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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Cynric stopped pressing on Margery’s leg to grab a leather satchel that lay not far away. It was embossed with a pig. He opened it, and began leafing through its contents.

  ‘Cynric!’ hissed Bartholomew angrily, indicating the book-bearer was to replace his hands.

  The bleeding was sluggish now, but the physician suspected it was nothing to do with his efforts to save her, and more to do with the fact that she was almost drained. He glanced at her face. It was deathly white, and there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He flexed his cramped fingers as he inspected his handiwork. The wound was oozing badly. The situation was hopeless, but he pressed on anyway.

  ‘You think Elyan Manor is just farmland,’ Margery was gasping to Cynric. ‘But it is more. Why do you think everyone wants to inherit it?’

  ‘Because of the coal,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘It tends not to occur in this part of the world, so whoever owns the seam will enjoy a monopoly.’

  Margery shook her head. ‘People do not resort to killing and treachery over fuel.’

  Cynric frowned. ‘Then what—’

  ‘The mine holds a secret. Your Wynewyk knew it … It is why he came in August.’

  ‘What secret?’ demanded Cynric.

  But Margery’s expression was distant, as if she no longer heard him. ‘He sent a boy to spy … Gosse stabbed him. Carbo was a fool … should have kept his discovery quiet … but he told Elyan … and the evil was released.’

  ‘Evil?’ asked Cynric uneasily, removing one hand from her leg to grab one of his amulets. ‘You mean a curse?’

  ‘Cynric!’ snapped Bartholomew again. Reluctantly, the book-bearer replaced the hand.

  ‘It has led me … led us to terrible things,’ gasped Margery.

  ‘Like hanging Neubold?’ asked Cynric baldly.

  ‘No! I did not kill him …’

  ‘Then who did?’ demanded Cynric. ‘Mistress? Tell me who murdered the priest.’

  ‘She cannot,’ said Bartholomew, sitting back on his heels, defeated. ‘She is dead.’

  Bartholomew knelt next to Margery for a long time, wondering whether there was more he could have done to save her. Eventually, Cynric indicated he was to move. Then, while the physician scrubbed the blood from his hands in a ditch, Cynric wrapped Margery in her stolen cloak. When both had finished, Cynric went to ensure the killers were not still lurking, while Bartholomew returned to the manor house to tell Michael what had happened.

  He tiptoed carefully across the floor, so as not to wake the students, not even Tesdale. Nothing would be gained from alarming them with tales of stabbings and murder. The monk was dreaming when the physician touched his shoulder.

  ‘Matilde?’ Michael blurted blearily, before he was quite in control of his wits.

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You dream about Matilde?’

  The monk scowled. ‘Of course not. You misheard. What do you want? Is it time for me to keep watch? It does not feel late enough.’

  Bartholomew gave him a terse account of the attack on Margery, and her subsequent confession.

  ‘Why pick now to hand us these documents?’ asked Michael when the physician had finished. ‘Surely, there were safer opportunities on the road? In daylight?’

  ‘Not when she knew we suspected her involvement in Neubold’s murder. I imagine she planned to leave the satchel for us to find anonymously. Shall we tell Luneday what has happened?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He may think we had something to do with her death, and we have enough problems without adding him to our list of enemies.’

  ‘He is already on mine. And do not say he would not hurt his woman, because it was too dark to see who was stabbing whom. Of course, any of our travelling companions could have been responsible – or their servants. But what shall we do with her? We cannot leave her here.’

  ‘We must. She will be safe enough in the woods, wrapped in my cloak. We shall collect her later, when assassins are not dogging our every move.’

  Bartholomew stared at the satchel with its embossed pig. ‘I suppose we had better read these documents – find out why she thought they were important enough to risk a nocturnal wander.’

  ‘Not now, Matt. The light is too poor. Hide them in your bag – we shall study them tomorrow.’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaos of confusion and distress. ‘Do you believe what she said about Kelyng? That Gosse killed him?’

  ‘There is no reason not to – her tale fits the few facts we have. However, while Gosse may have wielded the blade, I cannot forget that Wynewyk was the one who took Kelyng to Suffolk, into a situation he knew was dangerous.’

  ‘There is no evidence to suggest he knew any such thing,’ objected Bartholomew hotly. ‘And—’

  ‘Of course there is,’ snapped Michael. ‘Cynric is right: Wynewyk wanted Kelyng to act as his guardian, because the boy was good with weapons. And I imagine he sent Kelyng to spy on the mine because he was too frightened to do it himself. He is responsible for Kelyng’s murder.’

  Bartholomew put his head in his hands, unable to think of a reply.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Michael, speaking gently when he saw the extent of his friend’s anguish. ‘I know you were fond of Wynewyk – we all were. But—’

  ‘Where is Valence?’ said Bartholomew suddenly, seeing one of the pallets was empty.

  Michael sat up. ‘I did not hear him leave … ah, here he is.’

  ‘Call of nature,’ said Valence with a smile, going to his makeshift mattress and settling down again. ‘How much longer until dawn?’

  ‘Too long,’ muttered Michael. He turned to Bartholomew, and lowered his voice. ‘Are you sure those villains killed Margery because they thought she was me? You cannot be mistaken?’

  ‘We heard them say your name, and she was wearing your cloak. There was no mistake.’

  ‘Then you can sleep while I keep watch. Knowing there are men itching to slide a dagger into your innards is hardly conducive to restful slumber, anyway.’

  The rain stopped during the night, and the following day saw a dawn with clear skies and the promise of sunshine. Bartholomew had woken chilled to the bone, and could not stop shivering as he waited for Cynric to saddle the horses. Tesdale, Risleye and Valence came to stand next to him.

  ‘What a miserable night,’ said Tesdale, yawning. ‘I did not sleep a wink. Still, at least nothing terrible happened, and we are all alive and well. I could have told Cynric that no self-respecting villain would strike in such grim weather.’

  ‘It was horrible,’ agreed Valence. ‘I do not think I shall ever be warm again.’

  ‘I am all right,’ said Risleye smugly. ‘I have some strong wine in my saddlebag, and it served to banish the cold nicely. I would offer to share, but I might need more of it myself later.’

  ‘We should still ride with the main party,’ whispered Cynric to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘As I said yesterday, it is better to have them where we can see them. Them and their servants. Besides, it would look odd to abandon them here.’

  As it transpired, their companions were waiting for them on the main road, all claiming they had slept poorly. Various reasons were offered – lousy beds, noisy wind and rain, saddle sores – and there was not a single traveller who did not seem weary and heavy eyed. It meant Bartholomew was unable to tell whether one – or more – was involved in the previous evening’s dark business.

  They made good time once they were underway, and it was not long before they began the long, slow climb up the Gog Magog hills. Luneday gave a delighted yell when he reached the top, and reined in to admire the view.

  The Fens were veiled by a pall of mist to the north, and Cambridge was a huddle of spires, towers and roofs amid a patchwork of brown fields and leafless hedges. But Bartholomew was more interested in the undergrowth surrounding the road, because he thought he had glimpsed movement there. The woods lay thick around that section of the track, and they were eerily silent. He could see the ramparts of th
e ancient fortress to his right, vast, mysterious and shrouded in weeds.

  ‘We are being followed,’ whispered Cynric.

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, twisting to look behind them. The manoeuvre almost unseated him, for his horse objected and he was not a good enough rider to control it when it bucked.

  ‘Shall we find out who it is?’ asked Cynric. ‘For some reason, we have fewer Suffolk servants in tow than yesterday. Perhaps they have been detailed to finish what was started last night. We can ride down this small path and come out behind them before they realise what is happening.’

  ‘There are fewer servants because Valence told Agnys and d’Audley that rooms are expensive in Cambridge,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘The dispensable retainers have been left in Babraham.’

  Cynric shot him the kind of look that said he was a fool for believing such a tale. ‘Here is our chance to see whether we can learn who is behind these attacks. Are you ready?’

  ‘We are almost home.’ Bartholomew was still troubled by his failure to save Margery, and did not feel like a foray into the undergrowth that might prove dangerous. ‘And then it will not matter – Michaelhouse will keep us safe.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Cynric. ‘And it is always better to attack than defend. Come.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Bartholomew swore under his breath when the book-bearer wheeled away, clearly expecting him to follow. He jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the beast snickered malevolently and immediately shot off in the opposite direction. He managed to turn it, then was obliged to cling on for dear life as it started to gallop.

  ‘Hush!’ hissed Cynric irritably, when he caught up. ‘I said we were going to spy on them, not stampede them.’

  He dismounted, so Bartholomew did likewise. The horse clacked its teeth at the physician when he tied its reins to a tree, then lurched sideways and almost knocked him over. Irritably, he shoved it back, and it released a high-pitched whinny of annoyance. He glanced at Cynric and saw that the book bearer’s expression was one of weary disgust. Then the Welshman disappeared into the trees so abruptly that Bartholomew was not quite sure where he had gone. It took several moments to locate him, by which time Cynric was muttering testily about thinking his master had abandoned him.

  ‘That is not a good idea,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘It is too—’

  But Cynric had slid off into the undergrowth again with all the stealth of a hunting cat. The physician followed rather more noisily, and was treated to several long-suffering glares when he trod on sticks that snapped underfoot or rustled the vegetation.

  Eventually, they reached the clearing in the centre of the ancient earthworks. Osa Gosse stood there, hands on his hips. His sister was with him. They were both angry, and even from a distance Bartholomew was aware of the cold malevolence that emanated from them both.

  Bartholomew’s first instinct was to back away and leave the pair well alone, but Cynric gestured that they should edge closer, to hear what was being said. With considerable reluctance, and no small degree of unease, the physician did as he was told.

  ‘How much longer do we wait?’ Idoma was demanding. Her fine clothes were rumpled and the veil that covered her jet-black hair was askew. The dark rings beneath her shark-fish eyes gave them a decidedly sinister cant, and her fury was palpable. She was sitting on a tree stump, rubbing her leg.

  ‘A few more moments,’ Gosse replied. ‘We cannot risk being seen and recognised. We had a narrow escape last night – that book-bearer almost unmasked us.’

  ‘And I was gashed, into the bargain.’ Idoma flexed her knee. ‘Damned villain!’

  ‘But Brother Michael lives to tell the tale,’ Gosse went on sourly. ‘The physician must have saved him, although I cannot imagine how. I struck hard and low, and the wound should have been—’

  ‘None of it would have happened if we had attacked when I said,’ Idoma snapped. ‘They would be quietly dead and we would have been back in Cambridge by now – unscathed.’

  Gosse was struggling for patience. ‘We needed to wait until the book-bearer slept. He thwarted me in Withersfield with his vigilance, and he thwarted you on the road near Hadstock yesterday.’

  ‘He was not there when we had the monk and the physician pinned in the ditch, but they still escaped.’ Idoma’s voice was a low, angry growl. ‘Some demon is watching over them, keeping them safe. By rights, they should be in their graves.’

  Bartholomew had heard enough. ‘It is not the Suffolk people trying to harm us,’ he whispered to Cynric. He took a deep breath, to summon his courage, and started to stand. ‘It is them – and it is time they answered for their crimes.’

  Cynric yanked him down again, sharply. ‘We cannot tackle them alone.’

  Bartholomew stared at him in surprise. Cynric was not usually a man to shrink from a fight. ‘Of course we can. They are two, and so are we.’

  ‘But Idoma is a witch,’ objected Cynric, pale-faced. ‘I do not mind spying on her, but we cannot fight her in open combat. She will summon denizens from Hell and then she and her brother will have what they want: us dead and Brother Michael unprotected.’

  ‘They murdered Kelyng.’ The disquiet Bartholomew had felt when he had first seen Gosse and his malevolent sibling in the clearing was giving way to anger. ‘And Margery, too.’

  Urgently, Cynric indicated he should lower his voice. ‘They are talking again. Listen – see what can be learned.’

  ‘Will they still pay us?’ Idoma asked, continuing to rub her leg. ‘Even though the scholars live?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gosse quietly. ‘They dare not break an agreement with Osa Gosse.’

  Bartholomew had been in the process of shaking off Cynric’s hand and going to confront the pair on his own, but their words stopped him in his tracks. He sank down again, aware that Cynric was regarding him triumphantly.

  ‘See?’ the book-bearer murmured. ‘You would not have known they were only hired to kill you, if you had charged up to them with your blade whirling. In other words, they are only instruments, and someone else is behind the raids. I doubt they will be very forthcoming if you rush in demanding answers, so let them be, and see where they lead us.’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, confused and uncertain. ‘They are killers, and you advocate letting them go? What if they harm someone else?’

  ‘It is a risk we will have to take. I will watch them when we reach Cambridge, see where they go and who they meet.’

  It was not an ideal plan, but Bartholomew could think of no better way to discover who had paid the pair to kill – and Cynric was doubtless right in saying they were unlikely to answer questions if he stormed up to them. But Idoma was speaking again, and he strained to hear what she was saying.

  ‘So who has our property?’ she was asking. ‘We should have retrieved it by now – you have searched all the University’s most likely buildings.’

  ‘Removing a little something for my pains at each one,’ said Gosse with a grin. Then the smile faded. ‘But I have no idea where it might be. King’s Hall and Michaelhouse seemed the most likely candidates, but it is not in either of them – of that I am certain.’

  ‘Carbo should rot in Hell for laying sticky fingers on our things,’ Idoma snarled, her face dark, vengeful and dangerous. ‘He had no right!’

  ‘I wish Neubold had not stabbed him, though.’ Gosse was more meditative than irate. ‘I know we questioned him at length and his answers made no sense, but I am sure we could have broken through his mad ramblings eventually.’

  ‘And do you know why Neubold killed him?’ Idoma’s voice was pure acid. ‘To save himself! He was afraid Carbo was going to run to the Dominican Prior with tales of his venality.’

  ‘Neubold was a fool,’ said Gosse dismissively. ‘The Prior would never have believed the likes of Carbo.’

  ‘And Carbo’s death means we are left with no clue as to where our property might be,’ added Idoma bitterly. ‘Are you sure
it is not at the mine?’

  Gosse nodded. ‘I spent days watching and searching it when I first realised what he had done. You know this – I told you about the boy I was obliged to stab, who almost caught me. Thank God for Elyan, who buried the corpse because he did not want Suffolk’s Sheriff sniffing around.’

  ‘And thank God for Neubold, too,’ added Idoma caustically, ‘for inventing the tale that put Carbo in line to take the blame, should word of the murder slip out.’

  Gosse’s expression was oddly unreadable. ‘He was a decent lawyer in many ways. It is a pity his crimes caught up with him and took him to a premature end. But it is more of a pity that he did not use his sharp wits to find our property.’

  ‘What are they talking about?’ whispered Cynric. ‘What property?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Something they think went from Haverhill to the University, which explains why they have only burgled scholars’ homes.’

  ‘I never thought I would say it, but it is a pity Wynewyk is dead, too,’ Gosse was saying. ‘His role has been ambiguous, to say the least, and I never did trust him. But I am sure he knew where it is.’

  ‘What about his friend Paxtone? Is it worth questioning him?’

  ‘It would be more trouble than it is worth.’ Gosse squinted up at the sky. ‘I think enough time has passed now – the travellers are unlikely to see us if they happen to glance back. Can you walk?’

  Idoma nodded. ‘We should not waste more time here, anyway, or we will be too late to put our plan into action – and there will not be another chance like this, with all the scholars crammed into the Blood Relic debate. I cannot wait to show them what happens to folk who take what is ours.’

  She laughed softly, a sound that made Bartholomew shudder; when he glanced at Cynric, the book-bearer was crossing himself with one hand and clutching his amulets with the other.

  ‘We will show them,’ Gosse said in a voice that was pure malice. ‘Today shall be a day none of them will ever forget.’