A Vein of Deceit (28 page)

‘Thelnetham put them close to Wynewyk deliberately,’ asserted Risleye. ‘I saw him. He knew Wynewyk had wolfed his own, and
it was a taunt – that others still had theirs to enjoy.’

‘Thelnetham is not like that,’ cried Valence. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Actually, Thelnetham
is
like that,’ countered Tesdale. ‘He can be very cruel. Well, he is a lawyer, so what do you expect?’

While he and Risleye continued to attack the Gilbertine, and Valence struggled to defend him, Bartholomew considered what
had been said about Wynewyk. His colleague had always been careful about avoiding nuts. Was it significant that he had thrown
caution to the wind at the exact same time that Langelee had revealed the inconsistencies in the accounts? Could Wynewyk really
have forced himself to eat four slices of cake, in the full knowledge of what would happen to him? Bartholomew rubbed his
eyes. Why had Wynewyk not come to him for help? He was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution to whatever
predicament he had embroiled himself in.

He realised with a guilty start that he was allowing
Michael’s convictions to influence him – that he was starting to believe Wynewyk
had
done something wrong. Of course, it was not unreasonable, because the evidence was certainly mounting up. But then an image
of Wynewyk’s face swam into his mind, and he felt ashamed for doubting the man who had been his friend.

‘Ignore them, Matt,’ said Michael, assuming the physician’s unhappy expression was a result of the increasingly acrimonious
squabble that was taking place between the students. ‘One will kill the others soon, and then you will not have to intervene
in their childish spats.’

‘Do not say such things,’ snapped Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s startled look, and relented. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but death
in Michaelhouse is not a joke. Wynewyk’s is hard enough to cope with.’

‘Then we shall talk about something else. Who do you think attacked us last night?’

Bartholomew was not sure this was a topic
he
would have chosen to cheer a despondent colleague, but it was better than thinking about Wynewyk.

‘Neubold?’ he suggested. ‘He escaped, then decided to avenge himself on the men who saw him incarcerated in the first place?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘He was annoyed with us, but not murderously so. Besides, I doubt he is man enough to invade the
home of his enemy and spit six men in their beds.’

Bartholomew listed his other suspects. ‘Luneday was wearing a strange combination of nightshift and boots when he came to
see what was wrong, while Margery’s midnight jaunt to visit children was odd, to say the least.
And
she was suspiciously determined to discover the purpose of our visit.’

‘But she said the only way out of the manor house was through the hall. And she and Luneday came from upstairs when we raised
the alarm. Our would-be killer had fled outside at that point.’

‘She
said
it was the only exit,’ replied Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Why should we believe her? And I am not sure what to make of William
the steward, either, or those vengeful villagers. As far as I am concerned, any of them could have come after us with a sharp
knife.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Meanwhile, Luneday denies knowing Wynewyk, but I am not sure he is telling the truth. And five marks
is a lot of money.’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. Neither scholar had known he was listening, and his voice made them jump. ‘There are those who would
kill an entire village for less.’

‘Then let us hope none of them live in Haverhill,’ said Michael feelingly.

‘What shall we do first?’ asked Michael, when they had ridden in silence for a while. ‘Go to see Elyan, who was paid eighteen
marks for coal? Visit d’Audley, who was paid seven marks for timber? Or simply stroll into Haverhill and see what might be
learned by chatting to the locals?’

‘The latter,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You had no success dangling Wynewyk’s name in front of Luneday, so there is no reason
to think these other two lordlings will be any different.’

‘What are those?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to several mounds of soil in the distance. ‘They look like earthworks –
the kind thrown up around a castle to act as additional defences.’

‘It must be the colliery,’ replied Cynric. ‘Elyan sells coal in Cambridge, do not forget.’

‘I cannot imagine there is coal here,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It is not the right kind of landscape, for a start, and
there is no sign of black dust in the ground.’

‘But he must get it from somewhere,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And I am sure I can see a dark streak in the exposed rock – it
is next to that little hut.’

‘You are right,’ said Cynric, standing in his stirrups for a better view. ‘I can see two men with pickaxes, and about six
others lounging around talking to each other. It must be the mine.’

Bartholomew did not argue, but he remained sceptical: he had been in coal country, and it was different from west Suffolk.
But they had reached the outskirts of Haverhill, and he soon forgot minerals as he looked with interest at the houses they
passed. Most were large, well-built and handsome, and it seemed there was money in the area. The main road led to a vast triangle
of open land in the village’s centre, which appeared to be a market. It was overlooked by a large church. Nearby was a ramshackle
little building with a bell-cote. A second street wound up a hill, on which stood a smaller church and another cluster of
cottages.

‘The place on the rise must be the Upper Church,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what William had told them the previous day.
‘Neubold’s parish. And that half-derelict place below must be the Alneston Chantry – which Luneday thought we were going to
try to wrest from d’Audley.’

‘Well, it is all very pretty,’ said Michael, barely looking to where the physician was pointing. ‘But we are not here to admire
the scenery: we are here to retrieve our money. What is this?’

His progress was impeded by a fence that stretched across the road. There was a gate in the middle, but it was closed. As
his horse skittered about in confusion, a small,
well-dressed man emerged from a pleasant little cottage to one side.

‘I am Gatekeeper Folyat,’ he announced without inflection, as if he recited the words many times a day. ‘State your intentions
and purpose.’

‘Folyat?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘There is a name I have heard before. Are you the Gatekeeper Folyat who was
once wed to Margery of Withersfield?’

Folyat’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. I am the Gatekeeper Folyat who
is
wed to Margery. And she is not of Withersfield, but of Haverhill. She thinks our union will be annulled one day, so she can
marry that adulterous Luneday, but it will be over my dead body. However, my marital status is none of your concern. I asked
what
you
wanted in our village.’

‘Jugs,’ lied Michael. ‘We may be interested in purchasing some.’

‘Three pennies, then,’ said Folyat. ‘Or a chicken. I have no strong feelings one way or the other, so do not trouble yourselves
on my account.’

‘But we intend to spend money here,’ objected Michael. ‘Why should we pay for the privilege?’

‘Because everyone else does,’ replied Folyat. ‘Roads are expensive to maintain, so why should you ride about on them without
donating something towards their upkeep?’

‘No wonder this is a wealthy place,’ muttered Michael resentfully. He rummaged for the requisite number of pennies. ‘You will
have to accept coins, I am afraid – I left my poultry at home.’

Folyat counted the money. ‘Are you only interested in jugs or do you have other business? If yes, I may be able to point you
in the right direction, especially if you have come to arrange a slaughter.’

‘A slaughter?’ echoed Michael warily, eyes narrowed.

‘By our butchers,’ explained Folyat. ‘They are famous for taking a herd of cattle and rendering it down into easily portable
lumps.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘We had better remember that.’ He cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly. ‘We may also
buy some fuel – coal or wood.’

‘You are interested in Elyan’s mine, are you? Did you see it as you rode in? The seam was only discovered in the summer, but
Elyan believes it will make him very wealthy, even though it is small. Still, a commodity is a commodity, as my wife always
likes to say.’

Without conscious thought, Bartholomew and Michael headed for the nearer of the two churches – the large one in the marketplace
that Folyat told them was dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. Travellers were expected to give thanks when they arrived safely
at their destination, so it was not an unusual thing to be doing. But more pertinent to Michaelhouse’s thirty marks was the
possibility that a garrulous priest might be there, or the kind of parishioner who liked to gossip. It would not be the first
time the scholars had gleaned important information from places of worship.

As they drew closer, they saw St Mary’s was being treated to some building work. A new three-storey tower had been raised,
while the nave and chancel were in the process of being beautified. The end result promised to be magnificent – imposing as
well as elegant. Bartholomew glanced at the Upper Church in the distance, and wondered how long it would survive once St Mary’s
had been completed. The upkeep of such edifices was costly, and looking after two in one village – plus a chantry chapel –
would be financially demanding.

Michael pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the students to mind the horses. Cynric stayed with them, glancing
around uneasily, as if he expected their nocturnal attacker to try his hand a second time. Bartholomew followed the monk,
admiring the fine stained glass in the windows and the ornate altar rail. He started to remark on them, but Michael was never
very interested in such matters, and began to stride purposefully towards the high altar, where a friar could be seen kneeling.

‘A Benedictine,’ said the priest, standing as the visitors approached. ‘We do not see those very often, despite the fact that
one of their greatest abbeys lies not twenty miles away, in St Edmundsbury.’

The speaker was a Dominican, dressed in a spotless habit. He was more closely shaven than most, with curly grey hair and a
perfectly clipped tonsure. He exuded a sense of quiet competence.

‘Actually, we are from Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘The place with the University.’

‘I have heard of it,’ replied the Dominican dryly. ‘It has a reputation for brawls, smelly streets and producing exceptionally
cunning lawyers. I am John de Hilton, by the way. May I ask what brings scholars to my humble parish?’

‘It is not humble,’ countered Michael. ‘It is wealthy – large houses, money poured into rebuilding its church, a vast market,
efficient slaughterhouses … Haverhill has it all.’

‘It suits my modest needs.’ Hilton smiled, revealing long brown teeth. ‘And when my church is finished, it will be one of
the finest in Suffolk. What more could a priest want?’

‘A princely living?’ suggested Michael, making it clear
he
would not be satisfied with what the village had to offer. ‘Rich parishioners who pay to have documents written? Intriguing
confessions?’

Hilton laughed. ‘I hear my share of intriguing confessions, I assure you. Haverhill is at loggerheads with its Withersfield
neighbours, you see, and I am always being told of some plot to best the enemy. Some are extremely inventive.’

‘Why do they dislike each other?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Hilton shrugged. ‘No one remembers exactly how it all started. But these days, we are jealous of Withersfield’s pigs, while
they covet our jugs and slaughterhouses.’

‘It sounds petty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it a shame that two such prosperous communities should waste their energies
so.

‘It
is
petty,’ agreed Hilton. ‘I encourage the lords of the manor – Luneday in Withersfield, and Elyan and d’Audley here – to lead
by example and resolve their differences, but they are worse than their people. Elyan flaunts his new mine, d’Audley likes
to spread sly rumours about Withersfield, while Luneday parades Lizzie in a way that is sure to antagonise.’

‘I have only been here a few hours, but I have already witnessed some shocking behaviour,’ said Michael, aiming to encourage
more confidences. ‘Withersfield’s master has purloined the wife of Haverhill’s gatekeeper, while the Upper Church’s priest
was caught trying to steal Luneday’s sow.’

Hilton’s expression was unreadable, and Bartholomew wondered whether everyone in west Suffolk aimed to be inscrutable. ‘Neubold
has a talent for secular business, although I had thought he confined himself to the law. I did not realise he had graduated
to pig rustling.’

‘Can I assume that while Neubold clerks for Elyan, you clerk for d’Audley?’ asked Michael. ‘Margery told us you were working
on some deeds together when she saw the pair of you last night.’

‘I clerk for anyone who needs a scribe or basic legal advice,’ replied Hilton. His tone was a little chilly. ‘I do not have
the same relationship with d’Audley that Neubold enjoys with Elyan.’

‘And what relationship is that?’

‘Neubold and I are priests,’ said Hilton stiffly. ‘We are not supposed to neglect our sacred duties for secular ones that
pay. Elyan should not make so many demands on Neubold’s time – sending him on missions to distant towns, giving him piles
of documents to interpret. It is not right.’

‘I quite agree. Incidentally, Margery also told us that Neubold’s brother stole your spare habit.’

Hilton raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she? What a curious tale to relate to strangers! But I did not begrudge it to him – Carbo
is a troubled soul, and I only hope it brings him some peace.’

‘Unfortunately, it did not,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is dead.’

Hilton gaped at him, then crossed himself. ‘Poor Carbo! The news is a shock, but not a surprise. He was barely rational most
days. He used to be decent and staid, quite unlike his rakish brother, and we were all saddened by his sudden decline.’