘We could try the manor house,’ suggested Valence. ‘My grandfather used to bring me here, and I know for a fact that it has been abandoned since the Death. It is derelict, but there will be some corner that still owns a roof, and we can light a fire.’
‘Then lead on,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘Or I shall fall asleep on my feet.’
Valence was right – the mansion was one of many houses that had been left to rot after the plague had claimed its owners. It was accessed by a wooden bridge so dangerously ruinous that crossing the moat was an adventure in itself. Michael squawked in alarm when his foot plunged through a decayed plank, and he fell so heavily that he demolished the rickety handrail as he went.
‘Whose idea was this?’ he snarled, as Bartholomew and Cynric struggled to drag him upright.
‘Valence’s,’ replied Risleye, making no effort to hide his amusement at the monk’s predicament. ‘You should fine him for making the Senior Proctor flail about like a landed whale.’
‘Sorry, Brother,’ said Valence, shooting Risleye a venomous look; he could ill afford a fine. ‘I did not know the bridge was in such a state. Perhaps we should take our chances in the stables.’
‘With the servants of men who might be eager to kill us?’ muttered Cynric. ‘I do not think so!’
‘We are all safely across now, anyway,’ said Tesdale. ‘And I jarred my knee when I dismounted from my horse – I cannot go traipsing about in the dark. I need to sit down and rest.’
Cynric regarded him askance. ‘I cannot imagine him as a physician,’ he muttered to Bartholomew. ‘He is so lazy that he will never manage to get out to tend his patients.’
Bartholomew suspected he might well be right, but the rain was coming down harder now and it wa
s no time to stand and debate the matter. He began to explore. The manor’s main hall was roofless and sodden, but the kitchen was relatively intact; its door was missing, but it had a functional fireplace. He and Valence scoured the outbuildings for dry wood to burn, Michael and Cynric found straw and set about preparing crude mattresses, and Risleye laid out bread and dried meat for supper. While they worked, Tesdale sat by the hearth and made a half-hearted attempt to light a fire.
‘With killers at large, we must keep watch,’ said Cynric, elbowing Tesdale out of the way and igniting the kindling on his first attempt. ‘Valence and I will take the first turn, then Doctor Bartholomew and Tesdale, and Brother Michael and Risleye can see us through until dawn.’
‘Me?’ asked Tesdale, horrified. ‘But I have a bad knee. I cannot spend the night working.’
‘Do you see with your legs, then?’ demanded Cynric. ‘A sore limb will prevent you from sitting up and keeping guard? Or do you want a killer to slit your throat while you slumber?’
Tesdale shot him an unfriendly look, then began a sniping argument with Risleye about which mattress each should take. While they quarrelled, Michael claimed the best one for himself, moving it so close to the fire that he risked setting himself alight, not to mention hogging most of the heat. Grinning at the students’ stunned disbelief, Bartholomew lay next to the monk and closed his eyes.
The physician did not think he would sleep – the ‘bed’ was hardly comfortable, and his damp cloak was no protection against the cold – but he fell into a doze almost immediately, and was hard to wake when Cynric decided it was time for him and Tesdale to stand guard duty. Afraid he might drowse if he sat, he went to stand by the door. Tesdale opted to remain near the fire.
‘You will sleep again if you stay there,’ Cynric warned the student. ‘It is better to prowl.’
‘I cannot prowl – I have a bad leg,’ retorted Tesdale. ‘And how can I sleep when I am hungry and freezing cold? Do not worry, Cynric. I can keep a perfectly efficient watch from here.’
Bartholomew listened to them argue as he stared into the darkness outside. It was still raining, and he could hear water splattering through a broken roof somewhere. Wind hissed in the nearby trees, and he heartily wished he was back in Michaelhouse, safe, warm and dry in his own bed.
‘It is too dark to see, and impossible to hear over the racket the wind is making,’ he whispered to Tesdale after some time had passed. ‘It would not be difficult for someone with evil intentions to sneak up, no matter how vigilant we are.’
He glanced around when there was no reply, and rolled his eyes when Tesdale issued the kind of snort that told him he was fast asleep. He was about to wake him when he heard a noise coming from the direction of the bridge. It sounded as though an animal – a deer or a fox – had been startled from its lair. Why? Had the storm made it skittish, or had something else frightened it? He strained his ears, listening for any other misplaced sounds.
‘I heard it, too,’ came Cynric’s voice in his ear, making him jump. White teeth flashed in the darkness as the Welshman grinned. ‘I did not trust Tesdale, so I decided to watch with you.’
‘Shall we wake the others?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. We shall mount a little foray first, to see what is out there.’
It did not seem like a good idea to Bartholomew, but Cynric was an old hand at such matters, so the physician deferred to his expertise. He followed the Welshman out of the comparative shelter of the doorway and into the blustery night, trying to tread softly.
‘One of them just came out,’ hissed a voice from the shadows, far too close for comfort. ‘The book-bearer, probably. Sneaking around.’
‘Nonsense,’ said a second voice. ‘They have no idea we are here, and will not have set a guard. We shall dispatch them quietly, as you should have done in Withersfield and in the Haverhill ditch.’
‘That was not my fault,’ said the first, indignant and angry. ‘The alarm was raised before I could do it. And do not berate me for ineptitude, not after your disastrous ambushes on the road today.’
‘I cannot see them,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. He sounded frustrated. ‘And they—’
He stopped speaking abruptly when footsteps sounded near the bridge. Someone else was coming – not stealthily, but openly and boldly. Bartholomew swallowed hard. How many of them were there? The newcomer paused for a moment, perfectly silhouetted against the light from the fire in the kitchen. It was a large figure wearing a familiarly voluminous cloak.
‘Brother Michael!’ exclaimed one of the whisperers.
‘Where did he come from?’ Cynric murmured to Bartholomew. ‘He cannot have—’
There was a flurry of movement and two figures broke cover. It was too dark to see anything other than that they were converging on Michael. There was a startled shout, followed by the sounds of a struggle. Bartholomew raced to the monk’s rescue, but tripped over the handrail Michael had broken earlier and went sprawling. Cynric surged past him. Then there was a high-pitched squeal of pain.
Bartholomew scrambled to his feet and darted forward. But he did not get far before colliding so heavily with one of the skirmishers that he was knocked clean off his feet. He fell backwards, and felt himself begin to slide down the rain-slick bank towards the moat. He scrabbled frantically, trying to gain purchase on the grass before he reached the water. But the vegetation came away in his hands. Then, just when he had resigned himself to a ducking, he managed to grab a bush. One foot dipped into the agonisingly icy water, but the rest of him came to a halt.
Above him, all was quiet.
‘Cynric?’ he called tentatively. ‘Michael?’
For a few unsettling moments, there was no reply, but then a silhouette appeared. Without a word, Cynric extended his hand, and it was not many moments before Bartholomew was off the bank and on level ground. One leg was soaked below the knee, but he was otherwise unscathed.
‘What happened?’ he whispered. ‘Have they gone?’
‘Yes,’ replied Cynric. ‘I would have given chase but I was afraid you would drown.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I could not see.’ Cynric sounded disgusted. ‘I could not even tell if there were two or three of them, and they did not speak long or loudly enough for me to identify their voices.’
‘Where is Michael?’
Cynric grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the bridge, where a dark shape lay unmoving. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as he ran towards his friend. One rotten plank crumbled beneath his feet, but he ignored the danger as he dropped to his knees beside the prostrate figure.
But it was not Michael who gasped and cursed from the pain caused by a dagger wound in the groin. It was Luneday’s woman Margery.
Bartholomew had no idea what was going on, but it was no time for questions – Margery was losing a lot of blood. Cynric lit a candle, shielding the unsteady flame from the wind and the rain as best he could with his hat, and the physician began the battle to save her life.
The wound was deep, and had sliced through a major blood vessel. It needed several layers of sutures, but she was a hefty lady and the fat in her leg was making it difficult for him to operate. His task was not rendered any easier by her writhing, and even Cynric, who was strong for his size, was unequal to holding her still. Bartholomew yelled for Michael or the students, but there was no response, and he knew that if he left to rouse them Margery would die for certain. He had no choice but to press on alone.
It was not long before she became weaker and struggled less. It made Bartholomew’s work more straightforward, but it also meant she was slipping away from him. He tried to work faster. He ordered Cynric to press as hard as he could just above the injury, while he himself wrestled with slippery needle and thread, squinting to see in the unsteady light.
‘You are probably wondering what I am doing here,’ Margery said in a soft voice.
‘Lie still,’ order
ed Bartholomew urgently. ‘Do not speak.’
‘Why not?’ she asked in a gasp. ‘I am dying anyway. And it hurts, so I shall not mind the release. I should have known better than to meddle.’
Bartholomew thought he had finally succeeded in stemming the flow of blood, but when Cynric lifted his hands, the wound spurted again. It was hopeless – the injury was too deep, too wide and the conditions appalling. Margery was right: she was going to die. However, Bartholomew refused to give up. He indicated Cynric was to push down again, and began inserting more stitches.
‘They wanted to kill Brother Michael, not me,’ she whispered. ‘But it was my own fault. I stole his beautiful cloak and they mistook me for him in the dark.’
‘Who mistook you?’ asked Cynric, ready with questions, even if Bartholomew was too distracted.
‘I could not see, although they have been following you ever since you arrived in Suffolk. I thought they had decided to spare you when we reached this village unscathed. But I was wrong.’
‘Luneday said you had run away from him,’ said Cynric. ‘Is it true?’
Margery nodded weakly. ‘I decided to stay with a friend when you guessed how I distracted my husband the gate-keeper. But I wanted to hear what Master Langelee decides about Elyan Manor …’
‘You rode after us alone?’ asked Cynric disbelievingly. ‘With robbers and killers at large?’
‘No, I rode with you.’ The ghost of a smile played around Margery’s lips. ‘There were servants from three different estates … it was easy to hide among them. I kept my face hidden …’
‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply to Cynric. ‘Let her rest.’
‘I shall rest soon enough,’ whispered Margery. ‘And I want to talk. When I left Luneday, I stole his documents. That is why I am here now … I was bringing them to you.’
‘What documents?’ asked Cynric, watching Bartholomew take more thread and bend to his sewing again. The physician’s hands were red to the wrists, simultaneously slick and sticky.
‘I do not know – I cannot read. But they relate to Elyan Manor. I want you to give them to Master Langelee. You say he is a good man … he will see justice done …’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 34
