A Vein of Deceit (37 page)

‘It stings!’ the monk protested, seeing from Bartholomew’s
expression that it did not constitute being ‘grievously wounded’.

‘Follow me,’ said Bartholomew. He winced when a fourth arrow soared into the drain, coming to rest in the space between them.
‘And keep well down.’

Unfortunately, they had not gone far before the channel narrowed so much that even Bartholomew was unable to squeeze along
it. And as arrows had followed them every inch of the way, it was clear the bowmen knew exactly how they were trying to escape.
When the next quarrel hit his medical bag, Bartholomew knew time was running out.

‘I cannot turn,’ Michael hissed, when the physician indicated they were to go back the way they had come. ‘I cannot even move
– I am stuck. Which means you are trapped, too. Give me your bag.’

‘What for?’

‘I am going to leap up, holding it in front of me like a shield, so you can slither past. You should be able to make it to
safety. Then you can fetch help.’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. It was tantamount to suicide, and there would be no point in fetching help, because the
monk would be dead.

‘Can you see either of them?’ asked Michael, ignoring his reaction. ‘I should like to know the identities of the men who will
kill … who are making such a nuisance of themselves.’

‘They could abandon their hiding places and come to pick us off.’ Bartholomew grabbed a stone and lobbed it towards the beech,
more in frustration than in the hope of hitting anyone. ‘But they prefer to remain hidden, presumably lest they are recognised
but fail to dispatch us, and we—’

There was a yelp of pain, and he exchanged a startled glance with Michael. Wordlessly, he grabbed another missile
and hurled it as hard as he could. Michael did likewise, and for a few moments they managed an impressive barrage. The archers
began calling softly to each other, then there were footsteps.

‘They are coming for us,’ said Bartholomew grimly. He drew his sword – the one he wore when he travelled but was not permitted
to carry in Cambridge. ‘We have driven them out of their cover. Still, at least we shall know who they are before they—’

Suddenly, there was a shout, followed by the thunder of hoofs. It was Luneday, William at his heels. Luneday’s sword flailed
and the steward held a crossbow. Bartholomew risked a glance over the top of the bank and saw the two archers thrusting through
the hedge into the fields beyond. Both wore hoods, and there was nothing – in their clothes or gait – that would allow him
to identify them.

‘I will get the villains,’ yelled William, yellow hair flying as he turned his horse.

Luneday stood in his stirrups to watch the chase. He was panting hard, and his eyes flashed. ‘Sly bastards! They are making
for the wood, where a mounted man cannot follow. William is going to lose them. Damn their black hearts!’

‘Who are they?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Do you recognise them?’

‘Not in those hooded cloaks,’ replied Luneday. ‘However, they are no one local –
we
do not attack unarmed monks on the King’s highways. They must be robbers from another village.’

‘You arrived just in time,’ said Michael to Luneday, allowing Bartholomew to help him out of the ditch. His voice was unsteady.
‘They were coming to kill us.’

‘They were,’ agreed Luneday, sitting back down when
William reached the edge of the trees and was forced to stop. ‘You are doubly lucky, because I rarely travel this road –
it leads to Haverhill, you see, and I do not want to run the risk of meeting my woman’s husband.’

‘So, why are you here now?’ asked Michael. He rested his hand on Luneday’s saddle, as if he did not trust his legs to hold
him up.

Luneday did not reply, and when Bartholomew glanced up at him to see why, he saw tears glittering in the man’s eyes. He gazed
at the lord of Withersfield Manor in astonishment.

‘I am sorry,’ Luneday managed to choke out. ‘But my woman has gone, and I keep being gripped by these overwhelming urges to
weep. I cannot imagine why. I did not cry when my wife left me, and it is not as if Margery was much of a replacement.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Was Margery’s flight anything to do with the fact that she had distracted
her gatekeeper husband while Neubold’s corpse was toted to the chantry chapel? Or was she the killer and realised she was
about to be caught?

‘Gone where?’ asked Michael.

‘Not to Folyat,’ said Luneday. ‘She would not want to return to gatekeeping, not after the luxury she enjoyed at Withersfield.
But you do not seem surprised by my news. Why not?’

‘Because we think she knows more about Neubold’s death than is innocent,’ replied Michael.

Luneday’s eyes narrowed, and Bartholomew braced himself for another skirmish, wishing the monk had phrased his remark in a
more tactful manner.

‘What are you saying?’ Luneday demanded. ‘That
she
dispatched Neubold?’

‘Not without help,’ said Michael baldly. ‘However, it was
obvious that she hated him, and she did go out the evening he was murdered. We also know she led Folyat away from his duties
at the gate, thus allowing someone to carry Neubold’s corpse to the Alneston Chantry.’

Bartholomew expected Luneday to deny the charges, and was astonished when he closed his eyes in apparent despair. ‘I should
have guessed she intended mischief when she crept out that night – her grandchildren had spent most of the day at Withersfield,
so she should not have needed to see them again so soon.’

‘You did not mention this yesterday, when you found Neubold gone from the barn,’ said Michael, rather accusingly.

‘Why would I? I thought he had escaped to Haverhill, and only learned of his death later. The moment I did hear, I realised
I would have to talk to my woman about it, but I have been busy. Then, when I returned from my piggeries this afternoon, I
discovered her missing.’

‘You do not think she has been harmed, do you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, wondering whether her accomplice had decided it
would be safer if she was permanently silenced.

‘I might have done, had she simply disappeared. But she left with all her belongings, and some of mine. So no, I do not think
she has been harmed. I think she realised the net was closing in around her, and has run for safety.’

‘Why did she dislike Neubold so intensely?’ asked Michael. ‘I do not think I have ever seen more venomous looks than the ones
they exchanged on Wednesday night.’

‘For two reasons. First, he offered to fabricate writs of annulment – for her marriage and mine – which meant she could have
wed me. She was eager for him to do it, because it would have made her a real lady of the manor.

Unfortunately, he wanted ten marks, which is beyond my meagre means.’

‘Would you have paid, had he agreed to charge less?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Bearing in mind that false annulments would
not have made your union legal in any case?’

‘Of course. We do that sort of thing all the time around here. Why do you think there is so much fuss about who will inherit
Elyan Manor? Someone’s nuptials were not all they should have been!’

‘And the second reason?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.

‘Neubold told me she had commissioned him to create forged documents that would see
me
inherit Elyan Manor. She was furious with him for revealing what she had charged him to do – I want to inherit, but not by
cheating. So perhaps she
did
kill him – she is a strong lass. She would have needed help to cart the corpse to Haverhill, though.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ asked Michael. He released his grip on Luneday’s saddle and took a deep breath, nerves
steady at last. ‘Hunt for her, and demand an explanation?’

‘She will be halfway to Paris by now. She has always had a hankering to see the place. There is no point mounting a search
– the wretched woman has essentially escaped.’ Luneday sounded bitter.

‘She will not like Paris,’ predicted Michael, although he had never been, so was hardly in a position to make such a judgement.
‘And I have colleagues there – I shall write and warn them to be on the lookout for her. She will not escape, believe me.
But enough of her. I have reason to believe you have misled us, Master Luneday.’

‘Misled you about what?’ asked Luneday. He sounded thankful to be talking about something else.

‘Wynewyk, five marks and some pigs,’ replied Michael coolly.

‘We have just been chatting to d’Audley, who was rather more open than you have been.’

‘Damn! I knew he could not be trusted. His big mouth has just cost me twenty pigs, and the best of Lizzie’s litter.
And
a long and dangerous journey to your manor at Ickleton to see the herd settled.’

‘You do not deny it, then?’ asked Michael, taken aback by the abrupt capitulation.

‘There is no point, not if d’Audley has blathered. I am sorry, Brother, but your Wynewyk struck a very hard bargain, and I
was relieved when I heard he was dead. And you cannot blame us for trying to be as wily with you as he was with us. But we
are caught, so we will all honour the debt.’

‘You used the five marks to invest in Elyan’s mine, too?’ asked Michael.

Luneday spat. ‘I would never waste good money on that foolish venture! No, I wanted it to buy new sows – Lizzie is not getting
any younger, and it is time I experimented with fresh blood. A man cannot rest on his laurels where pigs are concerned.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. He gestured to Luneday’s horse. ‘You said Margery would be halfway to Paris by now, which means you
are not looking for her. So, where
are
you going at such an hour?’

‘To Elyan Manor. I have decided it is time to resolve this inheritance issue once and for all, because I am weary of the ill-feeling
among us. I plan to ask d’Audley and Elyan to come to Cambridge with me and meet the scholars from King’s Hall. Then we can
review the documents like civilised men, and decide justly and truthfully what is to be done. If I lose my claim, then so
be it.’

It was a noble idea, but Bartholomew foresaw problems. ‘No one will accept anyone else’s interpretation, especially if some
deeds are missing or ambiguous. You will need to
appoint a mediator – someone to make fair decisions – but I doubt all three parties will agree on a candidate.’

‘They will,’ said Luneday with conviction, ‘because I know the perfect man – someone with integrity and good judgement. In
other words, your Master Langelee. You say he is blessed with outstanding wisdom, and he also knows pigs. I have never met
a bad fellow who deals with pigs.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You want Langelee to decide the rightful heir to Elyan Manor?’

Luneday nodded. ‘I will bide by his verdict, and I shall urge the others to do so, too.’

‘See where your dishonest tongue has led us, Brother?’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen when
Luneday met the paragon of virtue that Michael had portrayed. ‘We could have got away with Suttone or Thelnetham. But Langelee?
What are we going to do?’

‘When will you go to Cambridge, Luneday?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘Sunday,’ replied Luneday. ‘I would say tomorrow, but we shall need a day to put our business in order. The road to Cambridge
is long and dangerous, after all.’

‘This is not a good idea,’ said Michael desperately. ‘Elyan and d’Audley are unlikely to—’

‘They will come,’ Luneday assured him. ‘They are as tired of the uncertainty and growing mistrust as I am. D’Audley will agree
to arbitration, and Elyan will agree to be there. I recommend you travel with us, given that there appear to be robbers at
large.’

‘If they
were
robbers,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching Luneday ride away.

Michael nodded grimly. ‘And we know they were not – they wanted our lives, not our purses.’

* * *

It was dusk by the time they reached Haverhill, and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. They paid their toll to
Gatekeeper Folyat, whose small house was full of roosting hens, and walked towards the Queen’s Head. The tavern was busy when
they opened the door and stepped into its stuffy interior, and there was a convivial atmosphere as men drank ale and devoured
platters of roasted pork. The students were playing dice in a corner, and Cynric was regaling a small group of fascinated
listeners with a colourful and not very accurate account of the battle of Poitiers.

‘Perhaps we should do as Luneday suggests, and go with him on Sunday,’ said Michael, when they were settled with cups of spiced
ale. ‘It may not be safe for us to travel in such a small group.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have done what we came to do: cleared Wynewyk’s name and located our thirty marks. You
can draw up the legal documents tonight and d’Audley, Luneday and Elyan can sign them in the morning. Then we are going home.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘I suppose we should tell Langelee what we have learned as soon as possible – about Kelyng, as
well as about the money. And the Blood Relic debate is on Monday. I would hate to miss it – not to mention the fact that it
is the Senior Proctor’s duty to ensure Gosse does not burgle every College in Cambridge while it is under way. But what about
Joan?’

‘What about her?’

‘Agnys said d’Audley was away from home when Joan was poisoned, and so was Margery. And both have good reason to want Elyan’s
heir dead. Meanwhile, we have missing pennyroyal here, as well as in Cambridge: Agnys, Hilton
and
Neubold all bought some.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Taking my students and
Cynric home is more important than catching Joan’s killer – if indeed she was killed. Just because her unborn child stood
between several claimants and a manor does not necessarily mean someone poisoned her. I still think she took her own life.
Agnys said she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died—’

‘Yes, but
why
was she unhappy, when she was pregnant with this long-awaited heir?’

‘It was not her husband’s child. Perhaps she was ashamed of having gone elsewhere for favours, and was afraid the child’s
birth might reveal the real father. Panic may have driven her to suicide.’