A Vein of Deceit (41 page)

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.