A Vein of Deceit (42 page)

‘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.’

‘I recommend you stay at the Brazen George,’ said Michael briskly, when the party finally reached Cambridge and the town’s
guards had allowed them through the Barnwell Gate. ‘I shall escort you there, and arrange for you to meet Langelee later.
It will mean him missing the Blood Relic debate, but I doubt he will mind.’

Bartholomew was sure Langelee would be delighted to be provided with an excuse to escape a lot of theologians pontificating.
The Master had never been very keen on public disputations.

‘No,’ said Luneday firmly. ‘We shall go to Michaelhouse now, and ask him for his verdict. We will not deprive him of a chance
to display his razor-like wits to his admiring colleagues.’

‘But this great philosopher may be otherwise engaged.’ Elyan pulled distastefully at his travel-stained clothes. ‘And we do
not want to meet him looking like peasants.’

‘He probably
is
busy,’ agreed Michael, eager to brief Langelee before the claimants descended on him. ‘And he will want time to prepare a
proper welcome for you.’

‘But that will inconvenience him, and we would not do that for the world,’ argued Luneday. ‘The sooner we all state our cases,
the sooner we can go home. So lead on, Brother. You said he is known for speedy decisions, and I miss Lizzie already.’

‘But not Margery,’ muttered Cynric. ‘His woman of several years. His
dead
woman.’

‘If he gives too swift a verdict, King’s Hall will accuse him of not assessing all the evidence,’ said Michael warningly.
‘So do not expect a decision today. And if the answer to this case were simple, your priests would already have devised a
fair and legal solution.’

‘It
is
complex,’ agreed Hilton. He glanced at Risleye, Valence and Tesdale. ‘But not as complex as the arguments surrounding whether
wet dog is more unpleasant than wet horse, apparently.’

‘Then let us go to Michaelhouse, and have an end to it once and for all,’ said Elyan with a petulant sigh. ‘Master Langelee
will just have to accept that no man looks his best after enduring the King’s highways. And if we hurry, there may be time
to buy some new clothes before we return home.’

Bartholomew’s attention was elsewhere. ‘There is Paxtone,’ he said, spotting his colleague’s impressive bulk and tiny ankles.

He dismounted, eager for news of his patients, but Michael coughed meaningfully, and shot him a look that said he would need
the physician’s help when the Suffolk men met the Messiah of Arbitration. The encounter was going to need some skilful manipulation
if the visitors were not to know they had been shamefully misled.

‘Is he from King’s Hall?’ asked Agnys, narrowing her eyes. ‘I heard they all wear blue tabards.’

‘Yes. Have you met him?’ asked Michael, making polite conversation. ‘He is one of their Fellows, and might well have journeyed
to Haverhill to inspect Elyan Manor and the Alneston Chantry.’

‘No,’ said Agnys sharply, cutting off some reply her grandson started to make. ‘I imagine they took care to avoid our company,
given that they are trying to disinherit honest Suffolk folk.’

‘What is happening?’ asked Paxtone of Bartholomew,
intrigued by the cavalcade. The physician thought his gaze lingered slightly longer on Agnys than the others, but could not
be sure. Perhaps it was because her veil was comically awry from the ride and her heavy boots looked incongruous against the
fine cloth of her kirtle.

‘These are claimants against King’s Hall for Elyan Manor,’ Bartholomew explained. ‘They want Langelee to pass judgement.’

‘Langelee?’ Paxtone started to laugh, but stopped when he saw Bartholomew was serious. ‘Lord! I doubt Warden Powys will agree
to that. I mean no disrespect, but Langelee would not be my first choice of men to adjudicate complex legal disputes.’

‘The other litigants want a quick decision,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So you had better arrange for someone to represent King’s
Hall as soon as possible. Who will it be? You?’

‘Our best lawyer is Shropham, but he is in gaol. Perhaps Powys will represent us himself – he is not as good as Shropham,
but he has an astute legal mind. I had better go and tell him at once.’

Bartholomew watched him waddle away, then caught up with the others. ‘When will you release Shropham?’ he asked of the monk.
‘Or are you inclined to dismiss what Gosse said – that Neubold was Carbo’s killer?’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘The news of Shropham’s innocence comes as no surprise; you know I have never really been convinced
of his guilt. But why did he not
tell
me he was blameless in the affair? It makes no sense. So, call me callous, but Shropham can stay in his cell until I know
why he would rather hang than tell the truth.’

Bartholomew and Michael led the visitors along the High Street and down St Michael’s Lane. The College looked
the same as always, and the physician felt a profound sense of relief when he saw its sturdy yellow walls. Walter opened
the gate, peacock tucked under his arm.

‘Where is the Master?’ demanded Michael without preamble. ‘Will you tell him he is needed? Now?’

While Walter went to do as he was ordered, Bartholomew heard Thelnetham holding forth in the hall, entertaining his colleagues
with one of his witty lectures.

‘I should check on my students,’ the physician said, keen to see his class and find out what they had learned in his absence.
He found he was looking forward to the questions they would have on the texts he had set, and it made him realise how important
they were to him.

‘No, you should not,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘You are going to stay here and help me out of this mess. It was not
my idea to go to Suffolk in search of coal, timber and pigs.’

‘But it was your idea to lie about Langelee’s integrity,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You are reaping the wages of your deceitful
ways.’

Michael started to respond with a curt remark, but Langelee had heard the commotion by the gate and was striding across the
courtyard to see what was happening. Michael gaped at him, while Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.

The Master had been with Agatha, being fitted for new clothes. Because money was tight, she was using an altar cloth that
had been rendered unsuitable for its original purpose by moths and wine-stains. It was draped across his shoulders, and fell
in folds to his feet. The damage had been disguised – although not very skilfully – with motifs cut from a fox pelt.

‘By heaven!’ breathed Luneday. ‘Is
this
him?’

‘I am afraid so,’ replied Michael wearily.

‘Fashions change so fast these days,’ said Elyan, glancing down at his own black garb. ‘And it is difficult to keep up when
you live so far from court. But, if this is what is in vogue, then this is what we must wear. I had better purchase some of
that cloth while I am here.’

‘It is very fine,’ declared Luneday. ‘Exactly what a man of honour and intelligence might select.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Michael, as Langelee approached. Agatha was behind him, trying to keep the fabric from dragging in the mud.
‘This is Master Ralph de Langelee, Michaelhouse’s finest philosopher and a man of great wisdom.’

Bartholomew was amused to note that Langelee did not seem at all surprised or discomfited by the grand introduction. He effected
an elegant bow, and Agatha swore under her breath when some of her pinning slipped and material cascaded to the ground.

‘I am deeply honoured, noble sir,’ said Luneday, stepping forward to make a low and very sincere obeisance. Langelee frowned
a little, but took it in his stride.

‘There is an inheritance dispute over Elyan Manor,’ Michael started to explain. Bartholomew could see faces pressed against
the windows of the hall, as students strained to see what was going on. ‘King’s Hall is also involved. You have been chosen
to preside over a discussion of the business, to decide who has the strongest claim.’

‘All right,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘I am always pleased to voice an opinion, even if it is on affairs I know nothing about.’
He guffawed heartily, and Michael winced.

‘Will you hear us now, my lord?’ asked Luneday politely.

‘He will not,’ growled Agatha. ‘He is busy, and I had him first.’

‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, with a wink. ‘She has first claim on my person, and I need this cloak finished,
because the other slipped off and fell in the latrine during a careless moment. Come back later – preferably during the Blood
Relic contest.’

‘Oh, no!’ objected Luneday, chagrined. ‘We would not deprive the University of your wisdom for the world – especially as I
am told you have solved the matter.’

‘Well, perhaps not
solved
,’ hedged Langelee, aware that he was in the presence of Michael, a talented theologian. ‘But I certainly have views. However,
the reason I asked you to come this afternoon is because there is a camp-ball game later, and I shall be able to take part
in it if you give me an excuse to miss the debate.’

Bartholomew ran after him when he started to walk away. ‘Do you not want more of an explanation?’

Langelee shrugged. ‘Here are folk in need of a decent mind to resolve a long-standing problem. What other explanation is needed?
Besides, I suspect it has something to do with our missing thirty marks, and I am willing to do just about anything to retrieve
that.’

Bartholomew’s pleasure at being among the safe, familiar things of home did not last long. The moment he had finished talking
to Langelee, Deynman approached, his expression troubled. He began speaking without preamble.

‘Master Paxtone came to borrow poppy juice when you were gone. I gave him the whole jar, but he brought it back and said it
contained nothing of the kind. I had a sip, and he was right. Someone had swapped it for water.’

Bartholomew knew there was no point in remonstrating with Deynman for tasting something that might have been dangerous. ‘Are
you saying Paxtone exchanged an expensive medicine for—’

‘Oh, no! He was simply drawing attention to the fact – someone else is responsible. The culprit probably changed
the pennyroyal for water, too, because it certainly did not put a shine on my hasps.’

Bartholomew was sceptical of Deynman’s claims, but obligingly followed him across the yard to the storeroom. Once there, it
did not take him long to see the Librarian was right. He was aghast.

‘My God!’ he breathed, sinking down on to a bench. ‘Who would do something like this?’

‘Poppy juice is both costly and difficult to come by,’ replied Deynman. ‘So perhaps a student took it, in readiness for when
he becomes a physician. Who do you know who is interested in money?’

‘Not Tesdale or Valence. They may be poor, but they—’

‘I said someone
interested
in money, not someone without any,’ interrupted Deynman. His curt tone suggested he had already given the question considerable
thought, and had reached a conclusion.

‘Risleye?’ asked Bartholomew. Was that why Paxtone had declined to teach him, even though the lad was a decent student – he
objected to having his supplies pilfered? And had Paxtone borrowed poppy juice to see whether Risleye had resumed his tricks
with a new master? ‘No, I do not believe—’

‘Then who?’ demanded Deynman. ‘Because there are two facts you cannot escape here. First, the poppy juice is gone and water
has been left in its place. And second, it did not happen by itself. So, who else might it have been? Valence? Tesdale? Me?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Risleye …’

Risleye was one of few lads who had official access to his storeroom, came a clamouring voice in his head. And Risleye was
secretive and sly – he kept his possessions locked in a chest, whereas everyone else left theirs for others to share. Bartholomew
put his head in his hands, overwhelmed by
the betrayal. Then he stood abruptly, not sure how he would start his interrogation of Risleye but determined it would be
at once.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

Deynman shrugged. ‘He was here a moment ago, talking to that Dominican priest about wet horses. Perhaps he went to the hall.
Thelnetham is lecturing, and you know he is an entertaining—’

Thelnetham looked up questioningly when the physician burst in, but Risleye was not there. Without so much as a nod to his
bemused colleague, Bartholomew ran back to his room, wondering whether the students were lying down after the journey. It
was empty, so he tore up the stairs to talk to Michael.

The monk was studying the documents from Margery’s travelling bag, treating Langelee to an account of his experiences in darkest
Suffolk at the same time. The Master was still draped in his altar cloth, and Agatha had resumed her pinning. Bartholomew
paced back and forth in agitation as he told them about the missing poppy juice and his prime suspect.

‘Valence and Tesdale are just walking past,’ said Langelee, peering through the window into the yard. He leaned out and ordered
the students to get themselves up the stairs in a bellow that would have been heard on the High Street. ‘Perhaps they know
where Risleye has gone.’

‘He went out with the Haverhill priest, sir,’ supplied Valence, when the Master demanded the whereabouts of their classmate.
‘And will drag him from stable to stable until the poor man is forced to admit that wet horses smell worse than wet dogs.’

‘Did you know he has been stealing medicine?’ asked Langelee baldly.

Tesdale’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you … He is not … Lord Christ!’

‘No!’ cried Valence at the same time. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘I should have been more careful,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Then it would not have happened.’

He thought about the stain on his workbench, which had reeked of poppy juice. He should have known it was a new mark, and
that he would not have overlooked it when he had been cleaning the day before. He rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling
his stomach tie itself in knots.

‘Do not blame yourself, sir,’ said Valence, still struggling to control his shock. ‘It is not your fault he took advantage
of your trust.’