A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 10

Dawn came early, with streaks of pale blue sky showing through the clouds. Bartholomew woke determined to leave Haverhill immediately, but Tesdale proved difficult to prise out of bed. Cynric was about to resort to a jug of cold water when Luneday arrived. The Withersfield man grinned as he announced that Elyan and d’Audley had both agreed to his proposal concerning the disputed manor.

‘Oh, good,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘We are leaving today, so we shall warn … tell Langelee to expect you.’

Luneday’s expression became sombre. ‘I would not recommend that, Brother. Robbers struck again last night – either the ones who attacked you or others – and they killed a man. You should not travel in such a small party while they are at large. Wait until tomorrow, and come with us.’

‘We cannot,’ objected Michael. ‘Important business clamours for our attention in Cambridge. Besides, an important debate is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and I cannot miss it.’

‘Well, it is your decision,’ said Luneday with a shrug, ‘but I would not want to meet these thieves with only three students for protection. Bartholomew and his servant may be able warriors, but what good will they be, once they have been dispatched with arrows?’

‘Was he threatening us?’ asked Michael uncomfortably, when Luneday had gone. ‘Because he does not want us to arrive first and inform Langelee that Michaelhouse is owed a herd of pigs?’

‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew, unsettled. ‘But perhaps we should wait until tomorrow.’

‘I thought you were even more keen to leave than I am,’ said Michael, turning to stare at him in astonishment. ‘But now you advise kicking our heels in this miserable hole for another day?’

‘I am keen to leave, but we were almost killed yesterday. We may not be so lucky next time, and I do not want Cynric or the students hurt, just because we want to go home. I think we should wait.’

While they spoke, Michael had been rifling through the blankets they had folded and piled at the end of the bed. ‘I cannot find my cloak. Did I leave it at Elyan Manor?’

‘You did not wear it there – you said you did not need it when we went out, then complained about being cold all the way home.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Of course I complained about being cold – I was being forced to wallow in icy water. Still, at least I had the foresight to bring a change of clothes, unlike some I could mention. I did not bring a spare cloak, though, so you had better help me find it.’

But a search revealed that the garment was not in the bedchamber, and the landlord informed the monk that if it had been left in the tavern at some point, then it would be long gone. It was a fine item of clothing, he said, and it was not surprising someone had taken a fancy to it.

Michael exaggerated a shiver as they stood in the marketplace. It promised to be warm that morning, and it was only later in the day that there was predicted to be a drop in temperature. ‘We do not need to worry about being shot at – I shall freeze to death first.’

‘There is Lady Agnys,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where the old woman was struggling to dismount her horse. ‘Ask to borrow one of hers – she is large and favours sober colours.’

Michael shot him a nasty look, then grumbled at Agnys about the theft before she could say so much as good morning. She listened patiently.

‘You and I had better ride to Clare this morning,’ she said, as soon as she could insert a few words into the angry tirade, ‘and beg one from the Austin friars. We cannot have you catching a chill.’

‘If it is not safe to go to Cambridge, then it is not safe to go to Clare, either,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw the monk seriously considering the offer.

‘We shall take guards,’ replied Agnys smoothly. ‘And there is another reason for visiting the priory. I promised you information about your mysteries, and I have managed to find you some at last. An informant tells me that Carbo stayed with the Austins around the time when his mother died. Perhaps they can tell you what made him lose his mind.’

‘This is too good an opportunity to miss, Matt,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘We are sadly lacking in intelligence about Carbo, and I would like to help Shropham. We shall be safe enough with her guards, and Clare is only a fraction of Cambridge’s distance.’

‘A very big fraction,’ Bartholomew pointed out unhappily. But he could see the monk’s mind was made up. ‘I will fetch the horses.’

‘Actually, I have a different task for you, Doctor,’ said Agnys, putting out her hand to stop him. ‘D’Audley has changed his mind about going to Cambridge. He sincerely believes that Luneday killed Neubold, and claims he is too frightened to be in his company. You must persuade him that even the most brazen of murderers is not going to attack him in front of such a large deputation.’

‘Why would he listen to me?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion that Michael was about to be whisked away without his protection – especially with Agnys, about whom his feelings were ambiguous. On the one hand, he liked her well enough to confide his feelings about Matilde, but on the other, he was unsure of her role in their various investigations.

‘He is more likely to heed you than Brother Michael, whom he considers a bully,’ replied Agnys baldly. ‘If he refuses to come, no agreement will be reached, and we will be fighting each other and King’s Hall for years. This is our one chance for a peaceful solution. Please help us.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, feeling he had been skilfully manipulated. Why was Agnys so keen to get Michael alone? And surely d’Audley would not have the courage to refuse a direct order from her, so why did she not persuade him to go to Cambridge?

‘Thank you,’ said Agnys, smiling. ‘And when you have done that, you can speak to Hilton about Joan. He said something last night that made me wonder whether he knows some secret about her death. I would ask him myself, but I suspect he will be more open with another man. He is always uneasy in my company – I frighten him, although I cannot imagine why. Hey, you! Come here!’

The last words were delivered in a bellow that brought the entire marketplace to a standstill, and several men raced towards her, not sure whether the remark had been directed at them but unwilling to run the risk of ignoring a summons. She selected three of the sturdiest and ordered them to lift her on to her horse. When she was up, she picked another half-dozen, and set off with Michael riding at her side. The ‘guards’ trotted behind them, delighted to be paid for a jaunt in the country, although Bartholomew wondered whether they would be quite so thrilled if they knew killers were at large.

‘No,’ said d’Audley firmly, when the physician had tracked him down and explained what he had been ordered to do. ‘Luneday knows it was me who told you about our arrangements with Wynewyk, and he will kill me if I set off on an open road with him. He murdered Joan and Neubold, so he is getting a taste for dispatching those he thinks are in his way.’

‘How do you know he murdered Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course it was him! Neubold died at Withersfield, and you have already proved it was his woman who helped sneak the body into Haverhill. But to get back to the crux of our discussion, I am not going to Cambridge, and that is that.’

‘But if you are not there to represent your interests, you may lose out. King’s Hall has some very clever lawyers, and they may use your absence to disinherit you.’

D’Audley had started to stalk away, but Bartholomew’s words made him pause. ‘Then I shall travel a day later, with my own guards.’

‘You may be too late,’ warned Bartholomew, knowing Langelee was unlikely to waste too much time on a matter that was not going to benefit him or his College. ‘Our Master is not a man to dither over a verdict. Indeed, I would be surprised if he took more than half a day.’

‘Honestly?’ asked d’Audley, narrowing his eyes. ‘You are not making it up?’

‘It is perfectly true. Have you ever heard of the Blood Relic debate? It is a scholastic dispute that has raged for centuries, involving some of the finest thinkers in history. But Langelee went to a lecture on the subject, and had what he claimed was a definitive answer within moments.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed d’Audley, awed. ‘He must be brilliant!’

‘He makes quick decisions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It is not the same thing.’

‘I had better pack, then. But I shall rely on you to ensure Luneday does not stab me en route.’

‘Ride behind him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then you will be able to see what he is doing.’

When d’Audley had hurried away to make preparations for his journey, the physician walked to St Mary’s Church, where he found Hilton tidying up after his morning devotions.

‘I thought you might visit today,’ said the priest with a wry smile. ‘I let slip something about Joan last night, and I had a feeling Lady Agnys would send one of you to ask me about it. She knows I am terrified of her, and I imagine she hopes I will be more forthcoming with a man.’

‘Were you Joan’s confessor?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Neubold was, although he was not very good at keeping regular hours, and I was often obliged to help those of his flock in need of spiritual comfort. But I break no confidences by telling you that Joan was unhappy for a very long time. She desperately wanted a baby, not just to give Elyan an heir, but because she loved children. She became a different person once she conceived – joyous.’

‘Agnys said she was despondent for the last few weeks. Do you know why?’

Hilton frowned. ‘Yes and no. She was afraid for the safety of her child, and was terrified someone might harm it – a not unreasonable concern given the inheritance issues surrounding Elyan Manor. However, I was under the impression that something had happened recently to intensify her alarm. She never told me what, but it was almost certainly the cause of her sudden despondency.’

Bartholomew wondered how they could find out – it might answer a lot of questions about her death. Did Hilton know, and was lying when he said she had not told him? Bartholomew found he was not sure what to make of the priest’s role in the affair. He turned to a slightly different subject.

‘Do you believe Elyan was the father of Joan’s child?’ he asked.

Hilton grimaced at the blunt question. ‘No. But I do not know who was, and I shall not speculate. However, it cannot have been anyone here. William of Withersfield is comely but coarse, Luneday would never dare betray Margery, and d’Audley made her skin crawl. There are others, but she had standards, and they were well below them.’

‘Well, someone obliged her, because she was definitely pregnant.’

‘Then you should look outside our villages. We get plenty of visitors, some from as far afield as Cambridge and St Edmundsbury.’

‘Why does Agnys think you know some secret about Joan’s death?’

Hilton stared at his feet. ‘When I saw Joan in Neubold’s cart and I learned where she was going, I tried to stop her – I was afraid for the baby. But she said she had vital business in Cambridge.’

‘What do you think it was?’

‘I cannot imagine what possessed her to take such a risk.’ Hilton looked sincere, but Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that he was holding something back. ‘I offered her some of my pennyroyal tonic, to strengthen her blood for the venture, but she told me that particular herb is bad for unborn children, although I have never heard of such a thing.’

When Hilton had left, Bartholomew stared after him thoughtfully. So, Agnys was right: Joan had known pennyroyal was something she should not have consumed – and she had refused some that had been offered kindly. Did that mean she would have rejected other offers, too, and was unaware that it was present in whatever she had swallowed before she died?

And what did Hilton know that he was keeping to himself? That his fellow priest had also bought pennyroyal oil and might have slipped it to his travelling companion? Bartholomew had no idea how to prise the truth out of Hilton, and could only hope that Michael would.

It was a pleasant journey to Clare, and Michael found himself enjoying it, despite his anxieties. The sun was shining, and the air bracing without being overly chill. The countryside was pretty, too, with little villages tucked among ancient woodlands, and a meandering river to keep them company.

‘I have never been to Clare,’ he said conversationally to Agnys, as they approached the place. ‘Is that the Austin friary, below the castle?’

Agnys nodded. ‘We shall go there first, and then I have something else I would like you to see. No, do not ask me questions. I shall show you in my own good time.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, his interest piqued. Obligingly, he changed the subject. ‘Have you thought any more about what might have happened to the pennyroyal you bought and lost?’

Agnys looked sharply at him. ‘No. Why should I? I told you, it must have dropped out of my bag as I rode home. I am always losing items that way, because my grandson will insist on buying nags that are too lively for me, and they jostle me about. I almost had a nasty fall on Wednesday evening.’

‘Did you?’ asked Michael smoothly. ‘You were out on the night Neubold was murdered?’

Agnys waved a dismissive hand. ‘Perhaps it was Tuesday, then. At my age, days tend to merge together. Do not look at me like that, Brother – it is true. And do not expect me to be sorry that Neubold met such an end, either. He was a vile fellow, and had no business meddling in the matter of who owns Elyan Manor.’

‘He meddled?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘I thought he had been asked to help decide–’

‘He meddled,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘But here we are at the priory. You go in. I have other business, and will meet you in the garden when you have finished. Then I shall show you my surprise.’

The friars were hospitable, and it was some time before Michael remembered that he was not there to discuss Blood Relic theology, or to enjoy the delicious victuals that were supplied. The Prior was called John, a pleasant, intelligent man who was a distant relative of the Bishop of Ely.

‘Carbo,’ mused John sadly. ‘When he was with us, his name was Roger. Roger Neubold. I heard he had changed it. Poor man! We did our best to help him, but some head injuries are simply too severe to cure – there is some recovery, but not enough to allow the victim to return to his former life. Roger – we shall call him Carbo, if you prefer – was one of them.’

‘He was here because of an injury?’ probed Michael encouragingly.

John nodded. ‘He was deeply insensible when his brother brought him here, and none of us expected him to live. To the surprise of all, he did. He stayed with us for several months, regaining the use of his limbs and his speech, but his mind was . . . changed.’

‘The folk in Haverhill believe the death of his mother unhinged him.’

John frowned. ‘She died several weeks after he was injured, and it was a bitter blow to him. But he was already “unhinged”, as you put it.’

‘Do you know how he came by this wound?’

John stared at the monk for several moments. ‘Not for sure.’

‘But you have your suspicions,’ surmised Michael. ‘Will you share them with me?’

John considered for a moment. ‘Let me give you the facts first. Neubold brought Carbo to us in the dead of night, then left without waiting to hear our physician’s diagnosis. It was clear he expected his brother to die without regaining his senses. He came back a week later with money for a burial, and was deeply shocked when I told him Carbo was still alive.’

‘You think he hit Carbo over the head? That he tried to kill his brother?’

John hesitated, but then relented. ‘Yes, I do. And then I think he experienced a surge of guilt, which he allayed by bringing his victim here. His relief when I told him Carbo had no memory of what had happened – and would never regain his full faculties – was palpable.’

‘Do you know why he attacked Carbo?’

‘Their mother told me of a vicious argument the night Carbo “went missing”. Apparently, Carbo was appalled by Neubold’s escalating corruption, and threatened to report him to the Dominican Prior General. I can only assume Neubold decided that was not going to happen. He took Carbo away from us as soon as he could, saying he would look after him. I doubt he did.’

Michael thought about Hilton’s tale of Carbo wandering around half-starved, with no proper home. ‘Why did you not stop Neubold? And why not tell someone of your suspicions?’

‘Because that is what they are – suspicions. I have no evidence. And Neubold was a cunning lawyer, who would have inveigled his way out of any unsupported charges – and probably would have sued me for slander into the bargain. And we would rather spend our money on the poor.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about Carbo?’

‘Not really. About a year after Neubold took him away, I heard he tried to join the Dominicans. I cannot help but wonder whether memories of what had happened were beginning to resurface, and he had devised some wild plan to bring his brother to book from within the Order.’

‘Do you think he was capable of developing and following through such a complex strategy?’

John shrugged. ‘Look at his most recent actions – the ones you have outlined to me. He appeared in Cambridge at the same time as Neubold, even though Clare is the farthest he had ever travelled before his injury. He stole Hilton’s spare habit, which was intelligent – he had no money and neglect had rendered him painfully thin; people were going to take pity on a skeletal friar and give him alms. It seems to me there was method in his madness.’

‘And then someone stabbed him,’ said Michael heavily.

‘Perhaps you should ascertain where Neubold was on the night of his brother’s murder,’ said John, meeting the monk’s eyes. ‘Because if Carbo really was regaining his lost memories, then Neubold almost certainly would not have liked it. The man you have in custody may be innocent.’

Michael grimaced. ‘I am sure of it, but he will not speak to me.’

‘Of course, Neubold is not my only suspect,’ began John tentatively. ‘There is a rumour…’

‘Yes?’ asked Michael encouragingly, when the Prior faltered.

‘I do not know if it is true, which is why I hesitate to mention it. There is a tale that Carbo stole a sack of property from an infamous Clare felon named Osa Gosse.’

‘I know – Hilton told me. And Gosse is in Cambridge at the moment, burgling my University.’

John raised his eyebrows. ‘I wondered where he had gone. Anyway, when this sack went missing, Gosse was said to be furious. So, Brother, there is another man who may have meant Carbo harm.’

Michael accepted the cloak John pressed on him, then went in search of Agnys. She was waiting in the priory gardens, walking slowly as she savoured the peace and the beauty of the place. Fallen leaves formed a bright carpet of yellow and orange under her feet, and she was gazing up at a mighty elm, where a family of sparrows was twittering.

‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ said Michael, smiling at her. ‘It was very helpful. Now, what else did you want to show me?’

Agnys led the way along a riverside path. There was a bench under one of the trees, and a woman sat there, reading a book. Her hair was neatly bound under a coif, and she carried herself with a light grace that said she was a woman of breeding. Agnys retreated tactfully, leaving them alone.

‘Matilde!’ Michael managed to gasp, once he had recovered from his shock.

‘Brother,’ she replied, with the enigmatic smile he recalled so well. ‘How are you?’

‘I am well, but where have you been these past two and a half years?’ Michael had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘Did you not know that Matt has been scouring the civilised world for you?’

‘Not until Agnys told me. The news I heard was that he had taken a sabbatical leave of absence, to visit the universities in Montpellier and Salerno.’

‘He spent that time trying to learn where you had gone,’ said Michael, trying to keep the reproach from his voice, but not succeeding. ‘The tale about Salerno and Montpellier was one invented by me, to ensure he did not lose his University post if his hunt was unsuccessful – you may remember that scholars are not supposed to hare off after women.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Matilde sadly. ‘It made it difficult for Matt and me to be close.’

Michael looked into her face. She was pale, but still as lovely as ever. ‘Langelee and Suttone think you fell prey to highway robbers, although Matt refuses to believe it.’

She winced. ‘My original plan was to go to Norwich, but the roads proved too dangerous for a lone woman, so I decided to come here instead. I have friends in Clare, and they have been kind.’

‘Matt will be delighted to hear you–’

‘No,’ said Matilde, lifting her hand to touch his lips. ‘You cannot tell him I am here.’

‘But he wants to marry you. He was going to ask you the morning you disappeared.’

‘I did not know that.’ Matilde turned away, so he could not see her face.

Michael grabbed her arm, and forced her to look at him. ‘Well, you do now. Come with me to see him – today. It will grieve me to lose my Corpse Examiner, but his happiness will be worth it.’

‘And that is why I cannot come,’ said Matilde. There were tears in her eyes and her voice was unsteady. ‘Matt will have to resign his Fellowship to wed me. He will not be able to teach, and he will be forced to take paying patients. And then what will happen to the Frail Sisters?’

‘They will manage, and so will he. Besides, I suspect you are hardly poor.’

‘On the contrary, I own nothing at all – you see, I was robbed as I travelled from Cambridge, and my attackers took everything. I am lucky my friends are charitable, or I would have starved.’

‘Matt is used to having no money,’ persisted Michael doggedly. ‘He will not care.’

‘But I will. His old patients will not accept that he needs to make a living, and they will expect him to continue to see them free of charge – and to provide their expensive medicines into the bargain. It will break his heart to refuse them.’

‘You are resourceful. You will find a way around these problems.’

Tears began to fall in earnest. ‘But it would make him so miserable! He would gain me, but lose the other things he loves – Michaelhouse, teaching, his patients and their horrible ailments, his colleagues. He will loathe preparing horoscopes for the wealthy, and I will not inflict that life on him. I want you to promise that you will not tell him I am here.’

‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Michael indignantly. ‘He has a right to know.’

‘Then I shall have to leave Clare,’ sobbed Matilde. ‘And I have found a measure of peace and happiness here. Please do not take it from me, Brother.’

Michael regarded her unhappily. ‘I wish Agnys had not thrown us together, because now I do not know what to do – and it is not often I am bogged down in moral quandaries.’

‘She brought you because she suspected I was the woman Matt had told her about, but did not want to raise his hopes if she was wrong. She has agreed not to break my trust. Now you must do the same.’

‘But I will never be able to look him in the eye again,’ objected Michael, dismayed. ‘Do you realise the enormity of what you are asking? You want me to betray my closest friend!’

‘I know. But it is because I love him so very dearly that I will not condemn him to a life that will make him unhappy. You must see I am right. And if you love him, too, you will do as I ask.’

The journey to Cambridge the following day began long before dawn. It started badly, and went from there to worse. The wet weather of the past few days meant the road had degenerated even further since their outward journey, and was all but impassable in places. Progress was painfully slow, which was worrying when robbers were at large and determined to prey on the large party that straggled through their various domains. And it was a large party, because d’Audley, Elyan, Agnys, Luneday and even Hilton had brought all manner of servants and retainers. In fact, there were so many of them that Bartholomew wondered whether anyone was left in the two villages.

Their troubles began when Luneday had a brush with thieves as he made his way to Haverhill to meet the rest of the group, although he claimed to have driven the culprits off with no problem. Then the travellers were thrown into disarray when a volley of arrows was loosed at them near Hadstock. But Cynric, ever alert, quickly whisked them under cover, and so saved them from harm.

A little later, Bartholomew glimpsed someone wearing a scarf around his face lurking on the track ahead. Cynric was eager to stand and fight, but Agnys marshalled the party into a tight group, then led them in a furious gallop, so that any ambush that had been planned never had the chance to materialise.

‘Lord!’ breathed Cynric, regarding her in admiration. ‘I shall have to remember that tactic.’

‘I visited Essex once,’ Agnys confided darkly, but did not elaborate.

When he was sure the danger was over, Cynric spurred his horse forward to ride next to the physician. ‘I know we are unpopular in Suffolk – what with demanding thirty marks and exposing lies, deceit and murder – but I did not think the villains would go to these lengths to be rid of us.’

‘What do you mean? These raids are the work of highway thieves – nothing to do with our investigations.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Cynric. ‘Or have you forgotten the murderous attack on us in Withersfield, and the ambush that drove you and Brother Michael into a ditch?’

‘No, but–’

‘The second incident was definitely sinister,’ Cynric went on, getting into his stride. ‘It would have been easy to incapacitate you and steal your purses, but the archers were more concerned with concealing their faces – until you provoked them to come out into the open. Now why was that?’

‘In case they did not kill us, and we were later able to identify them?’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Because you knew them,’ corrected Cynric. ‘And that means they want you dead for reasons relating to your enquiries. Now, some of these attacks today no doubt have been the work of common criminals, but not all. Do not relax your guard for an instant, boy.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Our Suffolk companions have managed to make us a very attractive target – Elyan’s elegant clothes, Luneday’s fine horses, d’Audley’s fabulous amount of baggage. I imagine half the villains in the county cannot believe their luck–’

‘Do not deceive yourself – someone wants you dead,’ replied Cynric with absolute conviction. He indicated their fellow travellers with a flick of his dark head. ‘And it may be one of this lot.’

‘Then why did you recommend we ride with them?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.

‘For two reasons. First, there are robbers along this road, and they have already killed a man, so being in a big group is definitely better from that standpoint. And second, if one of these lordlings is responsible, then it is better to have him where we can see him. I have been watching them all very carefully, gauging their reactions.’

‘And what have you deduced?’

‘Nothing,’ admitted Cynric, reluctantly. ‘Yet.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew studied each rider in turn, to see if he could detect any hints of disappointment that the raids so far had been unsuccessful.

Luneday headed the procession and seemed to be enjoying himself – he kept stopping to point out ‘interesting’ features, such as lightning-struck trees or particularly well-made fences. Obviously, he was not the one who had ambushed Bartholomew and Michael by the ditch, because he had rescued them. Or had he? Perhaps the whole thing had been an elaborate hoax, in order to gain their confidence. Bartholomew could not imagine why Luneday should play such games, but that did not mean he had not done it. And what about Luneday’s woman? Margery had not killed Neubold and taken his corpse to Haverhill on her own, so who had helped her?

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 was 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,’ ordered 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…’

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 the 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.’