A Vein of Deceit (27 page)

‘One of you was certainly whimpering and moaning,’ said Margery. ‘I could hear him from upstairs, and I am not surprised he
disturbed the rest of you.’

‘Then how do you explain the knife?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘We are not imagining that.’

‘We do not change the rushes very often,’ admitted Luneday. ‘It could have been there for ages.’

‘Someone came in from outside,’ insisted Cynric. ‘It caused a draught, which woke me. In fact, the door has been opening and
shutting all night, and it has been difficult to get any rest at all.’

‘Not so!’ cried Luneday indignantly. ‘We keep the door closed after dark, and no one wanders anywhere. Why would they, when
it is cold and wet outside, but warm and cosy in here?’

‘And more to the point, why would anyone attack you?’ asked Margery. ‘Apart from the good Brother’s handsome cloak, you have
nothing a thief could possibly want.’

‘There are motives for attack besides robbery, madam,’ said Michael stiffly.

‘Such as what?’ demanded Luneday. ‘I was under the impression that you are strangers here. If that is the case, then how can
you have acquired enemies?’

‘There is Neubold,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was not pleased when we let William put him under arrest, and he almost certainly
hates us for it.’

‘No doubt,’ agreed Luneday. ‘But he is locked in the barn, so cannot have come to stab you, even if he had been so inclined.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael. Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, bemused by the abrupt capitulation. ‘We are all tired.
It must have been each other we encountered in the dark.’

Luneday smiled thinly, then turned to William. ‘Relight the fire. Perhaps that will ease our guests’ minds. But it is late,
and we all need to sleep if we are to do business in a rational manner tomorrow.’

He left, taking his people with him, while William busied himself in the hearth. The steward made several snide
remarks about leaving a lamp burning as well, lest the scholars were afraid of the dark, but eventually he went, too, and
the Michaelhouse men were alone again.

‘We did not fight each other,’ said Cynric, eyeing the monk resentfully. ‘Someone
was
in here – I saw him haul open the door and hare off into the night. It was someone local, because he knew his way around,
even though it is pitch black, both inside and out.’

‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Which is why you five will sleep, while I stand the first watch. I shall wake Cynric in an
hour. It should be easier now the fire is lit – we will be able to see.’

‘If you believe me, then why did you let Luneday think we imagined it?’ demanded Cynric, aggrieved. ‘Now he thinks we are
cowards, frightened of our own shadows.’

‘I was being practical,’ replied Michael. ‘If we had pressed our point, he might have asked us to leave, and I do not want
to be out in the dark while assassins lurk.’

‘I do not like Suffolk,’ declared Cynric sullenly. ‘It is a dangerous place.’

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Michael woke Cynric when he felt himself begin to drowse; then Cynric woke Valence
and Risleye, they woke Tesdale, and Tesdale woke Bartholomew within moments on the grounds that no one would know how long
he had been awake anyway.

The physician opened a window shutter, and watched dawn steal across the fields. First, the sky turned from black to dark
blue, then to violet. The landscape became full of grey shadows, which gradually resolved into trees, hedges, fences and buildings.
There was no sign of the sun, hidden as it was behind a layer of cloud, but Bartholomew felt better once the night was over
at last.

He roused the others when he heard Luneday and Margery stirring above, and walked outside. The air was fresh, full of the
scent of wet grass and damp earth. A sheep bleated in the distance, and he could hear the gurgle of the nearby brook. It was
a pleasant, almost idyllic scene, and he began to wonder whether he had imagined the botched attack of the night before. Then
he touched his hand to his head, where a fist had landed, and felt a tenderness that told him it had been all too real.

He returned to the house, where he and his companions were given slices of cold oatmeal to dip in beakers of cream, and goblets
of sweet ale to wash it down. Once they had broken their fast, Michael apologised to Luneday for the disturbance they had
caused. Luneday was all smiles, and seemed more than happy to forget the incident. He rubbed his hands together energetically.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can interest you in a tour of my piggeries?’

Michael hesitated, not enthusiastic about a venture that would consume valuable time, yet realising it was an opportunity
to resume his questions about the five marks. But before he could reply, there was a commotion in the yard outside. The racket
grew louder, until the door was thrown open and William burst in, a horde of villagers at his heels.

‘Did you release Neubold this morning?’ he demanded. ‘He is not where we left him.’

Luneday was unconcerned. ‘He has probably hidden in the hay, to give you the impression he has escaped. It will delight him
to think he has deceived you, so do not bray too loudly about—’

‘We searched the barn from top to bottom,’ interrupted William. ‘With dogs. He is not there. However, Margery
visited Haverhill last night, after we were all abed. I do not suppose
she
mentioned the fact that we had him here, did she? Let folk know he was in need of rescue?’

Luneday’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know my woman went to Haverhill?’

‘Horses make a noise, even when their riders keep to the verges.’ William glared at Margery. ‘When I heard hoofs, I looked
out of my window and I saw her.’

Luneday sighed as he turned to Margery. ‘I thought we had agreed that these nocturnal forays would stop. Either you stay in
Withersfield with me, or you go back to your old life in Haverhill with your husband the gatekeeper. You cannot have both.’

Margery scowled, and gave the impression she would have both if she wanted to. ‘I may have left Withersfield for a while.’
She shot William a black look. ‘I like to ride at night. It is invigorating.’

‘Did you take this invigorating ride to Haverhill?’ demanded William coldly. ‘And while you were there, did you happen to
mention that we had one of their parish priests under lock and key?’

‘It may have slipped into a conversation,’ replied Margery defensively. ‘I do not recall.’

‘What could take her to Haverhill in the depths of the night?’ asked Michael, more of himself than of the community at large.
His comment was heard, however, and William answered.

‘She likes to visit her grandchildren – her son’s brats. But her husband is gatekeeper, so getting into Haverhill without
him seeing her is virtually impossible. However, he is less vigilant after dark.’

Margery sidled towards Luneday, pointedly ignoring the steward. ‘I only do it to avoid unpleasant confrontations,’
she whined ingratiatingly, taking his arm. ‘And I was lonely for the children.’

‘Who did you talk to?’ demanded Luneday, freeing his hand impatiently. ‘Who might have come to set Neubold free?’

‘Well, I met d’Audley and Hilton,’ admitted Margery reluctantly. ‘They had been working on the deeds to the chantry chapel.
But I do not think the news of Neubold’s detention excited their interest.’

‘Yes, but d’Audley would not have kept such a fact to himself,’ said Luneday bitterly. ‘By dawn, everyone in Haverhill would
have known one of their priests had been incarcerated by us. Haverhill must have mounted a rescue mission, and come to take
him back.’

‘Almost certainly – but I do not think he was grateful for their trouble,’ said William grimly. ‘There is hay everywhere,
as though there was a fight.’

‘He made a mess to spite you,’ said Margery, shooting William a look to indicate she thought him stupid. ‘Why should he sit
quietly all night when he could avenge himself with mischief?’

Bartholomew listened to their quarrel, and thought visiting children in the middle of the night was a peculiar thing to do.
But it did not seem a good time to say so.

‘Did you pass through the hall in order to leave?’ he asked instead, recalling Cynric’s contention that the door had been
opened and shut constantly before the attack.

‘Of course,’ Margery replied. ‘It is the only way out. But if you are wondering why you did not hear me, it is because I know
where to step so the floorboards do not creak. I tried not to disturb you.’

‘She is probably telling the truth,’ whispered Cynric in
Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I assumed people needed the latrines, and thought nothing of all these comings and goings – until someone
crept towards the spot where we were sleeping.’

‘Will you tell Master Langelee about me?’ asked Luneday, when Michael, who had had enough of Withersfield, stood to leave.
‘I like the sound of this fine philosopher who knows his pigs.’

‘I certainly shall,’ promised the monk. It sounded like a threat. ‘We hope to finish our business today and be home by this
evening, so he will know all about you by tonight.’

‘Ah, yes, your business,’ said Margery. ‘You did not explain it last night. Will you tell us now?’

‘Willingly,’ replied Michael. Bartholomew wondered why she was so keen to know – she had asked several times for details.
‘We are here to reassess agreements made between our College and three Suffolk traders. Wynewyk negotiated them, but he is
dead, so they are invalid.’

Bartholomew watched Luneday intently, to see what he would make of this claim, but the lord of the manor gave nothing away.

‘How curious,’ Luneday said. ‘I assumed you were here about the chantry.’

‘Alneston Chantry,’ elaborated William, when the monk regarded Luneday blankly. He sighed when his ‘explanation’ failed to
illuminate the matter. ‘You must know what we are talking about.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael irritably.

‘Really?’ asked Luneday. ‘You are not here to challenge d’Audley’s hold on it? We heard a Cambridge College was contesting
his tenure – allegedly one called King’s Hall, but who trusts rumours? – and I assumed
that
was why you made this long and arduous journey.’

‘We know nothing of any chantry,’ said Michael. He started to leave, but then turned when he reached the door. ‘And you are
sure Wynewyk never came to do business with you, Master Luneday? I am sure he described your magnificent chimney when he returned
home.’

‘If he mentioned my chimney, then he admired it from afar, because I have never met him.’

Michael persisted. ‘He was a small fellow, neat and clean. And he may have used one of his other names when he introduced
himself. It sounds odd, I know, but it was a habit of his.’

‘I have never met anyone from Cambridge,’ said Luneday. He started to gather his belongings – cloak, hat, dagger and a heavy
belt to carry it on – in readiness for an expedition outdoors. ‘Visit me again, if you are interested in pigs. They are all
for sale with the exception of Lizzie.’

Having been dismissed, Bartholomew and Michael followed Luneday outside. A number of folk milled around the barn, and Bartholomew
paused to peer inside it. William was right: it looked as though a skirmish had taken place. Hay had been scattered, and several
farming implements lay on the ground. There was, however, no sign that blood had been spilled. Perhaps Margery was right,
and Neubold had made a mess for spite. It was not the sort of behaviour usually associated with priests, but Neubold had not
seemed like a man particularly devoted to his vocation.

‘This is a dismal start,’ said Michael, as they rode away. ‘I was not expecting Luneday to hand us five marks with a smile
and a blessing, but I hoped our questions would elicit
some
answers. We learned nothing from our night in Withersfield, except for the fact that we need to be on our guard.’

‘Perhaps that is your answer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We were attacked because Luneday
does
have our money and he is not keen on giving it back.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘I cannot escape the feeling that there is something very odd and very dangerous going on here. And
that it most definitely involves Michaelhouse’s thirty marks.’

Blue patches were showing through the clouds by the time the deputation from Cambridge left Withersfield. They rode along
a pleasant track that eventually descended into a wide, shallow valley. A stream meandered across water meadows that were
fringed by ancient oaks. Tesdale was unusually quiet, and tearfully admitted to dreaming about Wynewyk the previous night
– that he was still alive, and had asked him to mind his classes while he went to the castle.

‘Wynewyk would not have asked
you
to help,’ scoffed Risleye, before Bartholomew could say it was normal to dream about the recently dead. ‘He would have hired
his own students.’

‘You are wrong,’ declared Valence. ‘He knew Tesdale and I were short of money, so he often passed small tasks our way. He
was a good man, and I wish he had not died. He was too young.’

‘It is something you will have to get used to, if you are going to be a physician,’ said Risleye unfeelingly. ‘Death will
be our constant companion once we are qualified.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by the bleak remark. ‘It becomes easier with time,’ he said kindly to the other two, although he
did not add that it was not by much. ‘The secret is to concentrate on helping the patient, rather than railing against matters
over which you have no control.’

‘I should have stopped him from laughing so heartily,’ said Tesdale miserably. ‘Or warned him that eating four slices of almond
cake was too much.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘He had four pieces? That
is
a lot.’

‘Especially for a man who tended to cough and gasp when he swallowed nuts,’ said Valence. ‘He must have been so amused by
the debate that he did not realise what he was doing. He had his own piece, then he devoured the three that Thelnetham set
aside for himself, Clippesby and Michael.’