A Vein of Deceit (25 page)

The farther they travelled, the worse the road became. Ruts were larger, filled to the brim with filthy water. Fallen trees
and branches littered the track, and with each one, Bartholomew half expected robbers to emerge – that the blockages were
a deliberate ploy to slow travellers down and allow them to be ambushed. The afternoon grew gradually darker and colder, and
just when he was thinking they might have to spend the night under a hedge, the highway stopped altogether, as if its builders
had run out of materials and had decided to abandon the project.

‘Where has it gone?’ demanded Michael. ‘Langelee said it went all the way to Colchester.’

‘My grandfather came this way once,’ said Valence helpfully. ‘And he told me it goes nowhere near Colchester, although he
thinks it was originally meant to.’

‘So what are we supposed to do?’ snapped Michael. ‘Stay here until they decide to finish it?’

‘Actually, it does not stop – it splits into three separate tracks,’ said Cynric, dismounting to peer into the undergrowth.
‘Obviously, they are not wide and straight, like the highway itself, but they all look as if they go somewhere.’

Bartholomew saw the book-bearer was right. One path wound through a dense coppice towards a hill on the left; a much narrower
one disappeared into some long grass directly ahead; and the last went downhill, off to the right.

‘I vote we go left,’ said Michael. ‘The track is in marginally better repair than the other two.’

‘But I suspect Haverhill lies straight ahead,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘The directions Langelee gave us did not include any
left-hand turns.’

‘We should go right, because it is downhill,’ argued Cynric. ‘There is more chance of a settlement in a valley than on a rise.’

‘No, we should turn around and go back the way we have come,’ said Valence, casting an anxious glance at the darkening countryside.
‘There was a village several miles back, with an inn.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Risleye. ‘We should make camp here, and decide in the morning. Only fools plunge into unknown territory
when nightfall cannot be more than an hour away.’

‘Or we could make a big fire, so someone sees it and comes to rescue us,’ suggested Tesdale with a yawn. ‘You five can collect
the wood, while I see about drying out my tinderbox.’

‘Six possible options, and six views as to which one we should take.’ Bartholomew was amused, despite his tiredness and discomfort.
Such dissent was typical among scholars.

‘I should not have stopped in the first place,’ muttered Michael. ‘I should have just ridden in the right direction and you
would all have followed. This is the problem with democracy: nothing is ever decided. But I am Senior Proctor, and I outrank
you all. We shall go left.’

He jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode off before objections could be raised. Bartholomew exchanged a shrug
with Cynric, and supposed all three paths must lead somewhere, or they would not be there.

The track Michael had chosen narrowed after a few yards, forcing them to ride single file. Soon, the trees had closed in so
tightly that they met overhead to form a
gloomy tunnel. Leaves slapped at them as they passed, drenching them in droplets. Then the path jigged to the right, where
the wood suddenly gave way to open meadows. Beyond, a few houses could be seen on the brow of a hill.

‘Haverhill!’ exclaimed Michael victoriously. ‘I told you so!’

He was about to move ahead again, when there was a shout. Someone emerged from the woods on the left and began running towards
them. There was a mob at his heels, armed with pitchforks. With a gasp of relief, the man reached Michael’s horse and seized
the reins. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was going to haul the monk from the saddle and effect an escape, but he evidently
took stock of Michael’s size and thought better of it.

‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried. ‘You must save me from this vicious, heathen crowd.’

‘Sweet Jesus and all the saints preserve us!’ breathed Cynric, staring at him in alarm. ‘It is Carbo – the priest Shropham
murdered. He has risen from the dead, and is here to snatch our souls!’

‘That is not Carbo,’ said Bartholomew, although the fellow who ducked and bobbed behind Michael’s horse was more concerned
with the crowd that was pursuing him than with the fact that the book-bearer was accusing him of being a corpse. ‘It is someone
else.’

‘There is an unsettling similarity, though,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘This fellow is heavier and his hair is longer, but I can
see why Cynric confused them.’

‘Are you sure?’ demanded the book-bearer uneasily. ‘You are not mistaking these small differences for what happens to a man
once he is in his coffin?’

‘They are two different people,’ said Bartholomew
firmly. The last thing they needed was for Cynric to indulge in a frenzy of superstitious terror when upwards of forty people
were converging on them, all brandishing agricultural implements with razor-sharp points. ‘Carbo hailed from near here, so
it is not surprising to encounter folk who look like him – they will be his kin.’

Once Cynric was settled, Bartholomew turned his attention to the crowd. The men were tall and strong, while their womenfolk
gave the impression that they could wrestle with cows, toss haystacks over their shoulders, and tear down trees with their
bare hands. Even the children seemed powerful, and were armed with the same ruthlessly honed tools as their elders.

By contrast, the man who cowered behind Michael was a puny specimen. Like Carbo, his complexion was pallid and unhealthy,
and his hair fell in oily tendrils around his shoulders. Unlike Carbo, his clothes were well-made and expensive. He was clad
in a handsome blue gipon with silver buttons on the sleeves, a gold brooch held his cloak in an elegant fold over his shoulder,
and his leggings were bright orange and appeared to be made of silk.

‘We have no grievance with you, Brother,’ called one of the mob when he drew close enough to be heard, evidently assuming
the monk would be in charge. ‘Our business is with Adam Neubold. So we shall take him from you, and go our separate ways.’

‘Neubold,’ mused Michael. ‘Well, well, well!’

‘You will let them do no such thing,’ countered Neubold vehemently. ‘
I
am a Dominican friar and I demand your help.’

‘Is that so,’ said Michael archly. ‘Then where is your religious habit?’

‘In the wash,’ replied Neubold, more curtly than was wise when addressing the man he was expecting to save
him. ‘But my choice of apparel is none of your affair. My grievous treatment at the hands of these savages
is
, however, and I order you to intervene.’

There was an angry murmur from the crowd at the insult, and metallic clangs sounded as implements were brandished. Neubold
became alarmed again, ducking behind Bartholomew and eyeing him speculatively, as though wondering whether
he
might be unhorsed, given that the portly monk was clearly out of the question.

‘Helping this man is not a good idea,’ murmured Cynric, glancing around to assess potential avenues of escape. ‘We cannot
best forty angry peasants.’

‘We should leave,’ agreed Risleye. ‘This is not our quarrel, and we have no right to interfere.’

‘You cannot abandon me,’ cried Neubold in horror. ‘It would be tantamount to murder!’

Michael addressed the villagers, drawing on all the tact he had learned during his years of dealing with prickly scholars.
‘I am sure this can be resolved without a spillage of blood. Perhaps we can adjourn to the nearest church, and discuss the
matter like civilised—’

‘If you want to be useful, you can lend us a piece of rope, so we can hang this scoundrel,’ interrupted the largest and burliest
of the villagers. He looked to be in his late thirties, and boasted an unlikely thatch of corn-yellow hair. ‘And
then
you can go on your way.’

‘No!’ screeched Neubold. He grabbed the hem of Michael’s habit, while the rabble showed their appreciation of their comrade’s
remark by hammering their tools on the ground. It sounded like galloping horses, and Bartholomew’s nag began to rear in alarm.

‘Executing a priest is no way to solve problems,’ said Michael, glancing uneasily at the physician’s inept attempts to control
his mount. The animal was on the verge of
bolting – and to do so it would have to go through the press of villagers who now clustered around them. Injuries would be
inevitable, and then it might not only be Neubold who was in danger from a furious horde.

‘Actually, it would solve a good many problems,’ countered Yellow Hair, stepping forward to soothe the beast with large, competent
hands. ‘But we are not really going to lynch him, tempting though it is. He was trespassing, and all we intend to do is make
him apologise for his audacity.’

‘Never!’ declared Neubold. ‘And we shall see what Elyan has to say about this outrage.’

‘Elyan?’ asked Michael. ‘Henry Elyan? What does he have to do with the situation?’

‘Neubold is his clerk, as well as his parish priest,’ explained Yellow Hair. He regarded Neubold coldly. ‘We shall make
him
apologise, too, for sending you in the first place.’

Neubold glowered back at him and made no reply. Michael regarded the Dominican thoughtfully. ‘Were you in Cambridge recently,
dealing with King’s Hall on Elyan’s behalf?’

Yellow Hair sneered. ‘He sold coal at a greatly inflated price, and was so excited by his success that he came racing home
forthwith. Unfortunately, he forgot to collect Elyan’s wife on the way, and she promptly fell ill and died. No doubt, that
is why he is here now – trying to worm his way back into his master’s favour by offering to spy on us.’

‘You can go to Hell, William!’ spat Neubold. ‘You have no right to accuse me of spying, and if you do it again, I shall take
legal action and have you fined. And you know I will succeed, because I won Osa and Idoma Gosse a fortune in compensation
when they were slanderously maligned.’

There was a growl of disapproval from the throng.

‘Aiding those evil villains is not one of your finest achievements,’ said William, regarding the priest with disdain. ‘And
you would do well not to brag, because we despise you for it.’

‘They are better than you,’ declared Neubold, nettled. ‘At least they do not molest priests.’

‘They have not been seen for several weeks now,’ said William with some satisfaction. ‘And word is that they have abandoned
their home in Clare. We must have frightened them off when we threatened to hang first and consider the law later.’

‘If you had touched them, I would have sued the lot of you,’ snarled Neubold. ‘You cannot go around stringing up whoever you
feel like.’

‘No?’ asked one villager, fingering his belt meaningfully. ‘And who is to stop us?’

‘Good people of Haverhill,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Do not be hasty in your—’

‘Haverhill?’ interrupted William, dropping Bartholomew’s reins and spinning around to face the monk. Finding itself free,
the animal bucked violently. ‘Haverhill? How dare you insult us!’

‘I assure you, I—’ began Michael, bewildered.

‘We are the good people of
Withersfield
. We are
not
from Haverhill.’ William spoke the name of the neighbouring village as though it was another word for Hell.

‘If you wanted Haverhill, you should have continued straight when the old road ended,’ called one of the women, evidently
trying to be helpful. ‘You must have turned left.’

Michael did not look at Bartholomew. ‘Well, perhaps we should go back the way we came, then, and set ourselves aright before
the daylight fades completely. Assuming my
colleague can ever regain control of his horse, that is,’ he added, shooting the physician an exasperated glance.

‘You do not have time,’ said William, coming to the rescue a second time. ‘It is not a good idea to enter Haverhill after
dark, because you never know who you might meet. So, you had better come with us, and resume your journey in the morning.
We shall take you to Roger Luneday of Withersfield Manor. His house has a chimney.’

A ripple of pride ran through the assembled villagers. Chimneys were apparently architectural extras that were highly prized
in west Suffolk.

‘Well, in that case, we accept,’ said Michael, exchanging a brief glance with Bartholomew: it was an excellent opportunity
to see whether Luneday would admit to receiving five marks from Wynewyk for pigs. ‘We are not men to decline shelter in a
house with a chimney.’

‘What about me?’ demanded Neubold, full of angry indignation. ‘Am I to be abandoned to these ruffians, while you flounce off
to enjoy Luneday’s flue?’

‘You will accompany us, and your fate will be decided tomorrow, when tempers have cooled,’ decreed Michael. ‘It is too late
to resolve what promises to be a lengthy business this evening.’

‘But I—’ objected Neubold.

Michael raised an imperious hand to silence him. ‘Who will lead the way to this chimney?’

It was not far to Withersfield. They followed a winding path down to a hollow, where a pretty church nestled in a fold in
the hills next to a bubbling brook; several cottages huddled around it. The manor house was set across an undulating sward
of common land. It was a handsome building with a thatched roof, and its elegant chimney boasted an ornately carved top. Its
orchard was full of
apple, pear and cherry trees, and its vegetable plots were home to leeks, onions and cabbages. The scent of herbs and recently
scythed grass was rich in the chill evening air.

William led the way towards it, followed by the Michaelhouse men, while the remaining villagers brought up the rear. A reluctant
Neubold was among them, protesting vociferously about the way he was being manhandled.

‘Be quiet,’ snapped William, becoming tired of it. ‘If you persist in whining, one of us might give you some real cause for
complaint.’

‘I have every reason to be indignant,’ shouted Neubold. ‘I have been shamefully wronged.’

‘What exactly did he do?’ While Bartholomew’s better judgement told him it might be wiser not to ask, it was unusual for a
priest to be pursued quite so hotly by a mob. It was also unusual for one to dispense with his habit and sport elegant secular
clothing, and the physician’s curiosity was piqued.